Out of the blue I got a text from Lillian, the former Cool, Man! Writers Assistant and King of the Jungle Staff Writer; the woman upon whom Tom and I had privately bestowed the unwieldy (but flattering) nickname, "The Future Mrs. Rubicon or Gilmore Depending On Which One Of Us Gets Divorced First."

Gilmore, of course, was the one of us who got divorced first, but alas, had taken himself out of the running by becoming a herself. C'est la guerre. I wasn't divorced, but given how things were going in my marriage at the time, well... I didn't consider it likely, but it was no longer out of the question, either. After almost twenty years of absolute, unshakable certainty — Nobody gets out of this marriage alive! was our motto — it was a startling thing to find myself thinking that this might not last after all.

Therapy, it seemed, was only making things worse. Dr. Stephanie did her best to be a neutral arbiter, but there was definitely a sense of asymmetry. The reason, I think, was that while Samantha had become increasingly annoyed with me, I still thought she was pretty terrific. Which meant that, for God knows how long, I had been walking around blissfully — this big, dumb, clueless idiot — while Samantha was stockpiling ammunition.

Aaron is so negative!

Yeah, well, Samantha is a terrific listener!

Aaron never fixes anything!

Samantha does the lion's share of the housework!

Aaron always needs to be right!

Samantha makes a killer lasagna!

I'm sure that's not how it went down, but that's how it felt. Samantha had an inexhaustible reserve of complaints about me, but I had no counter-complaints and nothing to say in my defense except my ignorance.

I didn't know.

I didn't realize.

I didn't understand.

Dr. Stephanie assured me that this was all very positive. She had some analogy about turning on a light in a dark room. At first the light seems blinding, but then your eyes adjust. To which I said, "But what if when your eyes adjust, you look around and say, Man, this room is a shit hole?"

"See?" Samantha said to our therapist. "This is the negativity I'm talking about."

So, yeah, it was a very pleasant surprise to see The Future Mrs. Rubicon's name show up on my phone. It had been a long time since I'd heard from her. After the King Of The Jungle clusterfuck Tom and I would run into Lillian sometimes on studio lots or send her congratulatory messages on Facebook as she practically pole vaulted to the top of the sitcom ladder. Initially, she had asked us to send email recommendations to show runners on her behalf when she was trying to get a staff job, which we enthusiastically did, but it wasn't long before she didn't need our help anymore. By now, her credits and reputation were substantially better than ours. But despite outpacing us — she was still burning up the primetime world while we were languishing in cartoon tomfoolery — I was genuinely happy for her. It was always gratifying when you believed in someone's talent and they proved you right.

Been thinking about you, Aaron!

What a coincidence! I've been thinking about me, too!

Wanna get some lunch and catch up?

Well, lunch *is* one of my top three favorite meals.

I'll buy! :)

OK, Lillian, but don't expect me to put out.

LOL

We decided to meet at Art's Deli where, and here I'm quoting, "Every Sandwich Is A Work of Art." (Get it? Get it? It's a double entendre!) It was wickedly expensive for a delicatessen and I liked taking my parents there when they came to visit, just to hear my scandalized father say to my mother, "Can you believe how much they charge? The down payment on our first house cost less than this pastrami sandwich!" I don't know why I found that so entertaining, but I did.

When I showed up, Lillian was already in a booth. She was tanned and relaxed and adorable as ever, wearing a coral pink corduroy baseball cap, a dark ponytail sticking out the back, just like always. She was talking to a guy in a faded Radiohead T-shirt — his waxy complexion and sleep-starved eyes practically screamed TV writer — who was standing next to the table and laughing at something Lillian had said. When she saw me, she gave me a warm smile, and then an even warmer hug when I arrived at the table.

"Aaron, do you know Ron Finch?"

"I do not." I said it without a trace of embarrassment. Hollywood was very much based on personal relationships, but Tom and I never bothered to play the networking game. It was, I think, a combination of laziness and hubris, a belief that our talent alone would ultimately carry the day. And given that we had worked consistently for fifteen years without ever once relying on a friend for employment, it seemed like a reasonable conclusion.

Lillian, by contrast, was not only extremelytalented, but she knew everybody who was anybody, and a fair amount of nobodies, too (because she understood that today's nobodies could be tomorrow's somebodies). She had flitted from writing staff to writing staff, and party to party, amassing a web of admirers.

"He's co-EP on Big Bang Theory," she explained.

"Sounds vaguely familiar," I said, stroking my beard quizzically, which of course is the entire point of having a beard. "Is that a TV show?" This time, I gave the words a whimsical spin and Ron laughed.

"We're hoping it'll catch on," he said and I smiled with my cheeks. "Nice meeting you." He headed out as I slid into the booth opposite Lillian, the lacquered wooden seat squeaking as it rubbed against my jeans.

We perused the expansive menu — traditional deli food for the purists and prissy salads and low carb options for the Los Angelenos — and ordered. I went for a Reuben with steak fries and a Coke, because there's something about a deli that makes me eat like a man with a death wish. Lillian opted for a grilled vegetable salad and an unsweetened ice tea.

We spent a while catching up as we waited for our food. Lillian told me about the shows she had worked on and the guys she had been dating, in both cases focusing — as all comedy writers did — on the epic disasters.

"Are you seeing anyone now?" I asked. I swear I was not contemplating making a move on her in the middle of a restaurant. I was too invested in my marriage and, if we're being totally honest, too chickenshit for that. That said, though, I wasn't exactly sad to hear she was currently single.

I then talked about our misadventures in show biz, the unexpected career in family entertainment. And I told her about how Hannah and Jana were doing, showing her some pictures on my phone. It had been at least a decade since she had babysat for them and she marveled at how mature they looked.

Our food arrived and I dove right in, taking an inelegant mouthful of greasy deli meat and Thousand Island dressing, which dripped down my chin.

"So," she said as I wiped my face with a napkin. "How is Tom doing these days?"

"You know," I shrugged. "Tom's Tom." At this point, non-answer answers were second nature.

"So... it's not true?"

"So... what's not true?"

"That he's becoming a woman?" She took a sip of iced tea and speared a grilled zucchini with her fork.

Oh, shit. Shit shit shit.

"Where did you hear that?" I asked, trying to seem both surprised and amused, although it's unlikely that I succeeded at either. I have a lousy poker face.

"I wish I could tell you," she said, furrowing her brow apologetically. "But I can't."

She was looking at me expectantly, so I took a strategic bite of my sandwich, buying myself time to ponder my next move. This, I knew, was the nightmare. Tom had carefully planned her coming out, in her own time, on her own terms, but someone had already figured it out — and was telling people about it — threatening to derail everything.

As I chewed on stringy corned beef, I found myself in the extraordinarily uncomfortable position of having to make a decision. As near as I could tell, there were only two options. I could deny it, which almost certainly wouldn't work — Lillian was no idiot and Tom's physical changes were plain enough to see if you were looking for them — or be honest, trust in Lillian's friendship and try to contain the damage, which is what I decided to do.

But first I had to finish chewing, which took a comically long time and was, by necessity, followed by a large swallow of cola.

"It's true," I finally said. I was pretty sure I had a piece of corned beef stuck in my teeth, but now was obviously not the time to try to pry it out.

Lillian nodded and took another sip of her iced tea. "I appreciate the honesty. So what is Tom's female name going to be?"

"Tamara."

"Tamara," she said, considering. "Tammy."

"Not Tammy," I corrected. "Tamara. Tom is very adamant about that."

Lillian leaned forward, intrigued. "So, is Tom going to have the surgery?" She mimed scissors with her index and middle fingers. A lot of people asked that question to me — and eventually Tamara directly — not really understanding how personal it was. So, are you planning to have a vagina installed?

"Honestly, Lillian, I don't think it'd be fair to Tom to say anything else. I probably said too much already. When the time comes, I'm sure she'll be happy to answer your questions herself."

Lillian seemed disappointed, but she understood. Then a thought occurred to me. "Have you been telling people about Tom?"

"No!" she said, offended that I would even think such a thing. This was a tremendous relief because, as I said, Lillian knew everybody in this town.

"Good," I said. "Please don't."

"I won't," she said earnestly.

And I believed her.

I was pulling into my space in the DuckGoose parking garage when my cell rang. I didn't recognize the number, but I answered anyway. "Hello?"

"Hey, Aaron," a male voice said. It sounded familiar — and also worried — but I couldn't quite place it. "You got a second?"

"Sure," I said. "But I can only kind of hear you." It was a lie, but it gave me a plausible excuse to ask, "Who is this?"

"It's Reed," he said loudly. Reed and his writing/life partner Patrick had been writers assistants on Cool, Man! and staff writers on King of The Jungle along with Lillian. I hadn't heard from the boys for a long time, either, and I assumed the timing was not a coincidence.

"We just got an email from Lillian," he said gravely."

"Uh-huh..." I felt nauseous. Although whether it was from the sense of impending doom or my digestive system contending with the recent onslaught of salt-cured beef products, I could not say.

"It's about Tom."

"What about Tom, exactly?" I was feigning ignorance, on the off chance that Lillian's email wasn't about what I knew it was about.

"It's... um... It's not good."

"Did she just send this to you guys, or—"

"She sent it to a bunch of people."

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

"Reed, could you forward it to me?" There was a long silence.

"I... I don't want her to get mad at us."

"I promise, I won't tell her where I got it from."

"I know you and Tom like Lillian, but she is not your friend."

"Clearly." So much was happening so fast that I hadn't even begun to process the depth of Lillian's betrayal. To me. To Tom.

"She's been talking shit about you guys for years." I wanted to ask Reed if he knew why she talked shit about us — as far as I could tell, we had been nothing but helpful to her — but I stayed on task.

"I need to see that email, Reed." I heard a muffled voice in the background. He was consulting with Patrick. I couldn't hear what they said to each other, but when they were done they agreed to send me the email.

"Seriously, though," Reed said. "She can't know you got it from us."

"Don't worry."

"OK," he said. "I'm so sorry this happened."

"Yeah. Well, thank you for having Tom's back. You guys are the best."

My iPhone chimed. I selected the new email and started reading. One thing quickly became obvious. Even if I got divorced, there was no fucking way that I was going to let that bitch be the next Mrs. Rubicon.

When I got back to the office, Tom wasn't there.

"He just went into editing," Brie explained.

"I have to make a call," I said, and shut the door behind me.

I realize that I should have talked to Tom before confronting Lillian, but I knew that with Tom's penchant for frame-fucking it would be hours before he was done. And I was just so goddam mad I couldn't possibly wait that long.

"Hey, you!" Lillian said airily. "Long time, no see!" She laughed. "What's up?"

"I was hoping you could explain."

"Explain what?" I marveled at how genuinely innocent she sounded. I was sure she would have no problem beating a polygraph test, if it ever came to that.

"That email you sent out?"

She sighed wearily. "Who sent it to you?"

"I wish I could tell you," I said, mimicking her earlier words. "But I can't."

"Was it Patrick and Reed?"

Whoops.

"No," I said, too emphatically. "Believe it or not, a lot of people are appalled by your email."

"Uch. Those two are such drama queens." Like I said, Lillian was no idiot and she was not fooled by my attempt at obfuscation. This, unfortunately, would spawn a feud between Lillian and The Boys that, as far as I know, continues to this day.

"You told me you wouldn't tell anyone! And then, ten minutes later—"

"I didn't think you'd see it."

"Is that really your defense?"

"Look, this whole thing with Tom, well, I don't have tell you how shocking it is. So I emailed a few people—"

"A few people?"

"Yeah."

"I was under the impression that it was a mass email." And I was under that impression because, unbeknownst to Lillian I had the email right in front of me.

But Lillian didn't know that and she scoffed. What a ridiculous notion!

"I shared it," she continued indignantly, "with a few people who worked on Cool, Man! or King of the Jungle." She had, in fact, shared it with a few people on those shows. She had also shared it with a lot of other people as well, including, alarmingly, people whose names I didn't recognize at all. "I told them what was going on in the spirit of love and support."

"Huh," I said. "That sounds nice."

"It was nice."

"Can I see it?"

There was a delicious pause. "Excuse me?"

"The loving, supportive email you sent. Can I see it?" She figured out from my leading tone where I was going with this. Apparently, not only do I not have a poker face, I don't even have a poker voice.

"You've already read the email," she said. It was an accusation. Like I was being unfair to her somehow.

"I have. So do me a favor and tell me which part of this is loving and supportive."

I began reading from the email aloud in a vapid Valley Girl voice:

OMG you guys! You're never gonna believe this! Tom Gilmore is becoming a WOMAN named TAMARA!!!!!

Check it out on Facebook! There do seem to be breasts and his complexion looks like he's been taking hormones and he's wearing a TRAINING BRA!!!!!! Based on the FB pix "she" is NOT an attractive girl but he wasn't an attractive boy, either, LOL!

I only got a few words into it before she interrupted. I had expected some kind of contrition or at the very least, embarrassment, but I got anger instead. "What exactly do you want from me, Aaron?"

"I want you to tell me why you fucking outed my fucking partner?"

"Jesus, Aaron. I didn't out anybody. Everybody already knew."

"Everyone didn't fucking know! If everyone fucking knew you wouldn't have bothered to send a fucking email!"

She made an annoyed gurgling sound in her throat. "Whatever. It was already out there. I figured if it wasn't me, it would've been somebody else."

"That's not the point, Lillian! It wasn't your fucking call to make!"

"OK. Fine. Sorry." Her sorry reeked of adolescent petulance.

"This isn't a fucking game! This is someone's life! You know how fucking irresponsible you are?"

"Hey, it's not like I spread some unsubstantiated rumor. I confirmed it with you first."

I had reached a new level of pissed off. "So that's only reason you invited me to lunch? So you could get dirt on Tom?"

"That" she said sarcastically, "and I was hoping to become the next Mrs. Rubicon, you fucking weirdo." I wasn't sure how she knew that, but credit where credit is due, that was a pretty good shot.

When I hung up I could hardly breathe. The way Lillian had manipulated me. The way she had glibly, cavalierly, robbed Tom of his ability to write his own narrative. In a few hours, my friend would be done with editing and I'd tell her what had happened. She would be overwrought, consumed by fear and fury. She would call Lillian herself and tear into her. And Lillian, who by then realized that she was the villain in this story would have to just sit there and take it. But it really didn't matter how sorry Lillian pretended to be. Tom's plans were in ruins and she would have to figure out what to do next.