Gus (13 page)

"Hey," she answers, equally disinterested.

I pull the carton of eggs out of the fridge, along with butter and milk. "How many miles?" I ask.

"Huh?" She turns toward me, looking surprised.

I point at her running shoes. "How many miles did you run this morning?"

She looks down at her feet like she needs a visual aid to process the question. "Oh. Eight."

I'm surprised. "You ran eight fucking miles this morning?" I've been running a little lately, but a couple of miles is a monumental task for me. And that's if I walk half of it.

"I'm registered for a marathon in a couple of weeks."

I begin to crack five eggs into a bowl, then pour in some milk. "Ever ran a marathon before?"

She shakes her head. "Nope. First time."

As I put the skillet on the stove I ask, "Want some eggs?"

She starts to shake her head. I wouldn't expect her to say yes, since she never accepts anything I offer her, but then she stops. "Do you have enough for both of us?"

I open the carton back up to show her the four remaining eggs.

"Sure. I guess. I haven't eaten anything since last night."

I cook our eggs. She continues to drink her water. We're eating in silence when my cell rings from inside my pocket. I slip it out and the first thing I notice, because I can't fucking help it, is the shattered screen. Must have happened when I slammed it down on the table. "Shit," I mutter. Then I notice the name of the person calling, and I freeze up. "Shit," I mutter again.

Impatient looks at me quizzically.

I want her to ask me if I'm okay.
Just fucking ask me
, because I need to tell someone I'm not. I'm not okay, not even close. I hit "ignore" and set the phone down on the table. Keller's name remains on my screen for a few more seconds before the call goes to voicemail and he disappears.

Ask me who it was!
I want to yell at her.
Ask me why my heart can't take that conversation right now. Ask me why I can't get over her. Ask me why my best friend had to die. Or no, better yet, tell me why
my best friend had to die. Tell me. Please. Explain it to me. I want to know. I need to know why I'm supposed to go through the rest of my life without being able to talk to her. Hug her. Hear her laugh. Watch the sunset with her. Watch her play her violin. Kiss her forehead. Tell her I love her. Hear her say it back. Why? Why?!

Dragging my hands down my face, I try to rub away the hysteria that's building inside me. I push the chair back from the table and leave my plate of eggs half-eaten.

I go outside and I smoke a cigarette.

It doesn't help, but I do it anyway.

Sunday, July 2

(Gus)

There's a sticky note on my bedroom door when I open it.
 

Your new phone is on the kitchen counter.
 

I lost my phone several times while we were on tour and Impatient always managed to get it replaced for me. After the first time she helped, I put her name on my account so she could handle things without me even being involved.
 

I guess she's still handling things for me.

I don't know whether to be pissed or relieved.

I decide on a little bit of both.

Wednesday, July 5

(Gus)

My flu or cold, whatever the hell it was, has all but disappeared. Ma's been pumping me full of vitamin C in all its forms, the damn thing didn't have any choice but to flee and go pick on somebody else.
 

The guys are back from Hawaii. We all went surfing this morning and had lunch this afternoon. Tales of Oahu filled the first few hours, and then it shifted to music. Our music, specifically. The next album. The one, that under our contract, we're supposed to have recorded by the end of January. It's July. That's seven months away. Which wouldn't be such a stretch, if we had some new material. We don't. Which is kind of a pisser because it's all on me. I write our music. I write our lyrics. And I haven't written anything worth a shit since "Finish Me" last fall.
 

I can't bring myself to it. There's a block. I don't know if it's an unconscious choice that my mind's making or it's an unconscious choice that my heart's making. Either way, I'm fucked. Music has always been a part of me, an extension of my feelings, my life, my experiences. Ever since Bright Side died, every creative part of me has been stifled. Silenced. If she wasn't there writing with me, she was always the first person I shared a new song with. She had an ear for music like no one I've ever met. I loved her approval. Craved it. It made me want to write more, just so I could see her eyes light up when I played her something new. I'd give anything to see that gleam again, because without it, without her, I feel empty. My life lost purpose, and my creativity vanished completely.

How do I tell that to my bandmates? MFDM? The label? Our tour manager?
I'd love to help you out, you know, with your careers, your livelihood, but I'm a fucking barren wasteland. All tapped out.
That would go over like a turd in a fucking punchbowl. They're depending on me and I've got nothing for them. I feel like shit.

So, I skirt the issue. Again. "I'm working through a few songs, but I'm not ready to share any of it yet, dude. Give me a couple of weeks."

Yeah, in another month I'll still be in this sinking ship. It's going down fast. I feel sorry for the rest of them, because this sonofabitch doesn't even have life preservers.
 

Franco's over tonight. He had dinner with Ma, Impatient, and me. It was a nice change. I felt relaxed and calm. I actually laughed. Ma laughed. Even Impatient laughed, which is almost unheard of. I liked hearing it. But, that's Franco for you. He's likable. He's got charisma and no one's immune to its effects.

After the dishes are done, Franco heads out to the deck. "Come on, Scout. We're taking the debauchery outside so cock lobster can smoke."

"That's Mr. Cock Lobster to you," I taunt. It's so good to have him around, but away from anything music related. There's no pressure. Impatient pauses at the sliding door to the deck. I know she won't follow us out. She never comes out here just to hang out. There's always some excuse. It's okay; I wouldn't want to spend time with me either.

So when she steps out on to the deck, I'm surprised. She walks to the railing and leans over to take in the view. I know Franco and I aren't going to finish this evening sober, so I retrieve a bottle of whiskey from my room. When I return she's sitting across the table from Franco. She's sitting, as always, with her back favoring the left side of the chair, while her legs are crossed at the knee toward the right. This puts her in the perfect position to present us with the left half of her face, while keeping the scars hidden for the most part. It makes me wonder if this is habit or if she consciously makes an effort with everything she does.
 

After opening the bottle and taking a swig, I set it down in front of her.
 

She shakes her head minutely. It's a quiet refusal, but I can't tell if it's judgment or a gesture that isn't meant to offend. She's tricky sometimes. "I don't drink, Gustov."

I roll my eyes, grab the bottle, and tip back another gulp.

Then Franco takes the bottle from me and pours some into the water glass he carried out with him. I knew he'd be down for this. It's been a while since the two of us have had drinks together. We don't go out to clubs anymore, now that Rook's getting more popular. We always get recognized in places like that and that makes me a little uncomfortable. The whole concept of "fans" still weirds me out. I understand they're into the music. I get that. Hell, I'm fanatical about certain music, too. But, that's the difference. I appreciate what they create. The people are just people. Not that they're not cool, at least some of them, but they're still just people. It's freaky when people shift into idolizing mode. When they forget you're a person and you turn into a name. You become your fame. You're not you anymore.

"Come on, it's not going to kill you to have a few drinks with friends."

She flashes her eyes at me and I can't help but feel like the "friends" label is pushing it. Are we? Friends?

I offer the bottle. "Bottoms up, sweetheart."

"I don't drink," she repeats. Then her eyes light up. "Wanna play Mancala?" She's almost smiling, like that was a dare.

"Hell yeah," I say, breaking into a huge smile. "Franco and I are always down for a little trash-talking game of Mancala." I don't know why that just made me so happy, but it did. It did.

Friday, July 14

(Gus)

I've been working this week in the mailroom at Ma's advertising firm. Ted's on vacation and Ma was going to hire a temp to cover, but I know this job inside and out—I did it for a couple of years. And it's not rocket science. So I volunteered to help out. Little does Ma know she's helping me out. I surf every morning, but I can't sit in that house anymore during the day by myself or I might lose it. I've been sitting home alone for a couple of weeks now. Solitude doesn't foster happiness, at least not for me. Not at this point in my life.
 

It's not that I really want to be around people either, but that I need to be busy. And I don't need to think about this job. I can just do it.

Which is better than my real job. Music. Too much thinking.

Monday, July 17

(Gus)

Ted never came back from vacation. I told Ma I'd help her out as long as she needs me, until she finds someone else. I'm kinda hoping it takes a month or two.

Friday, July 21

(Gus)

Ma hired someone for the mailroom. He starts on Monday.
 

Which means I go back to my real life on Monday.

I don't want to go back to my real life on Monday.

Sunday, July 23

(Gus)

It's the middle of the afternoon and I'm fucking restless. The water's too crowded to surf. There's nothing on TV. Ma's at a baby shower this afternoon. The deck is too quiet. I sat out there for the past couple of hours, drank, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. Now, I'm antsy. I can't sit still. I can't turn my goddamn mind off.
 

I don't want to be outside.
 

I don't want to be inside.
 

I'm at the point where I just ...
don't.
I know that doesn't make any fucking sense, but it's how I feel.
I don't.

When I go back in my room for another pack of smokes I can hear Impatient's voice. I ignore it at first, but I realize that it sounds like she's in pain. I rush to her bedroom and her door's open, which is unusual. She's lying on top of the covers in a pair of running shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. And she's deep in sleep. Scary deep. Like if a meteorite fell from the sky and landed in the middle of the room it wouldn't wake her. My first inclination is to nudge her awake because I think she's in the middle of a nightmare, but the longer I stand and watch her, the more confusing the whole scene is. She keeps saying, "Michael," over and over again. Every time she says it, her face somehow morphs from pain to pleasure, from heart-wrenching sadness to ecstasy. Then she begins to moan. She's still in deep REM sleep and I know I'm in a fucked up state of mind and I've had more than my share to drink today, but ...
goddamn
. This just turned erotic as fuck. And now the moaning is mixed with, "Michael," again. Her voice is almost breathless now.
 

I should not be here. There's no doubt that she's mentally having some mind-blowing sex right now. I feel like a voyeur. Not only is my drunk mind getting turned on, but my drunk body is two steps ahead of it. I'm beyond aroused.

That's my cue to leave. But just as I step away from her doorway, across the hall, and back into mine, the depth and volume of her voice increases. Every negative emotion has left her and all that remains is the satisfying of pure need. Carnal need. There's room for nothing else, and it's somehow invaded me.
The need
.

I'm inside my room now. Door open. Eyes closed. Hand inside my shorts. Stroking.
 

Fucking
stroking.

Holy shit.
 

This is fucked up.
 

I need to take a cold shower.

And forget this ever happened.

Monday, July 31

(Gus)

Ma and I had a long talk last night. She's concerned about me. My life. My health. My emotional state. My work. My future.

She made an appointment for me to have a physical with our family doctor. I'm in the waiting room now. I hate doctors' offices. They remind me of Bright Side. Bright Side at the end.

Dr. Donnelly was direct and to the point and covered all the basics: eat better, quit smoking, curb my drinking. I'm good otherwise. She likes that I'm surfing or running almost daily.

I didn't share any of the emotional shit.
 

I'll deal with that myself.
 

I'll heal myself.

Someday.

Sunday, August 6

(Gus)

Ma's out of town for the weekend. She drove up the coast to cut loose in San Francisco. It's good for Ma, she works hard and deserves the break. She always comes home a little lighter in the stress department when she's had a weekend away.

The house is quiet. I know I should be writing, but this block is still weighing on me. If you want to know the truth, it's bearing down full-force now. It's all I can think about—the fact that I can't think. Creatively, I'm at a standstill—completely mind-fucked. It was irritating at first. But, after a month, and with mounting pressure from everyone involved with the band—agents, managers, producers, the record label, etc.
fucking
etc.—it feels like a prison sentence. Music fills me with anxiety. It used to just fill me. I guess that's the difference money, contracts, and deadlines make. It's utter shit.

So I'm drinking.

A lot.

By Monday morning I'll wonder if Saturday and Sunday even happened, or if the entire time lapse was a hallucination—that's how much I intend to drink.