Gus (17 page)

His eyes light up. "Really?"

I nod. "Sure."

He kneels down in front of the box and starts digging through it. After he chooses two, he looks up at me. "Rook is my favorite band. Thanks for these."

That surprises me. "No shit?"

He nods enthusiastically. "Yeah, I've been listening to you guys since the album came out last fall."

"Wow. Thanks, dude." I know we get recognized on the street sometimes, but deep down it still shocks me when anyone knows about Rook.

"Actually," he says, "my dad's Jim Ridgely, your tour manager." He says it like an apology.

"Your dad is fucking Hitler?" I ask, immediately wishing I hadn't said that out loud.
 

He laughs and I'm relieved I didn't just insult him. I'm also turning this over in my head, figuring out how the pieces all fit together. If Hitler is Paxton's dad, that means he's also Impatient's uncle. It's no wonder she could deal with him better than everyone else. Not that their relationship seemed like family at all, but she's the only one who could deal with his shit and talk to him frankly without coming off like an ass. And now I know why he trusted her.

Pax pushes aside the fucking Hitler comment. "I actually can't believe I'm standing here in your room. Is this where you write?"

"Usually. Haven't really written anything in a while."
 

Now there's a look of confusion on his face. "What about your next album? There will be another album, right? Please tell me there's another album."

I nod, but I'm not into it. "There will be another album."

He smiles. He didn't hear the doubt in my voice. "Good. I need another album. Don't get me wrong, I could listen to the first one all day, every day, for the rest of my life, but ... " He looks up at me expectantly.

But.

That's my life.
 

But.

And all of the indecision and unknowns that it holds.

Sunday, September 10

(Gus)

Ma, Impatient, and Pax are out at a movie. Normally I'd go, but I went with Franco and saw the same film a few days ago. I should be doing something other than lying on the sofa mindlessly channel-surfing, but I'm too lazy to figure out what that something might be.

When there's a knock at the door, I'm cursing whoever it is because I don't want to get up. But after two rounds of knocking I can't ignore it anymore, and climb my lazy ass off the sofa. I'm already pissed at whoever it is before I open the door. Then it gets worse. It's
fucking Michael
. I've got zero patience for this sonofabitch.

Taking a deep breath, I release it slowly before I look at him and say, "She's not here."

He glares at the expensive watch on his wrist and looks irritated. "What time will she be back?"

"She'll be gone all afternoon." I shrug; it's fuck you.

He caught that. He raises his eyebrows in irritation and frustration. "You're sure about that?"

"Yup. Pretty sure." I'm done with this convo. I'm ready to get back to the sofa and my shit TV watching.

The dude actually starts tapping his toe while he's thinking. It's some kind of nervous, yet alpha, mannerism. I hate it.

I start to close the door on him but he reaches out and stops it with his hand. It's a bold move, considering we were more than done here.
 

"Tell her I stopped by," he says. It's a command, not a request.

I glance at his hand, still gripping the door. "Should I also tell her you forgot to take off your wedding ring, or should I leave that part out?"

He retracts his hand quickly and shoves it in the pocket of his dress pants. He was just pushed off the cliff into the valley of guilt, and it makes him squirm. It's not a regretful squirm; it's the squirm of a slippery fucker who's never accepted responsibility for any wrongdoing in his life. Judging by the look on his face, Impatient doesn't know.

I don't wait for him to say anything. "Get the fuck outta here." And then I slam the door in his face.

Tuesday, September 19

(Scout)

It's been a long day. I just got home from work and I'm already looking forward to going to sleep in a few hours. I'm longing for it like the two of us haven't been together in days. Sleep's been messing with me the past few weeks. Anxiety is my nemesis. You name it, I worry about it. Working with Audrey is like a dream, but I still worry about it—my job performance, my ability to learn the business quickly and effectively, my interaction with clients. She always assures me that she's pleased with my work, but I have so much doubt and it's so deeply ingrained that it's hard for me to turn off the worry.
 

I worry about Audrey. It's not my job as her assistant to worry about her, but I do because I've become so fond of her on a personal level. She's my mentor and someone I aspire to be like. I admire her so much and I just want the best for her and somehow that translates into worry within me.
 

I worry about Paxton and how he's doing at school. I worry about Jane and her well-being and mental state. I worry about my past with Michael—and even though I've put that behind me, the worry still nags at me. I worry about Gustov, both him and our friendship. Sometimes I feel like I don't know how to do true friendship with anyone other than Paxton, but I know that I want to be his friend.
 

The hard part is that our friendship is slightly complicated by the attraction I sometimes feel toward him. It comes at the oddest times: when he's done something nice, or when he looks at me with a goofy look on his face, or when he says something unexpected. It just happens, and I don't know how to deal with that yet. It's new and foreign.
 

So I worry about anything and everything. Sometimes it's warranted. Sometimes it's not. I just worry. It's what I do. And it's exhausting.

It's not until I hear a meow that I open my eyes and navigate the hallway to my bedroom fully alert. It's a small, gray and white kitten. It's circling me, lovingly brushing up against my legs. When I squat down to pet it, it's purring. "Hey, there," I whisper. I can't help smiling until its tiny head tilts up toward me and then I gasp and pick it up. "Oh, you poor thing." The injuries aren't fresh, but they look like they healed with little or no human intervention. Its left eye is absent, the socket misshapen from trauma. Half of its left ear is missing. And its left front leg is grotesquely bowed out as if it was badly broken and never healed correctly.
 

The purring intensifies.

"You fucking little traitor." It's Gustov.

Startled, I freeze, still holding the kitten. "What?"

He points at the cat in my arms. "Spare Ribs."

Now I'm really confused. "Spare ribs?"

"Yeah, that's her name, Spare Ribs. I found her this morning down the street. She'd climbed into the Cominsky's trash can and was going to town on some—"

I interrupt him, smiling. "Spare ribs. I get it."

He nods.

Sometimes ... most of the time ... his originality entertains me. It's refreshing. Who names their cat Spare Ribs? "That's not very ladylike for a girl kitty," I say.

"Spare Ribs is a righteous name. And she's no lady, Impatient. Don't let her fool you, she's a hardcore hustler." He raises his arms to show me the claw marks up and down each forearm. "She fought valiantly. We're friends now." He looks at her in my arms again. "Sort of. I think she likes you better. Not gonna lie, I'm a little hurt, Spare Ribs. I offer you refuge and you fucking turncoat for the first chick who walks in.
Not cool
."

I smile when he says Spare Ribs again, because it's just funny. "Have you taken her to the vet? This looks bad," I say, touching her damaged head.

"Took her this morning. Old injuries. She healed up fine. She's healthy as a horse; don't go feeling sorry for her. That's what she wants."

His words hit me: old injuries ... healed up fine ... healthy as a horse ... sorry for her ... that's what she wants
.
I swallow hard.
That's me
. I'm healed. I'm healthy. I don't want people to feel sorry for me though. I want them to ignore me. At least that's what I've always wanted up until I moved to San Diego. I don't know what I want anymore. And that's not a bad thing. Uncertainty is the beginning of change. Maybe it's time for change.

He puts his hand up to shield his mouth, as if the cat won't be able to hear him. "She's awesome, though. I just don't want it going to her head or she'll fucking own me more than she already does and I'll turn into a crazy cat lady. I may be about ninety-seven percent there already, and I've only known her for about eight hours. She's going to work me over.
Hard
. I just know it."

I'm pretty sure Gustov just earned about ten points in the nice department with all of this. Physically, he's this huge man. Who's also a rock star. Who lives with and adores his mom. Who befriended Paxton in an instant.
And
he's just rescued a hurt, stray kitten. He's definitely not the man I thought he was a few months ago. He's ... just ... good. And goddamn ... that's attractive.

Monday, September 25

(Gus)

Ma told me that, over the weekend, her mailroom guy lost his grandma. The funeral is in Seattle, which means he'll be gone for the rest of the week. I volunteered to help her out because, to be honest, I'd rather do anything than sit at home alone, just me and this motherfucking block. I can only stare at a blank piece of paper for so long. Or hold my guitar and hear radio silence. Or sit at the piano and let the keys taunt my lack of musical cooperation.
 

I
can't
write.
 

I don't
want
to write.
 

Everyone
needs
me to write.
 

I hate it
.
 

So, I'll gladly work in the mailroom again.

"It's lunch time." Her voice rouses me out of my monotonous haze of sorting and stacking envelopes. Impatient is standing in the doorway of the mailroom.

I nod. "Yeah, thanks." I didn't bring anything from home this morning and I don't want to go to the deli around the corner. The last time I went in there, I got recognized ... and it was ugly. I felt claustrophobic and panicked. So, I'll settle for a few cigarettes out behind the building instead, even though my stomach is growling.

She holds up a bag. "There was a special at Antonio's. Buy two slices, get two free. Want half?"

I shrug. "Sure. You offering to feed me, dude?"

She laughs. "I'm offering to provide you food to eat. Feed your own damn self." Things have been so much easier between us lately. I can joke with her. She's not so uptight around me and we can actually laugh together.

We eat in silence sitting at a picnic table out back. When we're done, instead of leaving, she stays while I smoke a cigarette.
 

"I know what you're doing," she says flatly.

"Killing myself," I say, looking cynically at the cigarette in my hand.

"You're hiding," she says. "Why are you hiding here? Don't get me wrong, I love it here, working for Audrey. But you ... you shouldn't be here." It's straightforward Impatient.

"Why not?"

She sighs. "Gustov, you're stalling. You're wasting time. You're not living. You're not doing what you love."

"Which is?"

"Making music. You have this huge following; I saw them all at the shows," she pauses. "They love you." Her eyes are downcast, like the admission was hard for her.

I nod even though her eyes aren't on me. I'm accepting the compliment without verbal acknowledgment because that would kill this moment and make her embarrassed. She's so guarded, and I know that took a lot for her to say. "Yeah, well, writing music is a bit of a ... challenge ... right now."

Her eyes find mine again. "Challenge? What's that supposed to mean?"

I don't want to talk to her about this. I don't want to talk to anyone about this. "It's nothing."

She doesn't let it go. "It's not nothing. It's everything. It's
your
everything." Then she stands and leaves.

I'm left here pondering what in the hell just happened. She's right. I know she's right. I need to get my ass in gear.

But I can't.

Wednesday, October 11

(Gus)

"I think it's time for us to move out." Her voice is quiet. Unusually quiet even for her.

It's like a slap. A wake-up call. "What? Move out?"

She's mixing cookie batter in a big bowl on the kitchen counter. She bakes a lot. She doesn't eat much of it; I think she just does it to make everyone else happy. And it does make us happy because she's damn good at it. Though I think even if it tasted like shit I'd eat it, because it's her way of showing love. She has trouble letting love go freely, there's a block. It's not that she doesn't want to, because I feel it in the little things she does, but more that maybe she doesn't know how. She keeps her eyes on the bowl. "Paxton and I can't live here forever, Gustov. Audrey's been so kind to let us stay here this long."

"Ma loves having you here. Don't even worry about that." She does. Ma and I talk a lot and whenever she talks about them there's nothing but love in her voice. Ma's a giver and nothing makes her happier than helping people, especially when she becomes attached to them. She's a mom to everyone, selfless and so loving. She treats those she loves like family, because that's exactly what they are to her.
 

"I do. Besides, Paxton was an unexpected surprise for her. She didn't sign on to have him around too when she hired me and offered me a place to stay."

"Pax is fucking ace. He's a great kid."
 

She finally smiles and faces me. It's the first time she's looked at me all morning. "He is."

"It's Spare Ribs she can't stand," I add. I'm trying to make her laugh. Ma loves Spare Ribs. Too much. That goddamn cat has every human in this house wrapped around her cute little paw.

 
She ignores the joke and continues, "And Paxton idolizes you. I'm sure you've noticed, but he loves being around you. And I think it's good for him to have a positive male role model."