Wednesday, June 27
(Franco)
Gus's head is hanging upside down from the bunk above mine. His lips are moving, but I can't hear him over the music blaring in my ears, and coddling my broken heart.
I pop an earbud out and re-enter the outside world. "What?"
"I said, what's up, dick biscuit?" Dammit, it's his caring is sharing voice. I've been trying to keep this split-that-isn't-really-a-split-because-we-were-never-really-together under wraps.
I stare at him and watch his face transform into a tomato from the blood rushing to it. "Nothing. Why?"
His face disappears but only for a moment before his feet drop to the floor next to me. His elbow is resting leisurely on his mattress, and he's looking down at me with those intense fucking eyes that see through bullshit. "Dude, you've been listening to James Bay on repeat for the past four days." He says it like it explains everything.
It does explain everything, so I avoid eye contact when I answer, "I have not."
"Yes, you have. I can hear it. Listen, you don't have to talk about it, but I swear to God if I hear 'Need the Sun To Break' one more time I'm gonna call Gemma myself."
I sigh. "Our situation is too complicated to overcome." It's my explanation.
An explanation he doesn't accept. He's not blinking. "How's that working for you?"
I pop out the other earbud and toss them on my bunk. "Shitty."
He's still not blinking, and it's starting to freak me out. "James Bay can't fix shitty. But you can."
I huff out a laugh that's not at all funny. "There's a lot of shit going on in her life. And she lives on the other side of the fucking ocean. It's not that simple."
He finally blinks. And then blinks a few more times. He's studying me. "Nothing worth fighting for ever is, dude. You love her, I know you do."
I nod. "I do. She was the one."
"Is," he says.
"Is what?" I ask.
"She is the one," he clarifies. "Don't try to logic this one out, dude. You're overthinking. Stop it, it's annoying."
Fuck, I hate it when he's right. "I overthink and overcomplicate, it's how I adult. It's a must. Otherwise, chaos would take over, and I'd wake up one day in Peru raising alpacas and selling their wool for beer money or some shit."
He's blinking again, mystified by the nonsense spilling out of me. "I've been plenty fucked up in my day and not once did I consider the Peru, alpaca, beer scenario. Though it honestly doesn't sound bad."
I ignore the teasing. "She lives in England. I live in San Diego." I say it like it explains everything.
"Exactly. It's not like she lives on the red planet, dude. It's the twenty-first century—there's this sorcery called cell phones and airplanes, they make contact possible when distance is an issue." He raises his eyebrows and taunts, "They're fucking magical."
I huff because I don't want to crack a smile. I want James Bay to continue serenading me like a heartbroken motherfucker so I can wallow. Then I ask, "If you were me, and Scout was Gemma, what would you do?"
"Scout's in San Diego." He looks around the bus like he's in search of something important and looks me in the eye again. "I'm in..."
When he trails off, I fill in the blank, "Massachusetts."
"Massachusetts," he repeats and nods his thanks for the assistance. "Distance is an evil bastard, I'm not gonna pretend it's not. But I'll tell you this, hearing her voice on the phone every morning makes my entire day. I can't imagine my life without her in it." He smiles just like he does every time he thinks about Scout, it's content and sure. "I see two paths for you. One ends with you and Gemma happily ever after. You'll figure out how to make that happen because you're charming and crafty and shit. And the other ends with you old and alone living with a dozen stray cats who rule you. Don't get me wrong Spare Ribs is cool as hell, and she does rule me," he adds reluctantly, "but I don't think that's the life for you. Call her."
We reach our destination two hours later. After some quick math in my head to calculate the time difference, I determine it's eight in the evening. And after trying to talk myself out of the call several times, I step off the bus, walk twenty paces down the alley behind the venue we play tonight as if I need complete isolation to make the call, and I dial Gemma's number.
The connection is delayed but when the ringing commences I almost kill the call. I'm sweating, even though it's drizzling and the wind is cutting and cold. My heart is beating out a rebellion in my chest.
One ring.
Panicky hope springs.
Two rings.
Three rings.
Panicky hope stutters.
Four rings.
Five rings.
Panicky hope sours.
And I end the call, not sure if I'm more afraid of her answering or ignoring. Why are feelings so fucking fragile?
I power down my phone, drop it in my pocket, and continue walking a loop around the building before I climb back on the bus and listen to "Need the Sun To Break" for the fiftieth time today.