Thursday, October 19
(Gus)
My cell is ringing. I don't recognize the number, and the area code is unfamiliar. Usually I'd let it go to voicemail, but I'm bored. So I answer. "Hola."
"Hello?" It's a confused female on the other end of the line.
"Hello?" I question back. I have a feeling this is a wrong number, but I don't want to be rude and hang up on her.
"Gustov?" Same confused female.
"Yup."
"Gustov, this is Clare." Long pause. "How are you?" Unease doesn't even begin to describe what's buried in her voice.
Clare? It takes me a few seconds before my mind catches up. Clare from the European tour. "Oh hey, Clare. All's well here. How're you?" I haven't seen or heard from her since the tour. Not sure what this is about, but I'm curious.
"Good. Better." She sounds nervous and sighs. "I've had a lot going on since I last saw you. Been working on myself. Getting cleaned up."
She pauses again and I feel the need to interject because she's struggling, stumbling over her words. Even though I didn't particularly like Clare, I can't abandon her now when she's obviously trying to reach out to me. "Good for you."
I hear the exhalation of relief. "I'm so sorry, Gustov. Sorry for getting you wrapped up in my disaster of a life last spring."
"Not your fault, Clare. I made my own choices. I was in the middle of my own disaster."
"The reason I'm calling, well, is to see if maybe you'd like to have dinner tonight. I've been in San Diego visiting my aunt for a few days and I leave in the morning. I'd like to see you and apologize properly."
None of this sounds like the Clare I knew. She's speaking clearly, talking to me like a normal person. I can tell that she's being honest with me. She sounds vulnerable. She sounds ... nice. I'm a sucker for nice, and I also can't hold a grudge, so I answer, "Sounds good. You want me to pick you up?"
"No, I'll pick you up. That's part of the whole apology thing." She laughs, and I notice that it's not the high pitched, grating giggle I remember from before. It sounds more mellow, like a low, relaxed chuckle.
"Yes, ma'am." I give her my address and we agree on seven o'clock.
I'm tugging on my Catfish and the Bottlemen T-shirt when there's a knock on my bedroom door. "Gus, you in there?"
I open the door and Pax is standing in my doorway with a grin on his face that's half awe and half terror. I hold back a smile. "What's up, amigo?"
He motions with his thumb over his shoulder behind him and whispers, "There's a girl here for you."
I glance at the clock on my nightstand, six forty-five. "Huh, she's early."
The mixed look's still in place on Paxton's face, though awe's winning out now. "Do you have a date?"
I shake my head. "Nah, no date. Just a ... " for some reason I stumble on the word, because I don't really know what Clare is. "Just a friend. I haven't seen her in a while. Just getting some chow with her, that's all."
He shakes his head slowly. "She's hot, Gus. Like a fifteen on a ten-point scale."
I laugh because the kid never would've said anything like that a few weeks ago when he arrived here.
"She looks good, huh? Maybe I'd set you up with her if you weren't jailbait." I wink.
"I'm eighteen in a couple of weeks," he argues.
"Dude, you couldn't handle a cougar like that. You keep your eyes on the prize with Mason."
He smiles and his cheeks go crimson at the mention of his new high school crush.
I slip on my socks and Vans and walk out to the living room with Pax following closely behind. Clare's standing next to the sliding glass door looking out at the ocean view. I don't say anything for a minute, just letting her enjoy the scenery. Getting lost in calm and beauty is a gift.
If I didn't know this was the Clare from before, I wouldn't believe it now. Her ultra-thin frame is curvier, softer, and instead of being marketed for sex, it's tucked away discreetly inside a pair of jeans and a simple white T-shirt. Her dark hair shines in a simple cut that falls just short of her shoulders. I clear my throat to get her attention. "S'up Clare?"
She turns at my voice, and the face that greets me looks years younger and happier than the one I saw months ago. Her skin is clear, almost glowing. She looks fresh, like layers of everything bad and negative have been stripped away along with the heavy makeup and seductive clothing to reveal this new person hiding underneath. "Hi, Gustov."
"Gustov? Do people really call you that? I thought Scout was the only one who called you that." It's Pax. He's still a shadow behind me.
I laugh. "It is my name, Pax."
He's embarrassed. "I know. I guess I just thought everyone called you Gus."
I nod. "Most of them do. Or douche canoe, that nickname's popular, too. I'll answer to almost anything. Just ask Franco."
Clare smiles. "That's true. How is Franco?"
"He's good. He's building an old motorcycle now that we're home for a while. It's keeping him busy." He's obsessed with the bike and it's taking all of his time, which is good. I'm glad he's keeping busy with something he loves.
"Good for him." Clare looks around the room and smiles. "Your mom has a beautiful home. What a magnificent view." She glances back over her shoulder out the window.
"It's pretty amazing. We're lucky."
She nods her head.
"Pax, you wanna tag along and get some grub?"
He clams up and shakes his head. On the inside I can see him trying to play it cool, but on the outside he's giving off a different message. He looks like he's going to faint.
"Okay, soldier. Hold down the fort while I'm gone." As Clare and I decide where we're going to eat, Impatient walks through the living room from her bedroom toward the front door. She's dressed to run, which is strange because she always runs in the morning.
She doesn't say anything. Pax stops her at the door. "Scout, where're you going? I thought we were going to eat dinner? You made lasagna."
She looks back and her eyes pause on Clare and on me before they land on Paxton. "I'm not hungry. You go ahead, though." Her face is pale, her pink lips are closed in a frown, and there's pain in her eyes. Her voice sounds terribly sad. Sad like everything in her world is crashing down around her and she has no control over it. Sad like she desperately wants life to go one way, but instead it's going another. I know that kind of sad intimately. And when I blink she's disappeared out the door.
Clare and I end up going to a little Italian dive a couple of blocks from Ma's house. We walk since it's so close, and we make small talk until we're inside sitting at a tiny table for two. Then shit gets real.
"I'm sorry, Gustov. From the bottom of my heart. I was a mess. For a long, long time I was a mess." She smiles, but it's apologetic, like her words. I can tell that she's being sincere. Some things just can't be faked. "I actually just got out of a rehab facility a few weeks ago."
"How long were you there?" I ask. She needed it. I knew that before, but seeing her here now and seeing the transformation that's taken place, it's apparent the benefit is pretty goddamn miraculous.
"Six months. I checked myself in as soon as I got back to the states. Initially it was at the request of my employer, but before I even got there, I knew I needed it. I'd needed it for years, but I couldn't face it. I had been acting recklessly. Sometimes, punishing yourself is easier than facing down your demons, you know?"
I do. I nod. "I'm with you on that, sister."
She raises her eyebrows to acknowledge my admission. "I know you are, and I also want to say that I'm so sorry for your loss. I didn't know at the time what was going on with you, I just knew from the first moment I saw you that you were hurting. You were hurting like I was. I think that's why I was so drawn to you. I needed to feed on that agony. I needed my pain to commiserate with someone else's. I felt like I had a partner in grief, you know. Someone that got me, even though I knew you didn't like me."
I nod. I understand. Addicts don't choose tragedy. Tragedy chooses them. And addiction is the result. "Like I said, I'm with you. I don't blame you for anything that happened, Clare. Please don't think that. I accepted whatever you gave me. I could've turned it down. I should've turned it down. But I didn't." I take a deep breath. "We used each other. It filled a void we both had. I'm sorry for that. No one deserves to be used."
Her clear eyes are welling up with tears. "Thank you. Thank you for not hating me right now. I was so scared to call you this afternoon. I was so scared to face you. I'm still in follow-up therapy. I probably will be for a very long time. I've got some major issues I'm still working on. I've apologized to everyone in my life that my addiction hurt; you are the last person to whom I felt I owed an apology. So again, I'm sorry, Gustov."
I hand her my napkin, and smiling, she takes it, blotting her eyes. "Apology accepted," I say. "And right back at ya. I'm sorry, too. I knew you had something major you were contending with and I never tried to help you, because I was selfish and drowning in my own shit."
She dabs her eyes again and smiles. "I'm good now. I'm clean. Clean for six months. I haven't been clean since I was eighteen, if you can believe that. It feels good. I'm dealing with my eating disorder, too, which is harder than it sounds like it would be. I mean, I don't need coke to live, but I do need food. It's a daily struggle, but right now I'm winning. Today, I'm winning. I'm healthy and that's where I want to stay. I still can't give up the goddamn cigarettes though," she says, laughing. "But someday I will."
I huff in agreement. "They're evil. I can't give them up either." I think twice about asking, but then I give in to my gut. "So, what happened?"
"What do you mean?" She looks confused.
"What happened when you were eighteen?" I have a feeling that she brought me here for more than an apology. That maybe she has more she wants to talk about, more she wants to explain. And I'm a fantastic listener.
Her eyes drop to her plate in front of her. "I was raped."
That word makes me feel nauseous. Always has. The thought of someone forcing himself on another person without consent is sickening. I wait for her eyes to meet mine again before I speak. "It wasn't your fault. And I'm so sorry." God, am I ever.
The corner of her lips tip up slightly. "I know that now. For years I blamed myself, but I know now that it wasn't my fault."
"It wasn't," I reassure. There's no situation where rape is the victim's fault. It's not possible. Ever.
She nods. "Back to you ... how are you doing? Any better? I don't want to ask if it's getting easier, because I can't imagine losing someone you love ever gets easier, but are you dealing with it better now?"
"She was my life. My best friend. She was everything, you know?" That's as honest as I can be and it makes me swallow back the lump in my throat that's suddenly appeared.
She nods. "Franco told me all about her. I asked him on the last day of the tour."
"Yeah. I don't know. I mean some days I'm just living, just doing what I need to do. Functioning. And other days it hits me and it hurts so bad, it's debilitating. I don't know if that makes any fucking sense? Some days I'm good and some days I'm not."
"Are you talking to someone about it?" She's prompting in a kind way and I know where this is going. She's going to suggest therapy.
I try to counter her with humor to divert. "I'm talking to you. That counts, doesn't it?" I smile, but she doesn't buy it.
"I'm glad you are, but I mean people in your life that you see more than every six months."
I glance over her shoulder at the poster of the Leaning Tower of Pisa behind her. "Talking about her hurts. I already hurt. I don't want to hurt more. So no, not really."
"At first it does hurt. Like hell. But what if eventually it didn't hurt anymore? What if someday it was healing? What if someday it made you happy to talk about her? To think about her? Wouldn't that be worth it?"
"To be honest with you, that sounds like some kind of far-fetched fucking dream. I'm not there."
She smiles. "But you could be. And you will be someday. Despite everything we went through, and as badly as we treated each other, I know your heart isn't made of stone. You're one of the good ones, Gustov."
I smile back. "I try, dude."
Her smile grows. "You are, dude."
After we split a piece of tiramisu, we walk back to Ma's. We share a cigarette during the walk and both tell each other we need to quit. It's after nine o'clock when we approach her car in Ma's driveway. I invite her in, but she says she needs to get back to her aunt's and get some rest. Her flight leaves at six o'clock tomorrow morning.
She's looking at me with relief painted across her face again. "Thank you for agreeing to see me and for forgiving me. I think that was one of the last burdens I needed to release, that guilt I associated with you. I feel lighter and your kind heart did that. Thank you, Gustov."
I smile. "I'm glad you called. This was good. Thanks for forgiving me and my assbag ways, too."
She laughs.
"I'm proud of you, Clare. You're a different person. Keep up the good fight."
She nods. "I will. I have to." She winks. "My new, amazing life kind of depends on it."
I hold out my arms. "Come here."
She steps into my arms, and for a second something feels familiar. It's not sexual at all, but I remember her closeness. She squeezes, and I feel nothing but comfort and friendship. Her words reinforce what I'm feeling. "I'm here if you ever want to talk, Gustov. About anything. I've learned to be a good listener these past few months."
I pull back and smile. "Ditto, lady. Have a safe flight in the morning and stay in touch. I wanna know if you ever quit smoking. And if you do, let me in on the magic secret."
She laughs. "I think the secret is wanting to make the change and doing the work. I'm not there yet. You'll probably quit before I do."
"We should make a bet. Fifty bucks to whoever gives it up first."
"You're on. Good luck."
"Good luck."
I wait until she backs down the driveway and drives away before I go inside. My heart feels a little lighter than it did hours ago. There was no physical attraction to Clare, though she's more beautiful than she was when we hooked up months ago. Her energy was just good. Good to be around. I've blocked myself off from most people lately, and maybe she's right. Maybe I'm only making it worse.
(Scout)
I wake up when I hear the front door opening. I wait a minute to decide if it's Audrey or Gustov, since they've both been out. When I hear the footsteps on the hardwood, I know it's Gustov. I was sleeping on the sofa. I don't know why. I should've just gone to bed after I got out of the shower. But I couldn't. I'm mad at myself for being so affected by seeing him with someone else. She was pretty and it was obvious they've known each other for a while. She wasn't just someone he picked up. It's not jealousy I feel; at least I don't think it is. Hell, I don't know what it is, but I can't stop thinking about him and the fact that I'd never stand a chance with a guy like him.
His footsteps echo through the foyer. They're getting closer to the living room. I keep my eyes closed and pretend to be asleep when he stops just behind the sofa. He starts walking again then the steps vanish, quieted by the rug under the sofa. I can feel him near me. And then, a blanket is draped over me and I feel his lips press softly against my forehead. "Night, Impatient."
I want to open my eyes.
I want to pull him to me.
I just want.
But I don't.
He disappears to his room.
And I stay here alone.