Monday, January 1
(Gus)
I know before I open my eyes that she's not in bed with me anymore. She fell asleep with her arm around me, her head lying on my pillow, her long legs tangled with mine. I couldn't sleep. Or more accurately didn't sleep but only for a few hours this morning.
I lay there with her.
And with myself.
And I was at peace.
It's been so damn long since I was at peace, that I didn't want to give it up to sleep for fear it wouldn't be there when I woke up.
I was right.
It's not here.
She's not here.
And I know she's not far away. She's probably just out for a run, or maybe she's eating breakfast. But she's not here. Her nearness brings me peace.
And now that I've felt it, I crave it. Like my fucking cigarettes, I crave it.
I'm roused from thought by the sound of my phone buzzing on my nightstand. "Jesus Christ, who's calling at the crack of—" I was going to say dawn, but when I look at my clock it reads almost twelve o'clock, so I chill out and finish with, "—noon?" It's MFDM. I clear my throat and answer, "Happy New Year, kemosabe."
"Happy New Year to you, Gustov."
"What's going on in your world this morning?" I ask while crawling out of bed and searching for some underwear, or at the very least some shorts.
"Word on the street is you played a local bar last night?"
"Damn, news travels fast. Word is correct."
"Good news travels fast. I also hear you've got some songs ready."
I pick up my shorts from where I shed them last night and slip them on. "Shit, that's a lot of intel. Who're you paying to watch me these days?"
He knows I'm kidding. MFDM and I get along well, and have since the first day we met. "No one. I talked to Franco this morning."
"Ah. Good call, going straight to the source."
"That's how I roll," he answers. He's a fairly serious guy, so when he tries to sound hip it always cracks me up and just ends up being funny instead. Which is probably better. I do funny pretty well.
I'm laughing. "Right? Cut to chase, dude. Where's this conversation headed?"
"Studio in L.A. tomorrow morning. It's booked for the month. So is an apartment, same complex as last time. I need you guys there by ten o'clock."
My stomach clenches and I literally see the remnants of last night's peace fly out the goddamn window. Recording the last album was stressful. I don't want stressful right now, not when I'd finally released it. But I say what I need to say. "We'll be there. And dude?"
"Yeah, Gustov?"
"New year and all, can you just call me Gus? I need to do this album and tour as Gus, not Gustov."
"Sure, Gus." When he says it, there's something in his voice I can't put my finger on. It sounds like approval. Like when you're little and you do something that tickles the shit out of your parent and they tell you good job. That's what it sounds like.
I make calls to Franco, Jamie, and Robbie. They're hyped. They're ready.
I wish I was. I mean, I am, but at the same time I'm not.
I don't know what else to do with myself, so I pull my duffle bag out of my closet and I start throwing clothes in. Each movement feels robotic. I'm getting used to packing up my life. But right now the only thing I'm thinking about taking with me, is the one thing I can't.
Her.
(Scout)
I got out of bed early this morning and went for a long run. The adrenaline from last night carried over and had me pushing my normal pace and distance. I felt different this morning. I felt accepted. Confident. I ran in a short-sleeved T-shirt. I haven't bared my arms since before the accident. And I didn't care when people looked at me, because I knew that the one person who matters thinks I'm beautiful.
I ate and I've showered. And I'm standing at his bedroom door in shorts and a short-sleeved Rook T-shirt I stole from Paxton. Just as I'm about to knock, my stomach knots. And I start doubting myself again. What do I say? How do I act? Everything's different now.
But I take a deep breath and I knock anyway, because if last night taught me anything, it's that inaction is never rewarded. Results are the consequence of being an active participant in life. Because I've never felt more alive than I did last night.
When he answers, he looks tired. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail and the shorts he's wearing are riding low on his hips. God, he's so beautiful. His mouth spreads into a small smile, but it doesn't look happy like it did only hours ago. "Hi," I whisper.
He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers through mine. "Hi," he whispers back. I see his lips move more than I hear him. His grip on my fingers is gentle and he's rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. "Nice shirt." With that he does smile slightly. A real smile.
I smile, too. "Yeah, I saw them play live once. They're all right." I wink to let him know I'm teasing and his smile widens. "You want something to eat?" I ask. "I can make you some eggs."
He shakes his head and pulls me into a hug. He's squeezing me so tight. Something is wrong. Because I don't hear well, I've always paid closer attention to the other ways in which people communicate. And this hug? It's full of dread.
"What's wrong?" I ask, not sure I want to hear the answer. My heart is breaking at the possibilities, none of which involve me. I can handle getting hurt; I've done it my whole life. He doesn't need any more.
He turns us until I'm looking at a bag on his bed packed with clothes. I know that bag. It's the bag he had on the tour bus. It's the bag he travels with. The one he takes with him when he's not home.
Not.
Home.
"You're leaving." It wasn't a question. I feel like I'm stating the obvious.
He's still hugging me tight.
"Another tour?" It can't be another tour.
"Going to L.A. for a month to record the new album."
And now my heart's racing in good way. This is what he needs. Their fans need to hear the new Rook songs. "That's great."
He huffs at the excitement in my voice and it verges on amused. "What? You make me your sex slave for a night and now you're ready for me to exit?"
I laugh, because I'm so relieved that he's broken the ice on last night's events. "No, that's not what I was getting at at all. I just mean I'm excited that you're recording your new songs. They shouldn't be confined to this house, to this room. The world needs to hear them." He doesn't look excited like he should. "What's wrong?"
He shrugs. "I'm stoked about the music. I just don't want to leave again." Just then the cat walks through the door meowing. "Besides, who's gonna feed Spare Ribs?"
"You go create magic and I'll feed Spare Ribs."
"Thanks. Which reminds me, I need to go to the store and stock up on her food. She eats morning and night and only a half a can at each feeding. She doesn't know her limits. Put any more than that out and her inner hobo comes out from her time on the street and she gorges and chucks it. And she only likes that stinky ass seafood medley."
I nod. "I know." It is stinky. Every morning and night, when I watch Gus feed her, he pulls the collar of his T-shirt up over his nose before he opens the can. And if he's shirtless, he's screwed—he gags every time.
"Oh, and she gets irate if you don't clean her shit house every day. She'll track you down and berate and belittle you like the servant you are with her bossy-ass, cursing meows."
I'm holding in a smile because he's so serious about this cat. "She rules you, you know." I tease.
He smiles. "Hell yes, she does. She's Napoleonic, like a tiny, little dictator. I love that damn cat."
He truly does.
We spend the afternoon stocking up on cat and human essentials, followed by pizza with Audrey and Paxton. By the time we return home, it's nine o'clock. Audrey and Paxton disappear to their rooms and we're left standing in the living room.
Gus is standing a few feet from me and he's just looking at me. He doesn't look sad anymore, he looks determined. I love his newfound determination. "You look tired," he says.
I am tired. "I'm not tired."
He smiles at the lie and follows it with one of his own. "Me neither." When he gets really tired dark circles form under his eyes. They give him away. He extends his hand toward me—it's an invitation.
I take it and follow him down the hall in the dark. I swear I would follow him anywhere. When we step inside his room, he lets go of my hand and shuts the door behind me. There's no moon out tonight and the room is so dark I can't see him. And it's so quiet, all I can hear is my own breathing.
When his fingertips brush against my wrists my first inclination is to reach out for him but I stand still and wait. They glide lightly up the length of each arm simultaneously, disappear under my sleeves, and then skim back down to my hands. He's standing behind me. I can't feel his body but the heat coming off him is palpable.
"I like you, Scout. I really like you." He laces his fingers through mine. "I don't know what that means, but I feel like I can't leave in the morning without saying it. And I don't want to fall asleep alone. Stay with me?" His voice, everything about his voice, finds its way inside me and once inside, it smolders.
"There's no place I'd rather be than here with you tonight." I mean it. God, do I mean it.
"Thank you." He presses his lips to the back of my head. It's a kiss that's loving and sweet, but there's depth that's nothing short of reverent. He lives life with his heart fully exposed. From the inside out. His life isn't about what's going on outside, the Gus the rest of us see and perceive. He doesn't live life, he feels it. I've seen it. I've seen grief strangle him. And I've seen happiness make him glow with a brightness so intense it's almost blinding. That's what makes him so special. It's not his talent or his looks. It's how much he feels.
After we strip down to our underwear, he sets the alarm on his phone and I remove my hearing aid, and we crawl into his bed. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him, the back of me against the front of him. His skin is warm and there's so much of it exposed. Touching him like this should be scary for me, because we're just touching. It's not sexual, it's intimate and human. All of the focus is on contact. He can feel my scars. All of them. And his touch, the way he's holding me so completely, makes my heart overflow. I exhale a long breath. I've been tense, guarded ... forever. But lying here with him is like slowly letting the breath escape that I've been holding for over a decade. I can feel it pass through my muscles and bones, and I feel pliable in his arms, like I'm finally me. The person I've been searching for. The person I knew was deep inside, but who was distorted but the protective shell I wore on the outside. I'm smiling through tears that are trickling down my cheeks and onto the pillow.
"I just want to hold you tonight. It's not that I don't want to tear your bra and panties off and dominate you with my manhood until you're screaming my name ... because I do." He presses his erection into my backside to illustrate his point. "Goddammit, I do. But I just want tonight to be about us and this insane, unstoppable need I have to be near you. Around you. To be your friend. To make you smile. To make you laugh. To make you happy. To protect you. I want to learn everything about you, Scout. Your past. Your present. Your future. But there's time for that tomorrow and the day after that. Tonight I just want to fall asleep with you. And tomorrow morning I want to wake up with you. I'm working on the whole living in the moment thing, and now ... this moment, that's all I want."
There are so many things I want to say to him, but I'm so overcome by everything that's just transpired that I know it would come out all wrong. I couldn't do it justice. So, instead, I take his hand that's resting on my hip and bring his palm to my mouth and I kiss it. And I tell him, "Me too, Gus." And I don't let go of his hand; I hold it against my chest over my heart.
And we fall asleep. And it's sleep like I've never known, deep and restful and healing.