CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
I can see the office floor again. Neat stacks of paper cover the table behind Gavin’s desk, waiting to be sorted and filed. I close his office door and leave, still feeling a yucky unease.
The flowers on the kitchen island from Anthony also seem out of place, but I shake my head, clearing that mixed-up feeling. They’re fine. I’m just living my new life in New York.
Since Gavin’s absent from chat, I open my laptop and start an email, attaching pictures of the living room furniture I’m thinking about buying for him. It’s insanely expensive, but I’ve got his credit card and instructions to spend whatever it takes to transform the space.
Gavin,
Please don’t go dark. I don’t want to make you feel worse than you already do. I’m working on your apartment like you asked. Do you like the pictures? I want to help, to make this place new. I want you to come home. I believe you can get through this, find forgiveness for Lulu, even forgive yourself. I believe in you.
B.
I Google furniture stores and plan my trip, a sheaf of magazine photos and a running list of what to buy and where tucked in my file folder. In addition to two couches and a leather club chair, I’ve chosen a Stickley quarter-sawn oak coffee table with wide map drawers, matching end tables, and a softly speckled nubby rug.
I want to get some large-scale houseplants to make the place feel more natural than most New York interiors. Or maybe that’s just the Oregonian in me missing her trees.
Just as I’m about to close the lid, Gavin pops up in chat.
Gavin: Beryl. Are you there?
Me: I’m here. Gavin, I’m so sorry. You trusted me when you told me about Lulu and I just threw it back in your face.
Gavin: Stop it. You’re right. It hurts to hear it, but I’m way ahead of you in the Shame, Blame and Guilt department. Short of pulling out my own fingernails, I couldn’t torture myself more over it.
Me: I get why you ran.
Gavin: I had to get away. Everything—Jasper, my penthouse, places we’d go, even my band—everything was a condemnation. I can’t handle any more of that right now.
Me: I won’t say I understand it all. But I’ll stand by you, OK? You can tell me. But you can’t just log off when you get mad. No more of this disappearing offline shit. I can’t take it.
Gavin: Miss me? Of course you did. I’m irresistible.
Me: Aaaaand we’re back. Don’t be a brat.
Gavin: Who, me? I’m being charming. Like this: How are you Beryl? What are you up to today?
Me: I’m good. Just about to go shop for your new living room stuff, if you like what I sent over.
Gavin: I like. But where’s the hot pink???
Me: That’s for your bedroom.
Gavin: 8-) I like the sound of that. The bedroom, not the pink.
Me: Guys and their one-track minds. So you like the living room ideas?
Gavin: I like you
What? Before I can respond, the rest of his message pops.
Gavin: r style. It reminds me of a mountain lodge.
I breathe a sigh of relief and disappointment.
Me: OK, then, I’m going to get stuff today.
Gavin: I can’t come home to the way things were. I can’t come home and be assaulted by her memory every moment.
Me: Why don’t you just hire a decorator? I mean, I love taking care of Jasper and I’m starting to get the rest of your place sorted out, but shouldn’t someone else be in charge of picking things out? An interior designer?
Gavin: No. I trust you.
Me: Why?
Gavin: You just feel right. It seems like you get me. But not like you’re trying to get something from me. Pretty much everyone in my life has a hand out wanting something.
Me: Well, you’re giving me a place to live for a while. I appreciate that.
Gavin: I’m glad you’re there. I’m glad we’re … friends?
Me: Jasper says we can be friends. Even though you owe him big time for ditching him at Barks in the Park.
Gavin: I’ll make it up to him, I promise. And to you.
Me: A massage at a spa is a good start.
Gavin: Noted.
Me: I was kidding! Gavin, it’s fine. You’re paying me to fix your place. I can handle it.
Gavin: I’m not paying you to chat with me. But I’m glad you’re here.
Me: That’s what friends are for.
Gavin: This is weird. Why is it so much easier to talk to someone I don’t even know? I get emails from my bandmates and it kills me. I don’t respond.
Me: Face-to-face relationships are hard. It’s easy to disappoint.
Gavin: I’m afraid I’ll disappoint you.
Me: Rigggght. A hot rock star? Some disappointment.
Gavin: Is that all you think of me?
Me: Sorry. That’s not how I meant it. It’s just, you’ve accomplished a lot. But now you’re running away from it all.
Gavin: I told you, it’s complicated. Stop pushing me!
Me: I’m sorry. See? I’m already disappointing you.
Gavin: You just don’t know what it’s like.
Me: Dude. Don’t play the Pity card. That’s beneath you.
Gavin: Play a card? This is real life, Beryl. You don’t understand the kind of pressure I’m under. How much I needed Lulu to help me and how things got so fucked up when she died.
Me: Maybe you need a friend to give it to you straight, even if you don’t want to hear it. Cut the crap, Gavin. Own what happened. Everything you did or didn’t do. Don’t explain it away like, “you don’t understand,” or, “I was under so much pressure.” Own that shit!
Gavin: I’ve heard enough.
He goes dark again and my stomach plummets. I smack my laptop shut, angry with him for abandoning our chat and angry with myself for dishing out exactly what he said he couldn’t take—more blame.
All the reversals leave me drained and aching, feeling the whiplash as he lets me in and then shuts me out. My responsible side craves stability and Gavin offers none of that. With every conversation, the sand shifts beneath me and I’m not sure what he wants from me. Or if he wants me at all.
I know I should walk away now, but the hook’s set too deep. I believe in him. When I read his lyrics, I finally understood him.
But I don’t know how to make him understand me. I don’t know how to help him heal before he drowns in his own guilt or shame.