Darling

by Gabrielle G

  Lars and Art look at each other knowingly, as if they speak the same language but forgot to teach it to me.

  “Are you thinking a mile a minute about Anna, or are you just thinking a mile a minute and having erratic thoughts?”

  “I’m always thinking a mile a minute, what’s that shitty question?” I snap.

  Lars rolls his eyes but stays composed. “How does it feel like compared to when you fell in love with Blossom?”

  “Why do you ask?” I retort. This is the second time he’s compared Blossom to Anna, and I’m sick of him trying to dissect my feelings.

  “Answer the question,” Art commands.

  Maybe because it’s Art saying so and not Lars, but I submit without a fight. “Look, I already told you, it’s more. I want to marry her. I want to build a house in Montreal and buy a castle in Spain for vacations. I almost did it, you know, but my father, he holds all my money, and I can’t, I can’t access my funds because he has everything. But Anna is it. She’s mine. I’m going to marry her, and then well, we won’t have children because she can’t have any, but we can have dogs, horses, even pigs. You see? I wouldn’t get pigs if I weren’t in love, Lars. We could have bacon. Oh, we need chickens too. Fucking bacon and eggs every morning. That’s love.” I smile, happy and light from thinking about Anna.

  But looking at my friends, I see it in their faces. I try to think of what I said and how I said it. I know the signs as well as they do, and I think they’re all there. I did speak extremely fast. My thoughts are going everywhere, and the only way I didn’t spend money on an impulsive grand gesture is because I don’t have money available. I haven’t since I bought three Porsches and two Maseratis when I was twenty-five. To protect me, Lars takes care of everything, giving me pocket money that I transfer to my father, for his silence, or is this a product from my imagination?

  My throat feels thick, my eyes sting, and heavy tremors invade me.

  “I should have seen it coming, and I’m sorry,” Lars says. “The fact that we can talk to you, it seems like this is a smaller episode than we’re used to when you’re off your meds. In a way, it’s a good sign.”

  I shake my head. “I know that my illness and the behavior it causes is hard on you. I’m the one who’s sorry. Can you call the medical team?”

  “Already done, buddy, they’ll be waiting for you in Paris. They’ll put you back on meds, create a new schedule for your sleep, meals, exercises, and therapy sessions. Chad will set up reminders for you to take your meds, and Art and I will be there. I also talked to your dad. After what you said to that Crawford guy, I asked him what all that was about. They never tried to take your money, Dan. Everything you’ve given them? They put it all aside for you. You’re the one sending them money off the chart. I think when you talk to your psychiatrist, you should speak about paranoia. It’s a new symptom but it’s not uncommon. And stop thinking you were driving. You weren’t. He was.”

  I nod like a child trying to make sense of what he’s saying. Trying to remember when I started to send my father money. Trying to piece everything together but I can’t. I can’t silence my brain. My thoughts have their own conversation, and I can’t shut them up. It takes everything I have in me to focus a little more. I know Lars isn’t done and I owe it to him to listen.

  “We need to talk about Anna,” he continues. “If you’re in a hypomania cycle, you know you’re going to want to have sex even if she’s not with you. The press will say something, and she’ll think you’re cheating. Your sex drive is already high, but it’s out of the world when you have an episode. Naomi said Anna went through a lot with her ex. If it’s mania and not love, you can’t do that to her.” I swallow the pain I feel at the idea of hurting her.

  “I know.” I look at Art because I can’t look at Lars without wanting to lash out and scream that this is all his fault when it’s not. I need to be alone, to lose control, to cry.

  Art is always silent during these conversations, but he’s there, supporting me, his understanding eyes loving the crazy guy that I am.

  “Do you want me to do it for you?” Lars says.

  I shake my head. I owe her that. I’m the one who pursued her, who wooed her, who insisted that we get together. Sighing, I pull my phone from my pocket and open the last text I received from her. It says she can’t wait to see me in three weeks. I’m such an asshole.

  Me: Sorry Anna. I thought I could, but I can’t. Maybe in another life. Take care.

  She might answer or not, but I erase her contact and block her number. Doing so hurts, but my dick is already hard when the flight attendant comes over. Without a word for Lars or Art, I walk toward her, take her hand, and bring her to the back of the plane. I fuck her senseless, promising her the world but knowing I’ll never give it to her if I can’t give it to Anna.

  17

  Anna

  What the ever-loving fuck? Reading, once again, the text I received in the middle of the night, I don’t shed a tear. I can only blame myself for having fallen for his charms, his words, and his promises. I can only be mad at myself for having been so stupid to believe him. Dan Darling could be a great actor. He made me trust him. He made me feel as though I was the most sensational woman on the planet. I insanely thought I was adored. Scratch that. I felt cherished.

  Then as soon as he stepped on the plane, he dumped me by text. Because three weeks was too long for the manwhore to wait. Because calling me was too respectful. Because in the end, the chase was more important than being decent. He wanted me, he fucked me, then he dumped me. And if something is hurt, it’s more my ego than my heart. If I’m livid, it’s because I thought he was different than Joel. If I want to hurl, it’s because men disgust me.

  But my lovesick behavior bothers me. What the effing fuck was I thinking, sleeping with a rock star? I knew I shouldn’t. My vagina hasn’t passed the idiot test. I missed all the signs. Maybe I should write a book about it? My Short Lust Story with a Rock Star. I could make some money, then start a group on Facebook called Dan Darling’s Harlots. We could share and compare. That’s the spirit.

  “Are you okay?” Naomi asks warily. “You've been stabbing that piece of paper with your scissors for the last thirty minutes.”

  I don’t say anything. I just push my phone in her direction. She unlocks it and reads the infamous text. Her eyebrow crease, her mouth flattens, then she walks away without a word. I look at my office door, wondering what the heck she’s doing. But I don’t need to wonder long.

  She reappears with a coffee and hands it to me. “I put some love in it. Drink up.”

  I understand that the love she put in is Bailey's and scratch my head, confused.

  “Anna, seriously, I checked. You have no meetings today and nowhere to be. Drink that, and then you’ll feel better. Have you tried to call him?”

  I shake my head and take the coffee. I won’t call him to ask for an explanation or insult him. Dan Darling doesn’t exist. I wish I had never met him. I wish I had stuck to my guns. I wish I had listened to my brain instead of my traitorous vagina and heart.

  I sip the coffee until I feel warm and relaxed, floating a little and smiling a lot. That’s the magic of Bailey’s. You do feel like you’re in the arms of someone you love. Strong and warm arms—like the ones I was in less than forty-eight hours ago. The wave of warmth spreading inside me slowly becomes dejection, and I can’t stop the tears rolling down my face.

  I shouldn’t cry. Dan Darling doesn’t deserve my tears or my sadness. The asshole used me like I knew he would. So why cry for this man? Why give him more of my dignity? Why do I feel like, again, this is all on me? I know they’re the ones choosing to hurt me, to disrespect me, to cheat on me, but my confidence is shattered, my ego is broken, and my heart has cracked. So I let myself cry and get it all out before turning the page on Dan Darling.

  “I knew the Bailey’s would have that effect on you,” Naomi says softly, rubbing my back and letting me sob as if my high school boyfriend just
broke up with me.

  It’s short though, because getting dumped by text isn’t worse than walking in on your husband cheating on you after you just miscarried. It’s not worse than hearing a doctor tell you, “You’ll never have children.” It’s not worse than realizing your parents wished they never had kids. It’s not worse than hearing your brother say it’s his fault his fiancée died. I quiet down, and as I do so, I hear Naomi’s nails furiously tapping against her phone’s screen. She’s scoffing at whatever she sees on it.

  “Let’s go out tonight,” I say, drying my tears.

  “Want me to call Julie and Debbie too?” She’s still typing on her phone.

  I nod. “Let’s go forget the one who shouldn’t be named by dancing all night long.”

  “He did what?” Julie screams above the music.

  We’re in a club, surrounded by young women trying to find sugar daddies. It’s creepy, but after two shots of whatever and one vodka on ice, I don’t really care anymore.

  “I’m so glad I’m done with Art,” she continues. “Seriously, those guys are assholes!”

  Julie turns to Naomi for solidarity, but I can see my assistant is trying to avoid the subject. Julie feels it too.

  “You’re still sleeping with Lars?” Julie's accusatory tone comes out.

  I’m not drunk enough to handle listening to my friends fight, and I know a fight is brewing. Julie is in need of killing someone for Dan’s behavior, and Naomi never lets anybody give her crap. I’m her boss, and even I have a hard time doing it because I know she’ll bite my head off.

  “Girls, let’s forget it. It’s not a big deal.” I try to calm everybody down, waving over the waitress for another round of drinks.

  “Oh no, Anna, let’s hear why Naomi will continue her love affair with Lars when clearly he’s going to defend Dan.” Julie crosses her arms like a teenager.

  There is a deadly silence while the waitress brings us our drinks. I give my card to pay, waiting for the fight to start, but when I look at Naomi, something tells me she won’t go for the jugular. It’s weird and so not her.

  “Julie, I got dumped after a five-day fling, but there are no sides to take. Seriously. If Naomi wants to continue sleeping with Lars, I’m fine,” I shout for both of my friends to hear me.

  The waitress sends me a sympathetic look, and I give her a good tip for the inconvenience of hearing me spread my dirty laundry at the club.

  “I never slept with Lars,” Naomi says almost inaudibly.

  “What?” Julie's eyes bug out of her head.

  “We never slept together. We kissed the first night then decided being friends would be enough. He was preoccupied with things in the band. We spoke a lot, late at night, in the same bed, and we became friends. That’s it.”

  I can say that until today, I have never seen Naomi blush. It looks strange.

  “That’s okay, you can be friends with Lars if you want,” I assure my friend, wondering why she didn’t jump at the chance to sleep with a hyper-sexualized rock star.

  “I have no idea what’s happening. I know Lars was worried Dan was falling in love extremely fast and I was worried he would break your heart, so we spoke about it a little, kind of fought, and then when we saw we would never agree on the subject, we said we would let you and Dan figure your shit out.” She shrugs.

  “Wow!” Jules exclaims. “I can’t believe you didn’t sleep with Lars Trouble…”

  “I can’t believe you slept with Art Sweet,” I answer, trying to protect Naomi from her clearly conflicted feelings.

  “I can’t believe you—”

  Afraid she’ll say something that would make me knock her teeth out, I stand. “Aren’t we here to dance?” I tug on Naomi’s hand for her to stand as well. “Bottom’s up!” I chug my drink as fast as I can to feel the alcohol hit me hard.

  “Let’s dance! There are a few cute guys at the bar asking nothing more than to devour us,” Julie hollers while Naomi follows me, shaking her head.

  We dance, we drink, we look at guys, and I try to push away any thoughts of Dan. I try to push away how I felt around him. I try to be the Anna I was before meeting a rock star. I try to remember that all of his words were lies to fuck me. I try to keep strong and not analyze every one of his actions.

  When a man puts his hand on my waist, I let him, not imagining it’s Dan’s. When he dances with me, I close my eyes and block out memories of Dan’s moves when he danced with me. When he kisses my neck and whispers in my ear that he wants to take me home, I enjoy it, still not thinking it could be Dan. And when he says he can’t wait, I take his hand and lead him to the bathroom, still not hoping he’s Dan. As he puts his tongue on me and pumps his fingers inside me until I come, I refuse to admit Dan is the one I was thinking of. Dan doesn’t exist in the universe I live in.

  While I clean up and the nameless man wipes his mouth, the alert I had forgotten I set up for everything Darling Devils illuminates my phone on the counter. I see the headlines before even wanting to.

  “Hot and Steamy: Stewardess Tells All after Encounters with Dan Darling.”

  “I never do these kind of things, I’m sorry. Can I see you again?” the nameless guy asks, kissing my shoulder.

  Load of crap. Swallowing my pride and any scrap of hope I was naïvely holding on to, I nod. I owe it to myself to forget Dan as fast as he forgot me.

  “I’m Ben, by the way.”

  For the first time, my eyes meet his in the mirror. He’s a good-looking guy. He’s no Dan Darling, but he’s not ugly either. Tallish, light brown hair, brown eyes, pleasant face, slim, mundane but charming in his own way. Certainly from a good family, but the kind of guy who would lie after a bathroom hookup and pretend he’s not that kind of guy. But I don’t care.

  “Anna. But let’s not pretend you never did that before.” I turn around to give him my hand to shake.

  He laughs. It’s expressive, warm, gracious. “Right. Sorry.” He looks at my hand. “I think we’re past shaking hands, don’t you think?”

  And once again I nod, because something about that man doesn’t give me the desire to speak. Or maybe it’s not him. Maybe it’s just the way I feel. I know words mean nothing and are useless. There’s no fight in me anymore; I just want to ignore everything I shouldn’t feel. I just want someone pleasant to give me some truth and ignore mine. Because my reality is, I wasn’t enough for a rock star. But that’s okay. I’ll be enough for Ben or Tom, Dick, and Harry.

  “Want to get out of here?” he asks hesitantly.

  I smile to accept his proposition. I have nothing to lose.

  Sending a quick text to Naomi and Julie, I let them know I’m following a random guy called Ben wherever he leads me. And if I end up in slices in a dumpster, so be it.

  18

  Dan

  Lars took my phone away after discovering I’d bought a small town in rural Spain. “It’s no castle, but it’s “extravagant.”” I told them with humor. Lars didn’t find it funny. Art did. He’s always more supportive than Lars. He sees the good side of things.

  Now we have a town where we can go on vacation and not be bugged by groupies and tourists. Nobody has to know. It’s brilliant. As soon as I get a way to contact the world again, I’ll buy a heliport or small airport for us to better access it. Twenty-six buildings with electricity, including a bar, two hours from the beach, three from Madrid, and Lars is unhappy. The pictures on eBay were beautiful, and I was bored out of my mind.

  “How did you access your bank account?” Lars asks.

  “Pretended to be you, forged your signature.” I smile.

  “Fuck,” he says, bringing his fingers to his eyes and pushing them in.

  “Kidding, Lars. I called my father and used the money I’d sent him. You said it was under my name in a bank account in the UK. My father said it was easier to let me buy a town than have me obsessing about something else and skipping a concert. Well, I might have told him I was ready to skip concerts. I lied. But now we
have a town in Spain. Maybe I can become mayor of it?” I shrug

  Art laughs. “Yeah, buddy. We can call it Dan Pueblo.”

  “I was thinking Pueblo del Diablo,” I answer seriously.

  “Fantastic!” Art slap my shoulders.

  Lars breathes heavily.

  “We can be there in three hours by car, let’s go!” I jump to my feet.

  “Dan, we have sound check in three hours.” Lars always takes all the fun out of my mania. He’s such a killjoy.

  “The way I see it, he won’t focus on sound check until we see that village. So why not take a helicopter, fly over it, come back, and go to sound check?” Art proposes.

  “I could organize it all, but I don’t have a way to do so,” I tease.

  Lars sighs. “Okay, let’s go. I’ll push sound check for one hour.”

  “Yeah!” Art and I high-five.

  “You have to admit,” Art says, “our lives would be boring as fuck without Dan’s impulsivity.”

  “Aww, Art, I love when you call my craziness ‘impulsivity.’” I take my buddy by the shoulders.

  “Don’t say you’re crazy!” Lars scolds.

  He hated it when kids would say so at school and still does, even when I’m the one saying it.

  “Have you had any sleep lately?” he asks, all concerned and loving.

  “Not much”—I shrug—“but I wrote a lot of songs.”

  “Did you?” Art sounds happy about it. They know I write best at night.

  “How many do you have?” Lars asks.

  “Seven.”

  “Seven more since we left Montreal?” Art whistles. “Good job, Darling!”

  “Thanks, Sweets, but no. Seven in total.”

  “Titles?” grumpy Lars inquires.

  “‘Instalove,’ ‘Manic Love,’ ‘Yul,’ ‘I’m Sorry,’ ‘Flying to Hell,’ ‘Yours to Love,’ ‘Killing My Crazy.’ Some are about my condition though. ‘Manic Love’ is about my mania. ‘Killing My Crazy’ is about medication. ‘Flying to Hell’ might be a little depressive. Do you think that’s okay?”