by Gabrielle G
They both nod.
“We always told you that you could write and sing about it if you wanted to. There will be questions, but we’ll answer them. Are you ready for everybody to know?” Art asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine with it. I don’t want to hide anymore. I spoke with my therapist, and I need to own it—I think. I’m not the only celebrity battling with this disorder, and I want it out there. I wasn’t fair to Anna, and I can’t build a somewhat peaceful life if I can’t put it out there.”
“Is this about Anna?” Lars asks.
“Maybe. Yes. No. I don’t know. Some of the songs are for her or about her. I would like to talk to her, to explain, to apologize, but I know from what happened with Blossom that no woman can take on my condition. It’s okay. I just have to accept it.”
“That’s why you wrote half an album and bought a village. I can see we’re almost out of the manic phase.” Lars chuckles.
“I write because when I close my eyes, all I see are her green eyes full of disappointment. And I bought this village because I could, and I really thought it could be cool to have a place that’s just for us. And we need room for my trainer, my doctors, the assholes who follow us everywhere. I just thought it was a good idea. I’m sorry.”
Lars eyes me suspiciously. “You’re sorry? That’s a good sign. You think you’re better?”
“I’m getting there. The mood stabilizers are helping. I think I was in a manic phase for a long time. Montreal just triggered it a little more.”
“And you’re still thinking about Anna?”
“Every fucking minute I breathe.”
Lars seems to consider that. “What are you going to do?”
“Keep getting better. Focus on me, take my medications, meditate, work out, and if I’m still thinking about her, then I’ll decide.”
Lars gives me that proud smile he loves to throw at me when I do right.
“Okay, lovers, let’s go see our village,” Art says, breaking our bromantic moment.
“And then let’s work on the music for all those songs. You don’t need to sleep or fuck, right?” I ask them.
“We can work on the music while fucking!” Lars laughs. “Won’t be the first time!”
The village is beautiful. Art is ecstatic, and even Lars is smiling. They both agree to contribute their share to start the work needed on the houses, the studio, the heliport, all of it. For a moment, we talk about which architect to hire, and of course, I think about her. I’m pretty sure Lars thinks about Naomi, but we both shut up about it. The moment passes, and we go back to discussing our new album.
That’s when the idea of writing a song about my bandmates comes to mind. These two guys are my everything, here through thick and thin. “Thick and Thin”—that’s the title of the song. And I’ll write the music too. It’ll be a surprise when we record it. I just have to tell John.
Once back in Madrid, groupies are waiting for us at the hotel. I don’t fuck before a concert, and I have no time either. I let Lars and Art take care of them, even if it’s me they want.
I slip back into my schedule. That’s one of the things I do for my condition. Keep on track. I hate it. I feel like a prisoner of my own life. Mostly, it consists of me hiding in my room, at the gym, or in my dressing room, doing whatever activity to control my thoughts.
Meditation is a big part of my treatment. Mindfulness meditation, to be exact, so I can be aware of my distressing thoughts and feelings and disengage from them as best I can. Of course, like the last twenty days, my thoughts always come back to Anna. But before tonight, they were about me. Does she love me? Will she forgive me? How much does she hate me? Has she read the stewardess’s interview?
Tonight, my thoughts are about her. Did I hurt her? How can I apologize to her? How can I make it better for her? How can I be better for her? What is she doing?
And unlike every meditation session, tonight, I cry. My therapist, who’s sitting cross-legged facing me on a yoga mat, asks me to share, so I do.
He smiles at me. “You’re almost there. You’re working so hard. It’ll come. Be patient with yourself. Forgive yourself. You know it’s not you. You can’t help it.”
I sob, trying hard to control my thoughts and accept them. “I know.”
“Now let’s visualize tonight. Are you ready?”
“I am.”
“There are eighty thousand people here to see Dan Darling. Are you going to give them the best show ever?”
Sometimes he feels more like my manager than my therapist. But that’s okay. They all count on me. I can’t lose my shit on stage. I need to be Dan Darling.
“Of course. That’s what I love to do.”
“Is the medication impacting this in any way?”
“No. I still get a boner when I get on stage and imagine all the women there are sucking me off.” I laugh.
“That’s another issue we might work on one day, but I don’t think it has anything to do with your mania.”
“No, I’m just a sick bastard who loves to be adored.” I smile.
“But you would prefer to be loved,” he states.
And it’s like he threw an ax into my heart.
I deflect. “Doc, is this a meditation session or a therapy session? Because you’re the first one to tell me it’s important to stay on schedule and you’re the first one to fuck up my calendar.”
He chuckles. “You’re right. I’ll say this though. If you need to apologize, do it.”
“I wrote a song telling Anna I’m sorry.”
“You can also send her a letter. You don’t have to mail it, but maybe it could help with all your thoughts obsessively coming back to her.”
“I’m not ready.”
“I think you are. But it’s up to you. If you don’t feel ready, I won’t push you.”
Ending the meditation/therapy session, I feel a little lighter and ready to get on stage. But with the buzz taking over, I feel like a kid on Christmas morning, and my thoughts get unpredictable again.
I stop. I breathe. I control. I play football, I meditate a little more, I eat with the band. They do all this for me. I owe them more than a song. But the minutes before getting on stage, I feel as though I’m losing the battle against my mental disease. I’m never sure if it’s my demon taking over or if it’s what I’m supposed to feel before singing. My body tingles, my brain shouts for its freedom, and my hearts gallops faster than a thousand horses. Every. Fucking. Time.
I need the crowd to share all my energy that I try to contain every day. If it were up to me, we would be on stage every night. It’s my own drug, my own paradise.
The only time I felt calm before climbing on stage was when Anna came to see me at the unplugged concert. Thinking back, I’m not sure I liked it. I’m not sure that’s who I am and who I can be. I’m not even sure what we had was real. I hurt her so much. I feel ashamed, guilty, and that’s how I know I’m done with my manic episode. Which means tonight, I’ll feel like a failure, like I’ve let down Lars, Art, my parents, and of course the redheaded beauty. I push Anna away, sending a last prayer to find my way to her one day.
I can’t crash now.
I’m Dan Darling.
My fans can’t wait.
“Ready?” I ask Art and Lars, as well as the musicians who support us.
They all nod.
“You’re good?” Lars mouths.
I send him a thumbs up. No need to tell him now. He’ll miss a beat being worried.
It’s pitch-black when they go on stage. I walk underneath it, surrounded by my security guys. I step on the platform that will lift me onto the stage and count to ten. The door opens above me. Opening my legs, my fist in the air, I appear!
The fans scream.
I get hard.
I smile.
Not everything changes because my disorder is under control. I’m still a horny bastard.
“Hola, Madrid!”
Another city, the same songs, the same high, the same fan
s to bed, and only one woman always on my mind. One who is not mine to have—not now, maybe not ever—but still the one I sing for. She helps me, night after night, give the best performance of my life.
19
Anna
Without a second glance, I throw the postcard in my recycling bin. It’s the third one in two weeks, and though I read the message written on the first two, I’m not about to read the third one.
It took me a few minutes to put two and two together when I saw the postcard from London. It said, “Please forgive me” on the back. Then I received one from Spain with double the words. “I was a dick. Sorry, love.” I can only imagine what this one says. Twelve words. Certainly something like, “We had a great time together. In Montreal soon. Want to fuck?”
Because Dan Darling is an asshole, receiving his apology had touched me more than I expected. I don’t have to forgive him any more than I need to forgive myself for falling in his bed, but his words strangely appeased me.
Dan was who he was. A womanizer. I was only one of the latest to fall. Unlike the stewardess, I didn’t sell our story to the press. I didn’t want people to know I was another notch in his bedpost. I tried to forget it even happened, but it isn't that easy. After fighting it for a few days, I had read the flight attendant’s tell-all and devoured every line to see if I had been treated differently. Big news. I hadn’t. According to the article, he called her “love,” their chemistry had been off the charts, and the whole experience was incredible. I could relate to every word she shared, and I didn’t like it.
My ego had taken a blow reading the woman’s testimonial, and it was my fault because I couldn’t stop myself from reading it. I really thought I was stronger.
By the second postcard, once I saw the nickname Dan wrote, my anger was flaring again, and I was having a hard time calming it. Hate fucking Ben had helped. Even if I’d wanted to duct tape his mouth shut after hearing the first two minutes of his story, Ben had been great for overcoming every hit I had taken since Dan left. I wasn’t spending time with Ben for his conversational talent. He was a great distraction, and he could make me come. I didn’t need much more these days.
That’s precisely why I’m discarding the third postcard. I don’t need Dan’s words on a crappy photo from Spain. If it’s like the texts he sent me, it’s all lies. It’s time I erase those as well. I deleted his number last month, but not the thread of messages we shared. Why? For the same reason I kept the T-shirt he gave me—to be sure what happened between us wasn’t just the fruit of my imagination.
But now? I regret not doing so earlier. I need to forget the whole ordeal. I want him to stop reminding me he walked away after promising me the moon. I need him to stop sending me notes so I can concentrate on me.
Instead of working on my looming deadlines, I scroll down my texts and hover my thumb over the conversation I had last month with him. The wise thing to do would be to obliterate it, ignore him, not show him I even think of him. But as proven, when it comes to Dan Darling, I’m weak and stupid.
Me: Stop. Not interested in hearing from you or reading your words. Just stop.
It’s time for me to really push away all the Dan Darling thoughts and spend hours working like a beast. Throughout the day, I do feel the need to check obsessively if he answered, but I refuse to do so. I'm the most delightful boss, letting Naomi take the afternoon off, as I tackle all problems the architectural world of Montreal throws at me, which might not seem like much but is a lot. I even help Chéri with some of the HR tasks I despise so much. I’m the architecture rock star of my city and nothing can distract me, at least for today. Take that, Dan Darling!
By the next day, I’m feeling less like a rock star and more like the shadow of a failed singer on Broadway—so, pretty shitty. My recycling bin has been emptied, but Dan’s postcard stayed at the bottom of it. His note is to my recycling bin what Dan is to my brain—a nuisance I can’t stop coming back to. The sting of that fling won’t go away. To make matters worse, he’s everywhere. The Darling Devils have a new single out from their as-yet-untitled album, and it’s what every radio spoke about this morning.
“One of the best songs ever written on the subject.”
“Dan Darling’s courage to speak up.”
And it went on and on until I tuned out. The single was released this morning. I’m not ready to listen to it, so I kept changing radio stations until I gave up and got ready in full silence. Since then, I’ve tried my best to avoid anything related to them, which means no social media, no internet, no radio, no streaming, nothing. They’re everywhere and I feel alone on a cliff like old Luke Skywalker on his island. Even the smoothie Naomi brings me for lunch seems like the green milk Luke has a taste for…
I implore The Force to help me, but the power of the postcard is stronger than my ability to ignore Dan Darling. I cave and fall on my knees to reach for it.
“I can’t stop thinking about you.”
I don’t know if it’s because I’m tired of trying to ignore Dan Darling, if it’s because I hate myself for still thinking about him one month later, or if it’s because his words are gut-wrenching, but tears fill my eyes, and I lose it on the floor of my office, hiding behind the desk. Dan and I are in the same freaking boat, paddling in circles as we try to glide in opposite directions. I don’t understand how, after five days together and thirty-five apart, I still feel this way. I never felt so loved and desired as I did in the short time we were together. I dismissed all the red flags I saw and still had a fantastic time with him. For all I know, he’s sending postcards to every woman he was with last month—and that might be a lot of stamps—and that’s why he has ignored my text. Why would you tell someone you miss them but ignore a simple text? It makes no sense.
If Dan wanted to drive me insane, he’s found the perfect way to do so. Oliver would say that it is, in fact, the best way to get a reaction out of me. When we were young, every time he ignored me after a fight, or because he was in love, or just because he was a dickhead of a brother, I’d generally take something of his and burn it. Of course, I had no problem ignoring him when I needed to, and he never retaliated. That’s who Oliver is. But me, I was as fiery as my hair. I loved setting his things on fire.
“Why are you crying-laughing hiding behind your desk?” My little brother’s deep voice announces his arrival.
I jump to my feet and rush toward him, drying my tears on my white blouse. “What are you doing here?”
“A little bird told me you might need a hug.” He opens his arms for me to come in.
And I do. Oliver and I have been through a lot together. His tall frame and almost-black hair are the opposite of my small size and red hair. It’s not clear we’re siblings until you see our emerald eyes. The same as our mother’s. Even our characters are opposite. He’s the nice guy while I’m the pain. He’s extremely good at reading people, whereas I missed the clues my husband was cheating on me. He can always get what he wants from people, but I need to work for it. It’s his charming smile and awesome personality that he uses as a mask to hide the sadness he lives with most days.
Ol and I were the only two people we could trust, then we added Joel and Elaine. I divorced Joel, he lost Elaine, and now we’re back to being just the two of us. I’m not surprised he jumped on a plane when Naomi or Julie told him I needed him. Plus, I ditched enough of his calls for him to show up, understanding that if I don’t want to talk to him, it’s because I need to see him.
He’s worried but won’t show it. I need him but won’t ask. That’s how we’ve operated all our lives, taking care of each other in silence when our parents were ignoring us. Supporting each other discreetly when nannies came and went because our father liked them a little too much.
When I moved out for college, Oliver begged me to take him with me. I couldn’t walk away from him anyway. Our parents agreed without much of a fight. He came with me to New York and finished school there. Oliver and I grew even closer. Then, I met Joel and
moved to Montreal. Even if he never reproached me for walking away, I know I hurt my brother. Nevertheless, he never let me down. His arms have always found a way to comfort me and his words always appease my fears. The same goes for me with him.
“So? What are all the tears about? Is it because of the rock star?” he says, untying me from his body.
“Yes and no. I don’t get it. He sends postcards saying he’s missing me but doesn’t answer my text.”
“Show me!” he says, walking toward the chair behind my desk.
“There’s nothing to show. I sent him a text telling him to stop reaching out, and he didn’t answer.”
Oliver pushes his glasses up on his nose and smiles. “Only you, sis, would tell a guy not to contact you and get mad because he does what you asked him too.” He holds out his hand, asking for my phone, while his other hand holds the ankle resting on his knee. “Gimme.”
I sigh and give him my phone. While he reads my texts with Dan, I study him a little more. We’ve spoken a lot in the last thirty days, and I even visited him in New York one weekend. He was pretty low, but something changed after he told me Elaine was pregnant at the time she died. He was afraid to hurt me, but he needed to talk about it, so we did. We cried, we drank, and he felt better. I guess he feels as though it’s his turn to fix me now. And that’s okay with me. I like him being here. I would love to live closer to him. In fact, sometimes, I wonder why I don’t.
“Come here. You see here?” I follow his finger on the screen. “Before, there’s read written just under the text.”
I nod.
“Well, there’s nothing written under your last text. He didn’t receive it,” Oliver explains with his crooked smile.