Darling

by Gabrielle G

“Why?”

  “Could be he’s somewhere he can’t receive texts, or he blocked your number.” He shrugs.

  I wonder which of the two options it could be. Blocking my number would be more than a blow to my ego. Being where he can’t receive texts could explain the postcards but would still be strange for a personality of his caliber.

  I’m still pondering when Oliver cuts into my thoughts. “Nothing written on that can be what has you all twisted over him. What happened for you not to be over the guy even after Ben the oh-so-boring guy?”

  “Which one ratted me out?”

  “Jules. She’s thinking of moving to New York.” He smiles.

  “No, you don’t get all predatory because she’s moving to New York. She’s off-limits.”

  “Oopsie.” He laughs. “But don’t try to change the subject to Juju.”

  “Juju? You have a nickname for her?”

  “Dan Darling? Let’s go back to that.” He winks.

  “You’ve been texting her? She’s not moving for you, is she? Is that new? Did it happen before? No, wait, I don’t want to know. Didn’t you sleep with Naomi as well? Is it high school all over again? Are you sleeping with all my friends? And Debbie? Poor girl, she has such a crush. Is she the only one you haven’t slept with?”

  “Anna! Dan Darling…”

  I know he won’t answer. He never does. I know about my friends sleeping with him because they think it’s okay to share with me since Ol and I are close. But it’s never okay to know how many of your friends your brother has banged, even if you’re close to him…

  “I don’t want you to feel sad.” I wince because it’s a hard subject after his revelation earlier this month.

  “Go ahead, I’m fine.”

  I nod. “Dan said it wasn’t a problem if I couldn’t have children. Do you know how hard it is to find a man who accepts that? You’d think it would be easy—we always hear about these men who freak out at the idea of becoming fathers—but I tell you when they’re forty-year-old bachelors, that’s the one thing they think about. They want to be fathers. They want to go skating with their kids and teach them to throw a ball. They don’t see themselves changing diapers, but they imagine themselves with children, playing video games and advising them. Daughters, sons, doesn’t matter. Every guy I met more than once spoke about children at some point. Dan didn’t. And when I told him about my condition, he was okay with it. And because of that, because of that little hope he gave me, because he forced a door I tried so hard to shut, I can’t get him out of my head. I know it’s ridiculous. I know he used me. I know he’s an asshole—but I can’t stop thinking about him. And now he sends me postcards apologizing, saying he was a dick, telling me he misses me. I don’t understand what’s going on with him or with me, but I miss the hope. I miss the feeling I had with him and how good it felt…”

  Oliver smiles. “I’m going to explain something to you. He had a great time with you, that’s certain. He promised you things that I’m sure he believed to be true. Then he left for his job—where he’s idealized by thousands upon thousands of women—and he realized, shit there are a lot of pussies out there and he preferred to let you go. Now that he’s done pussying around, he’s still thinking about you. He knows he has to take a chance. That’s what he’s doing. He’s reaching out from God knows where he is in the world. Whatever happened during those five days is not over. Buckle up sister, because you’re under the skin of a rock star and the ride is only starting. Now let’s go drink, because seriously, as maddening as it is, there’s nothing you can do but wait for his next move.”

  20

  Dan

  "Anna," I moan.

  Chills up to my bones, I feel my pleasure taking over while my cock goes in and out of her. I break eye contact to bite her nipple until it hurts, but she asks for more. Her pleas are music to my ears, and I continue, nibbling, biting, licking her nipples until I feel her tightening around my cock. I thrust harder until she comes, screaming my name. I kiss her deeply, moving a little more until I reach an orgasm so powerful, I lose myself in her.

  She smiles. “Fuck, Dan! That was epic.”

  I can’t speak. All I can do is kiss her, cuddle her, and caress her nipples to be sure I didn’t hurt her too much.

  “I missed you,” she says. “I thought I would never see you again.”

  “I’m sorry. There’s something I need to tell you.”

  But she walks away before I can, and I’m once again alone in the darkness of my bedroom, the high feeling I just felt becoming a dreadful one I know too well.

  After the high comes the low.

  After the love comes the heartbreak.

  After mania comes depression.

  I wake up sweating, disoriented, and hard, having forgotten for a minute that I’m in a crappy hotel room in Spain because the hellhole of a town I bought didn’t give us much choice of amenities. We came here so we could discuss our plan with the architects, sound engineers, and all the other professionals we hired to build our studio in the village I bought. Lars is snoring next to me, his shoulder-length blond hair sticking to his face, hiding his ugly mug. We haven’t shared a bed since we were teenagers—well, not without a woman between us, and certainly not to sleep.

  Art stayed in London, getting everything ready to record the rest of the album. We released “Manic Love” just after recording it, and the critics, as well as the public, praised it. Crawford helped us with the PR side of announcing my condition, and the feedback has been fantastic. I would have preferred to release another song first and fix things with Anna before the whole world found out about my mental health, but John and the label pushed to get this one out first. In the end, I thought maybe it would be simpler this way.

  Since the song hit the radio ten days ago, I’ve dreamt about Anna every night. Thinking about her during the day isn’t enough; she has to haunt my nights as well. I’ve sent postcards, flowers, and her favorite pastries to let her know I’m thinking about her—well Chad did on my behalf—but I won’t start anything more until I’m back in North America. It’s not fair to her.

  One thing I’m sure about is that my feelings for that woman are more than a delusion. I wrote a whole album as if I was writing her letters. My shrink is right—writing to her is therapeutic. Every word I wrote was with her in mind. She’s the ink I needed to tell my story, as well as the essential fuel to do so.

  Reaching for my phone to check the time, I think I feel strong enough to unblock her number. But if I do so, she would be at the tips of my fingers, and if I’m not ready or falling into a depressive episode, I’ll ruin everything again. Lars is my oversized Jiminy Cricket, so I elbow him in the ribs to wake him.

  “Fuck! What’s the time?” he mumbles, still half asleep.

  “Four.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  “Bad dream. I have a question.”

  He groans.

  “Should I unblock Anna’s number?”

  “Can’t we wait until ten to discuss your love life?”

  “No.”

  “Okay then.” He turns on the light and rubs his eyes, unsticking his hair from his cheeks. “Speak.”

  “I think of her constantly. I sent her stuff, but I have no idea what her reaction is because I blocked her number and you won’t tell me anything. I guess by now she understands better what happened, with all the noise since we released the song, but I have no guarantee. I need to know if she can try, if she wants to try. I want to know if I’m the only one who’s infatuated, if I’m the only one wondering if those five days were just a fling or if it could be more. I need to know.”

  He shrugs. “Sounds pretty healthy to me.”

  “Seriously? Me being obsessed with someone sounds healthy?”

  “Yep. You have her under your skin. That’s a normal feeling. You met a girl, she changed your world, and you’re still thinking about her weeks later. It’s normal. Unblock her, talk to her. See if there’s something, and if there i
s, go get the girl. But be honest, Dan, don’t hide behind your bipolarity. Explain, share, be upfront. It’ll be okay.”

  “You don’t think my condition is why I feel so strongly about her?”

  “I think she triggered something, and I know if I hadn’t caught it, our tour would have been hell. But now? You’re taking your medicine, you're super fucking healthy with your kale smoothies and your workouts. You follow your routine, you worked hard to get back on track, you fucked a lot of women, and you’re still thinking about her. Whatever you two shared, it seems it was real. So try to get the girl.”

  “Okay…” I smile. We’ve been binge watching Grey’s anatomy on the road. Lots of time to kill and I discovered a passion for medical drama. And that guy is the Christina Yang to my Meredith Grey. I love him more than anything.

  “Now let me sleep, wanker.” He yawns.

  I poke him before he rolls over. “Is she still thinking about me?”

  “Naomi and I don’t talk about you two. It’s your story, not ours.”

  “You have a story with Naomi? I thought she was just a friend.”

  Lars rolls his eyes. “Shut up and sleep or I take your phone back.”

  “Night, Dad!”

  I chuckle as he shuts off the light and turns his back to me. Fumbling with my phone, I find the website of her office, add her number back into my phone, and unblock it. It’s a big step, and I know I’ll need to talk to my therapist about it next week. I also know it’s time to make amends and stop being a coward. Sending her stuff and not allowing her to answer is just putting what I feel out there without listening to her. I wasn’t ready to hear what she had to say. I am now.

  Me: I just dreamt of you. It seems like you took over my brain.

  But I don’t push Send because if I do, I won’t sleep from anticipating an answer. I wait for my phone to get dark, place it on my night table, and fall back asleep—smiling over possibilities I just opened up.

  It’s early afternoon when I receive news from her. Chad has been handling every order I sent her, and I tend to forget the dates of delivery. It’s easier that way. Seeing her name light up my phone warms me inside. It’s a pleasant sensation, like how I remember the first sip of wine.

  “Anna?” Lars asks.

  I nod, not ready to share with him whatever I’m feeling. My phone fumbles between my nervous fingers.

  Lars chuckles before he shouts to the crew, “Let’s take five.”

  We came back to London this morning and went directly to the studio. We need to work our asses off, but we’ll be on time. We always are.

  Art slaps my shoulder, shaking his head. “Decaf?”

  Caffeine, alcohol, sugar, salt, and fat are banned on my new diet. It’s a bitch to follow, but I know it’ll only make me feel better. As long as I can enjoy coffee, I don’t mind the lack of caffeine. Just something to get used to again.

  I nod, not looking at him, still focused on my phone, on her words, on her. Taking a deep breath, I swipe. And smile.

  Anna: I told you I’m allergic to flowers. Are you trying to kill me?

  Leave it to Anna to give me crap because I sent flowers. And she never told me she was allergic to flowers. Not that I recall anyway. I thought I remembered everything we talked about. But maybe I don’t? I hate not remembering things, but I hate it more when it concerns Anna. I want to pick up where we left off as if nothing happened. I know she won’t let me off the hook, but I try nonetheless, because I can’t apologize more without ripping off my balls and offering them to her in a velvet box.

  Me: Are you allergic to all flowers?

  And I wait, but not long. I see the dots coming and disappearing, not knowing if she’s writing a novel or erasing and restarting what she wants to say. When her answer comes in, I feel as if I just scored a goal.

  Anna: Exceptions are lilies (but I hate the smell), geraniums (but they are ugly and make me think of old bearded ladies in Switzerland), hostas (but come on…) and hydrangeas (Those are nice).

  Me: Can you explain the ‘old bearded ladies in Switzerland’?

  Anna: Balconies in Switzerland are full of geraniums. Feels like old bearded ladies live there. Not more to explain. I don’t like those flowers.

  Me: Note to self, send hydrangeas.

  Anna: Or don’t…

  Me: I can’t. Did you hear our new song?

  Anna: No. I’m on a strict no Darling diet.

  Me: However, you texted me.

  Anna: It’s a cheat day.

  Her answer, as matter of fact as it is, makes me laugh. She always surprises me. What she says is never what I expect, never the lines people around feed me, never the reaction I’m used to. My laugh dies when guilt takes over. Self-loathing takes control of my brain and I work through the images my therapist has me working on. Cutting the balloon from the bricks holding it down. Letting my guilt fly away so I stop wishing I could go back and change what I did, who I am, and how I reacted. Apologizing is like using scissors to cut the ribbon of the balloon. It’s all I know how to do.

  Me: I’m really sorry. I was a dick. I really hope you can forgive me.

  Anna: You were the first one I opened up to for a long time Dan. I appreciate you letting me free before fucking someone else; at least I hope it was before. It is what it is, now stop beating yourself up and let it go because I can’t be sneezing all the time and gain one more pound.

  Me: No snot or extra pounds can stop me.

  Anna: I understood that after the first time I told you to stop and you didn’t.

  Me: I never received your messages. I needed to block your number, I’m sorry.

  Anna: Ouch. You keep hurting my ego.

  Me: It’s awful for me to say, but I would prefer to hurt your heart.

  Anna: You’re right; it’s awful to wish you broke my heart.

  I wince. If I hurt only her ego, it means I’m not much more than a fling to her, and she’s much more than a fling to me. I feel as though Anna and Dan is something meant to be, something I owe her and myself to explore, to try, to pursue. But hearing I hurt her self-esteem doesn’t please me. She’s incredible, and I shouldn’t be the asshole who gives her a complex. I shouldn’t be the asshole who wants her heart either. I shouldn’t be anything to her.

  Anna: Why?

  Me: Why what?

  Anna: Why would you prefer to hurt my heart?

  Me: Because it would mean it was mine to begin with.

  Anna: It could have been.

  Me: I know. I fucked up. I’m sorry.

  I always fuck up. I always spend days apologizing for what I did during an episode. I hurt people in ways I can’t comprehend or imagine. Repairing my mistakes, my outbursts, my actions takes the most time. It’s always the hardest and eats at me from the inside. Every time someone forgives me or says they know my actions are because of the unbalanced chemicals in my brain, I feel like they’re giving a “get out of jail free” pass and I can’t accept it. It wasn’t too bad this time—I didn’t destroy a house, cause someone to lose the use of their legs, or try to kill myself—but I still hurt Anna and now my sick mind wishes I’d hurt her more than I did.

  As my chin quivers and my throat thickens, Art comes back in with Lars and the other guys. I know my time is up. It’s time to go back to singing my heart out, to let Anna go and hope tomorrow will also be a cheat day. If I was a good guy, I wouldn’t hope so.

  Anna: I know. You fucked up. I’m sorry too. I’ve got to go. Talk later.

  If I was a normal guy, I would definitely let her go, but I’m a selfish manic depressive, an emotionally on-edge mess, so I can’t.

  Me: Will do.

  21

  Anna

  “And number one again this week, ‘Manic Love’ by the Darling Devils.”

  I turn off the radio, arriving at the site I need to inspect. This song is harassing me. It’s everywhere—the first thing the MC announces when I wake up, or I’m about to get in the shower, or when I get in my car. Dan
is everywhere, all the time. And when it’s not Dan singing, it’s my brother or my friends asking me if I’ve heard the song. The universe is clearly trying to tell me something, but I refuse to listen. Debbie, Julie, and Naomi even started a group chat, including me, that they named “Listen to the song.” I much preferred when Debbie and Julie disapproved of Naomi. Not that they like her much now, but at least then they weren’t trying to make me listen to a stupid song.

  At this point, I don’t want to listen to it because everybody is telling me I should. I hate doing what’s expected of me. Like, why should I wear a faux-fur vest or slides because it’s what other people do? Why should I go see the latest Marvel movie? Why should I listen to the song everybody is talking about? I don’t care about doing what other people want me to do. So I’m not listening to the fucking song or wearing a faux-fur vest and slides to go watch a super hero movie. I don’t care. Well, that’s not true, I do care—especially because a certain rocker asked me if I heard it—but I won’t listen to it because people ask me to.

  Bang!

  The noise startles me, and when George, my contractor, appears at my window, I realize I might have stayed in my car longer than normal.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I nod and gesture for him to move so I can get out of my car. Taking the things I need for our meeting, I get out of my car then shake George’s hand.

  “Didn’t want to scare you,” he says.

  We walk toward the building under construction. I designed this mansion for the owner of the second-biggest poutine restaurant in the province. It’s big, it’s sublime, it’s one of my best works, and it’s expensive and stressful. It could ruin my reputation if it goes to shit. But it won’t because none of my projects ever go to shit. I’m that good.

  “Were you listening to that song?”

  I stop in my tracks while George continues walking away. “What?”