by Kim Holden
Eight tacos in and my stomach starts screaming for mercy. “Thanks for taco Tuesday, Ma.”
She smiles but it doesn’t begin to reach her eyes. “You’re welcome.” She looks tired. “By the way, Franco’s been by every day to check on you.”
It’s her way of telling me to call him. “Yeah, I’ll call him when I get out of the shower.”
Two phone calls down (Franco and fucking Hitler), and I’m ready to throw my phone out the window into the fucking ocean, crawl into bed, pull the covers over my head, and forget everything. We’re leaving for Europe Thursday morning to begin the postponed tour. Our self-titled debut album, Rook, has done well in the states since its release late last year, but it’s nothing compared to how it’s blown up in Europe. Hitler can’t wait to get us over there. I know I’m an ungrateful, selfish asshole for not wanting to get back out on tour, but the honest-to-God truth is I don’t even know how to function anymore. Bright Side wasn’t only my best friend; she was like my other half ... the other half of my brain, the other half of my conscience, the other half of my sense of humor, the other half of my creativity, the other half of my heart. How do you go back to doing what you did before, when half of you is gone forever?
Wednesday, January 25
(Gus)
It’s my birthday today. I’m twenty-two. I feel fucking eighty-two.
Ma made me cupcakes. Twenty-two chocolate cupcakes. Each one with a candle in it. It takes me two tries to blow them all out.
Guess I’m not getting my wish.
I knew that.
This is the first birthday I’ve ever had that I’ve wanted to skip. I want to rewind time and go back to my last birthday. Bright Side and Gracie were both here. And I don’t mean metaphorically. I mean here physically, in this room with us. Smiling and laughing and eating cupcakes until they got sick.
I’m smiling now thinking about them, but my stomach hurts.
I don’t want to eat cupcakes without them.
No more birthdays.
No more reminders.
I fucking hate reminders.
Thursday, January 26
(Gus)
I know I didn’t pack enough clothes, but it’s too late now. Franco’s waiting in the kitchen for me, talking to Ma. The record label sent a car, which is waiting in the driveway to take us to the airport. Our plane departs for Germany in two hours. I grab another handful of boxer-briefs and socks and drop them into my bag, where they take up residence alongside two pairs of jeans, three T-shirts, deodorant, toothpaste, toothbrush, laptop, wallet, passport, and phone.
I sling the bag’s strap over my shoulder and check the pocket of my jeans for my cigarettes and lighter. I can’t step out of my bedroom without staring at Bright Side’s laptop that’s been sitting untouched on my dresser for over a week now. She left it to me. It houses all the music she ever wrote. I feel honored to have it. My mind’s screaming at me to go back for it, but my heart is pulling rank and commanding me to leave without it. I’m not ready. The CD she left for me is lying on top of it. She knew she was dying. I know it’s a good-bye and I’m sure as hell not ready for that. I flip off the light and start down the hall toward Franco’s voice.
Franco tips his chin up when he catches sight of me. “What’s up, douche nozzle?”
I shake my head. “Not much, mangina.”
Ma doesn’t even flinch. It’s how Franco and I have always talked to each other. They’re terms of endearment. The truth is, Franco’s the only person I have left in my life who will tell me exactly like it is now that Bright Side’s gone. No sugarcoating, no blowing smoke up my ass, just straight up honesty. I love him for it. Despite the tough guy façade of shaved head and tattoos, he’s a softy … with a fierce sense of loyalty.
He points to my bag. “That all you’re taking, man? We’ll be gone for two months.”
I shrug. “And my guitars. I can buy more on the road when I need it. Let’s roll, dude.”
He nods and I’m thankful for his lack of psychoanalysis. He hugs Ma. “Thanks for breakfast, Mrs. H.” He’s palming two large blueberry muffins wrapped in a paper towel.
She squeezes him tight. “Of course. Have fun over there, Franco.”
“Will do.”
When she hugs me I want to fall apart in her arms. To cry like I did when I was eight and I broke my ankle. But I don’t. We both hold on longer than usual and hesitate to release. “Make sure you enable the security system every night while I’m gone,” I tell her.
The corner of her mouth turns up and I know she’s put on her brave face for me. “I always do. Don’t worry about me. Go see the world, Gus. I’m so proud of you.”
I nod. Compliments have always managed to embarrass me, like I’m somehow not quite worthy of them. The last few weeks I've felt completely unworthy. “Thanks Ma. I love you.”
She kisses me on the cheek and hands me my own paper towel-wrapped blueberry muffins. “I love you, too, honey. Be safe.”
Normally I’d respond with, “Always,” but I can’t bring myself to say it now. I feel like it would be premature betrayal for the next two months of unknowns. I don’t feel like being cautious. Not in the least. “Bye, Ma.”
“Bye, Gus.”
Friday, January 27
(Gus)
It’s officially Friday by the time we touch down in Berlin. I’ve never travelled outside the United States before and I quickly learn what all the fuss is about—jet lag is a motherfucker.
My ass is dragging from the moment we step off the plane, through customs, and all the way to our hotel. Time is not on my side today. We've got back-to-back meetings before soundcheck this afternoon, and then two interviews before the show tonight.
It’s hard to put my game face on. I fucking loath faking anything. I’m horrible at it. So I’m actually grateful when Hitler escorts us everywhere. The dude’s in love with the sound of his own voice and I’m more than happy to let him yammer on for us during the meetings. Most of it is stuff he should be dealing with anyway. And I practically want to hug the guy when he instructs both interviewers that all personal questions are off the table. No need to dodge why the tour was delayed or why we’ve been off the radar for a month. Thank God, because I’d probably take somebody’s head off if they mentioned her name. I say Bright Side's name in my head a million times a day. But hearing her real name, Kate Sedgwick, spoken by a stranger who never knew her? Some journalist feigning concern or sympathy? I’d be tempted to silence them with my fist.
Dinner is preceded by, and concluded with, several pints of strong German ale.
There’s enough alcohol in my system that when we take the stage my guitar feels comfortable in my hands and the crowd is only a fuzzy blur of color and motion. My memory’s teetering just enough to the near side of lost that I need to concentrate with single-minded focus on the chords I’m playing and the lyrics I’m singing. That leaves room in my mind for nothing else for a solid hour. It feels like I’ve discovered the formula for coping: the combination of excessive amounts of alcohol and live performance. Magic.
Friday, February 3
(Gus)
We’re a week into this tour, and the distraction of drunkenness and performing isn’t working anymore. I don’t think I’ve been sober since the day we arrived on this side of the pond. During the first few days, I couldn’t sleep enough. These past few days, I haven't wanted to. It’s like I can’t get enough of just sitting around thinking about her: her ever-present deep but feminine laughter; the faint dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks and between her shoulder blades; how she loved to watch the sunset; the sound of her voice when she said I love you; how beautifully she played her violin. I know I’m obsessing in an entirely unhealthy way, but I have this fear that if I don’t keep turning her over in my head, I’ll forget. And forgetting scares the hell out of me.
Franco thinks I should see a doctor. Maybe get some sleeping pills, or anti-depressants.
I think that’s a pussy’s
way out. I’m not going to start popping pills to avoid grief. Booze is my only strategy. Some would argue meds would be a better alternative, but I don’t like the idea of giving some doctor carte blanche to manipulate me with scripts. If anyone’s going to manipulate me … it’s going to be me.
I try not to think about that night with Bright Side. I try not to think about it because everything else pales in comparison. It was the best night of my life. I didn’t know it was going to happen. She didn’t know it was going to happen. But goddamn it did happen. So, while I’m lying on this bunk in the tour bus, in the middle of the night, cruising across the European countryside, I’m going to give into it and replay it in my mind. Closing my eyes, I allow the memories to flood in.
I walk into the guest room from the hallway at the same time Bright Side walks in from the adjoining bathroom. She’s brushing her teeth. She always multi-tasks while she’s brushing her teeth. Right now she’s digging through her duffle bag on the floor.
“What’re you looking for?” I ask. The sight of her hunting through her bag makes me sad. She’s packed and ready to leave for Minnesota early tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll see her next. We’ve never gone more than a day or two without seeing each other, and even that was rare.
She shifts her toothbrush to the side of her mouth and tries to talk through all of the frothy toothpaste. “Pajamas,” she says. At least, that’s what I think she said. She turns, runs back in the bathroom, spits out the toothpaste, and returns smiling. “Pajamas,” she repeats. “I think they’re in my other bag. It’s already out in my car.”
“Gimme your keys. I’ll go get it,” I offer.
She shakes her head. “Nah. That’s okay, I’ll get by without them. Can you get the light?” she asks.
I’m gonna miss this. Our friendship. The familiarity. She’s always been here. With me. We do everything together. Since we were kids every time we’ve spent the night under the same roof, we had to sleep in the same room together. Whether it was in my room, or in the living room on the sofa, or more recently here in the guest room the past couple of weeks. Always together. Hell, I don’t know how I’m gonna fall asleep without her in my arms after tonight.
I flip the light off and take off my shorts and T-shirt. I always sleep in my underwear, but I always wait until the light is off to strip down to them, which is weird because in the morning I’ll climb out of bed and she’ll see me. Nighttime is always more intimate though. The darkness brings with it a certain longing, and damn, I’ve loved this girl forever. She doesn’t know that though.
I slide into the left side of the bed, because she always sleeps on the right. With the moonlight filtering in through the blinds, I can just make out her silhouette as she slips her shorts down her legs. It’s a quick movement, but it’s playing out in slow motion for me. When they drop to her ankles I feel the familiar tug of arousal stirring. My gaze is trained on her as her hands disappear behind her back and she slides each bra strap down her arms from under her tank top. With straps free, she reaches up under her tank top and magically her bra appears in her hand. Dropping it on top of her duffle bag with her shorts, she walks toward the bed. With the moonlight on her, I can see her little pink cotton panties. Whoever said cotton panties aren’t sexy hasn’t seen Bright Side in a pair of them. Shit. I may be in trouble. Full-on boner is taking shape and I’ve got nowhere to hide. Then I peek at her tank top. It’s pale yellow and thin from frequent washings. She’s had it for years. Her nipples, dark and so beautiful, strain against the worn material. Closing my eyes, I quietly take a few deep, calming breaths. I’m talking to myself inside my head, “Get your shit together, dude. It’s Bright Side. You’ve seen her in a bikini a million times.” But goddamn this is different, so I add, “She doesn’t know you can see her, perv. Stop gawking,” and then, because my dick is doing most of my thinking for me at the moment, I add, “at her gorgeous fucking body.”
As soon as she’s under the covers, she scoots over to my side and presses up against me searching for warmth. The cool sheets make her shiver, like they always do, as she drapes her arm across my chest and rests her head on my shoulder. I wrap my arm that’s under her around her back and rest my hand on her hip, and when I do, all is right in the world.
Her voice is only a whisper when she speaks. It’s quiet, but it tears open the night. “I’m gonna miss you, dude. So much.”
Kissing her forehead, I whisper back, “Me too. You have no idea.”
“You’ll have to buy one of those ginormous pillows or an inflatable doll to snuggle when I’m gone.”
I laugh, because of course she would make a joke right now. “Think I can find one that talks and farts in its sleep, just, you know, so it’s a realistic stand-in for you?”
She slaps my stomach, but she’s laughing. “Shut. Up. I do not. Gracie would’ve told me.”
The logic behind her denial makes me laugh even harder and I confess, “You don’t. I was kidding.”
With a contented smile playing at her lips, she rolls over to her other side and I follow suit. The beast in my underwear has calmed down, so I pull her into me and spoon her. This is how we always fall asleep. She feels so good in my arms that I would swear God made her just for me. Pressing my forehead against the back of her head, I can’t help but feel melancholy. And then it hits me again. She’s leaving. Bright Side is leaving. When I kiss the back of her head it feels eerily final. It’s intuition; that my heart quickly pushes aside. “I love you, Bright Side.”
She rubs her hand over the back of my hand that’s pressed against her stomach. It’s a loving gesture. Just like everything else she does. “I love you, too, Gus.” Bright Side has always known how to make people feel loved. She’s so damn good at it.
When her hand stills, I realize that her tank top has shifted up slightly and my pinkie and ring finger are resting against her bare skin, just above the top edge of her panties. I’ve touched her skin a million times. But not like this.
And dammit, the tug starts in my groin again. It’s a rapid ache and it’s building fast. To avoid embarrassment and further stimulation, I slide my hips back so I’m not pressed up against her. But I can’t help myself and my hand starts moving. It’s a bold, but subtle, selfish, but giving gesture meant to sooth us both. Every ounce of concentration I have is laser-focused on that one-inch strip of Bright Side. My fingertips float over her skin, savoring it. She’s so soft. After I stroke back and forth a few times, I realize she feels tense in my arms, so I stop. “Sorry,” I whisper. But when I lift my hand, she takes it and guides me back, offering permission. Without a moment’s thought, I take it. This time I sneak under the hem of her shirt so that my entire hand, fingers and palm, are touching her. Light as a ghost, gliding over her skin but increasing incrementally, driven by spontaneous purpose, until my fingers are spread out in an act of tactile adoration and satisfaction. We're both breathing more heavily now. And though she’s relaxed somewhat in my arms, I can feel each inhalation reach her belly. Each breath is slow and measured. Bright Side is only slow and measured when she’s concentrating on something.
When I drag my hand across her belly again my thumb traces the underside of her breast. Her breath stutters and my dick hardens instantly. I know she feels it, the tip has breached the waistband and it’s straining painfully against the elastic restraint. At the same time I pull my groin back farther, she reaches back over my hip and pulls me into her.
I can’t help the deep groan that rushes out of my mouth when I’m pressed up against her ass. It’s relief paired with physical stimulation, a need both being met and intensified simultaneously. I feel her sigh under my hand. She’s with me. Then, because it feels so damn good, I roll my hips a few times. Jesus Christ, I must’ve died and gone to heaven.
And I never want to leave.
Her hand slides back until she’s palming my ass cheek. My hips are engaged, slow and wanting, grinding against her. When she lifts her tank top over her breasts and
directs my hand to her, I don’t hesitate. I take her in my hand and stroke her gently before plucking her nipple between my thumb and forefinger. It hardens under my touch and she moans.
Oh fuck. That moan just killed me. She’s the sexiest damn woman on Earth. That moan was proof.
I can’t take it anymore. I whisper, “I need to touch you.”
She nods and it’s more than permission, it’s agreement.
I slip my hand down the front of her panties and tease her with my fingers, which sets her lower body in motion. I answer her physical plea and let my fingers slide lower. She parts her legs and welcomes me. She’s so wet. I circle her a few times before diving in and she meets every plunge with her hips. “Gus?”
“Yeah?” My voice is hazy and faint, lost in this mutual attraction.
“I need you to kiss me.” I’ve never heard that voice come from between her lips—it’s lust. And it makes me envy every guy whose ears it ever fell upon before mine.
I‘ve never wanted anything more in my life. Slipping my fingers out of her, I shift so she can roll to her back. I’m propped up on my elbow, looking down at her. “You’re so beautiful.” It’s so quiet I don’t think she’ll even hear me.
The slight smile on her face tells me she did.
Goddamn, I’ve dreamt about this moment forever. Kissing Bright Side. If I’m gonna do this, I’m gonna do this right. While she’s lying on her back, I rise up and climb over her so I’m on hands and knees hovering above her. I take her face in my hands and I thank God for what’s about to happen. And then I close my eyes and lower my lips to hers. Kissing her softly, I part her lips with my tongue. When her tongue meets mine, I know she’s right there with me. Kissing has never, ever, been like this for me. I can literally see fireworks behind my eyelids. I love this girl. I love every last thing about her. And what I love most right now is kissing her. How she meets every move I make with one of her own. How when I pick up the pace and intensity, she matches it.