Never Enough: A Rockstar Romance

by Roxie Noir

  After another fifty tries, I finally write back on Sunday.

  46

  Gavin

  I’m the first to admit that I don’t like rehab. It’s boring and full of addicts, a whole bunch of people trying to find the motivation and inspiration to sober up for good this time, and that means that it’s like walking around inside the pages of a self-help book.

  That said, I do keep a list simply titled reasons not to do heroin. Marisol features heavily, but one line simply says rehab is stupid and I hate it.

  My days are structured. I’m never alone. I’ve even got a roommate, because being in rehab, besides being boring, is also like being a citizen of a very mild police state: there’s always someone around to watch you. Luckily Greg’s not so bad, but privacy is a bit difficult to come by and mostly occurs in the shower.

  Marisol’s not written me back yet. I don’t know if she will. I try not to think about it too much, at least for right now, because we are to accept the things we cannot change et cetera. And I know that if I finish my stint in here and haven’t heard from her, I’m not giving up.

  She’s too important. That bit about the tearing my heart from my chest was probably a bit graphic, but it was true.

  I get a letter Monday, so no need for dramatics. When I find it in the mail basket on my door — already opened to make sure it’s not hiding illicit substances, of course — my heart practically leaps out of my chest. I take it to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the lid down, the only place I can actually be alone to read what she’s written me.

  Gavin,

  I’m not very good at writing letters either. I’ve started this one about a million times too, but I keep talking about the weather or something and then crumpling them up. The weather doesn’t even make sense to talk about. We live in Los Angeles. What weather?

  See, I did it again.

  Here goes.

  I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m still hurt that you lied about Liam (I figured out he’s a liar, no worries), but when Nigel gave me the tapes I thought for sure that it was your way of saying goodbye to me, and I was devastated. Because somewhere between rubber gloves and the alley, I started liking you and then quite liking you, and it’s really strange that you, of all people, turned out to be the one for me but there it is.

  Crap, your letter was a lot better. This sounds like I’m drawing up a contract or something.

  I think I need you, and I think I love you, but I’m afraid that I shouldn’t feel either way, that you’ll wind up relapsing again and breaking my heart. I’m not sure I can do that.

  Please advise. There’s the lawyer-speak again.

  Love,

  Marisol

  Shit. It didn’t even occur to me that she could think the tapes meant goodbye. I was still wasted when I told Nigel to give them to her, but it was the only way I could think of just then to tell her how I felt. To beg her not to give up on me, to wear my heart on my sleeve and lay it all out there completely, no secrets, only rough takes and me fucking around on a guitar for a long time with lyrics that will definitely need some work.

  They’re all about her, after all. Or mostly about her, but she’s the one who unlocked me again, made those songs possible at all. I guess I forgot to tell her that part.

  I read Marisol’s letter one more time, trying not to laugh at her for please advise. I know the letter doesn’t say I’ll take you back but it does say I think I love you. That’s not something you think, it’s something you feel, but it’s Marisol. Of course she’s going to analyze and overthink this. Strangely, I love that about her.

  I keep writing her every day, and I start getting letters back. I don’t know what to say, so I tell her about the terrible crafts I’ve made, I make fun of the woman who runs our group therapy sessions, I tell her the sunsets are sub-par because she’s not there.

  She writes about helping her parents move into their new apartment. The letter starts out casually, but it’s nearly four pages long. She apologizes for not telling me about their problem sooner, that it’s not nearly the same level of offense as my lie about Liam, but she understands how something like that grows until it takes over.

  She writes about growing up in a dangerous part of Los Angeles, about knowing early that luck happened to other people and she was always going to have to fight for everything she got. About Brianna getting married to a rich guy while Marisol was in her second year of law school, a hundred grand in debt, and crying in the bathroom at their wedding wondering if she’d picked the wrong path.

  I laugh, despite myself. I’m in rehab for the second time and Marisol’s wondering if she’s gone wrong in life.

  I tell her I’m glad she picked the path that led her to me, at least.

  Thursday I get telephone privileges. They don’t give me my mobile back, but there’s a small office with a phone, a signup sheet, no door, and a nurse in the next room. I’ve got forty-five minutes.

  I spend the first ten with Nigel, because I need to get him out of the way. He confirms that he’s done everything I’ve asked, and then, after a long awkward classic-Nigel pause, tells me Liam’s gone home.

  “He hasn’t got a home,” I point out.

  “His mum’s,” Nigel says, slowly. “Back in Mountford Wye.”

  Liam’s mum is a raging alcoholic with a mean streak, and his dad’s not been heard from in years. As much as everything he’s done is his own choice, et cetera, he didn’t start off with a strong chance.

  “Nigel,” I say, exhaling. “He can’t—”

  “He’s not your problem,” Nigel says, and it’s the most backbone I’ve ever heard him have. “You’ve made him your problem and look where it’s gotten you.”

  He has a point. I hate thinking of Liam there, but Nigel’s got a point. After a few minutes we hang up.

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my trousers, suddenly nervous, but I pick up the receiver and dial her number.

  “Hello?” she answers after the second ring.

  I grin at just the sound of her voice, staring at the white wall in front of me like an idiot.

  “Hey, it’s me,” I say.

  “Hey,” she says.

  There’s a one-second pause, and then she starts laughing. I start laughing. I have no idea why I’m laughing, except that it feels so good to hear her voice again that I’m giddy, and the two of us laugh into the phone like a couple of morons.

  Finally, I stop, and take a deep breath.

  “I made you a ceramic bowl to your specifications,” I say. “Or, rather, I tried.”

  47

  Marisol

  The rehab center, which is simply called Tranquility Malibu, reminds me a lot of Noru. I guess it caters to basically the same clientele — rich people who can afford good sushi and drugs. There’s probably more or less a revolving door between the two.

  Nigel gave me a key to Gavin’s car yesterday, and when I pull the purring black machine up to the guard station, he tries not to look surprised to see a short Latina girl in the driver’s seat.

  “You must be Miss Gomez,” he says, smiling down at me through the window.

  I’m caught off guard, because I wasn’t exactly expecting him to know my name.

  “Yes,” I manage to say. “I’m, uh, here to see—”

  “Mr. Lockwood,” he says smoothly. “Of course. Take the second left and park anywhere.”

  I thank him and drive on. This is all a bit unnerving, and it reminds me too much of our first date, and of feeling like there was a bright spotlight on me, pointing out the imposter. Except now I am, technically, almost a millionaire, though honestly I’ve been too busy with finals to spend any of the money yet.

  And I’ve spent quite a lot of time doing fancy things with Gavin, so even if I’ll never actually feel at home with these people, I can fake it.

  There’s a front desk with a pretty, smiling blond woman. She also knows my name, gives me a badge that says VISITOR in big letters, offers me a sparkling water, a
nd tells me that the visitor’s lounge is through the door and second on the right.

  I’m heart-stoppingly nervous. I don’t know what I’m going to do. I don’t know what I’m going to say, because even though we’ve been writing and calling, this feels like the first real step down a road with no street lamps.

  Besides, despite hours googling and a pile of research, I don’t feel like I know what to say to him about this. Sucks that you relapsed, I wish you hadn’t? I would really prefer you not do it again?

  I want you back but I’m afraid you’re broken and I’ll get hurt trying to fix you?

  Outside the visitor’s lounge doorway, I take a deep breath. I clench and unclench my hands, trying to release some of the tension.

  And I go inside. There are a few people in there but Gavin has one whole side of the lounge to himself, because he’s pacing back and forth with his hands in his pockets like a caged animal.

  Then he turns, sees me, and grins. All my nerves suddenly melt away, and I grin back.

  In seconds I’m in his arms, and he’s squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, picking me up, and whirling me around as I yelp. He puts me down but doesn’t let me go, one hand on the back of my head, and I close my eyes and inhale his scent, my nose buried in his neck.

  “I missed you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry.”

  “I missed you too,” I whisper back.

  He pulls back slightly, his hand cupping my face. He strokes a thumb across my cheek, his deep brown eyes gazing into mine, like there’s something he’s about to say, right there below the surface.

  He doesn’t say it. Instead he kisses me, our lips just barely touching, soft and gentle like the kiss is an apology too. I kiss him back the same way, standing on my tiptoes, slow and gentle even though my heart’s hammering nearly out of my chest.

  Inside I come alive. The second he touches me I’m a writhing sea of lava, a volcano set to explode, heat and pressure barely contained.

  It’s a long kiss. By the end of it my fingers are wound through his hair, my body is pressed against his, Gavin’s tongue is in my mouth and we’re exploring each other like it’s our first kiss again. I finally pull away, eyes closed, stroking my hand through his hair while he draws circles on my back with one hand.

  There’s a crumpling sound to my right. We both startle and look over.

  We’re being watched. There are still three other people in the visitor’s lounge, and all three are simply watching us with detached, mild interest as if we’re baseball on television or something.

  I swallow, and my face flushes hot. I’d totally forgotten they were there. Gavin’s hand keeps making small circles on my back.

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” he asks.

  Tranquility Malibu has a huge, beautiful garden. It’s surrounded by a ten-foot wall, but it’s a classy wall, covered in climbing bougainvillea. The whole place is a faux Italian villa, complete with shaded patios and grape arbors, a manmade stream of clear water running through the careful landscaping.

  I feel like I’m on vacation at a spa, not visiting someone in rehab.

  “See? It hardly feels like you’re in prison at all,” Gavin says as we stroll under the arbor, the warm sun behind us.

  “I was just thinking maybe I should develop a heroin addiction so I could—”

  I stop short, holding my breath, because he is in rehab and the last thing I need to do is make light of the situation.

  But he looks at me and starts laughing.

  “Have a week at a posh spa in Malibu?” he says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “The FAQ page said that when I visited, I shouldn’t make fun of rehab or talk about the negatives, just focus on keeping the patient in the moment to help your recovery.”

  “Well, there are better ways to take a holiday at a posh spa,” he says. “Such as taking a holiday at a posh spa. You can skip the heroin all together, in fact.”

  He still hasn’t told me what, exactly, happened after I left on Tuesday. He’s alluded to it, but he hasn’t told me the details, and I’m dreading having to hear them.

  I don’t want to. I want to pretend that he is on holiday, I’m visiting, and when he’s out everything will go back to what it was before, but I know I can’t. Not if this is going to work.

  I change the subject and ask about Greg, his roommate, who Gavin thinks isn’t taking recovery very seriously. We talk about nothing for a while, walking up and down the paths in the garden, the little fake brook burbling alongside us.

  After a while, we’ve seen everything. We’ve discussed all the plants, and though it feels normal and nice, there’s still that weird tension of things unsaid.

  At the far end of the garden, there’s a patch of grass under a stand of eucalyptus trees on a slight hill. Next to it is a table stacked high with white sheets. Gavin grabs one, flips it open, and spreads it out on the grass.

  I watch this with my mouth open. I can’t believe this place has picnic blankets stacked next to the picnic spot. That’s next-level.

  Gavin, on the other hand, looks faintly embarrassed.

  “What?” he says, smiling, his arms crossed over his chest. “We can’t just sit on the grass like the peasantry.”

  “You know I am the peasantry, right?”

  He sits on the blanket and holds out one hand.

  “Come on. It’s very therapeutic.”

  I fold my legs under myself, careful of my skirt, and sit next to Gavin. There are a few other people wandering the gardens, though there’s no one else up here on the grassy hill.

  It’s quiet. It’s peaceful. It’s lovely. It’s all a bit weird. Gavin looks over at me and I don’t make eye contact, but I can feel his gaze for a long time before he finally speaks.

  “You’ve not asked me anything.”

  Here we go, I guess. I keep watching the people down in the garden.

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like you.”

  I take a deep breath and pull my knees in, careful with my skirt, tucking it between my thighs so I don’t flash anyone.

  “Do you remember our first date, when we got fish and chips and then walked down on the beach?”

  “Of course. You were embarrassed to admit that you didn’t want to have sex in front of a mirror.”

  I laugh, despite myself.

  “I’d forgotten that.”

  “I hadn’t. I’ve got a hell of a memory for everything even slightly racy you’ve ever said.”

  “So you remember me telling you I don’t have a sex tape?” I ask.

  “Yes, and it was a bloody relief,” he says. “Not that I thought you did. Just...”

  He trails off, shrugging.

  “I never asked if you had one because I didn’t want to know,” I say, quickly, still staring down at the garden. “If you did, or you do, I knew I’d just look it up on the internet and then I’d end up watching you have sex with someone else, and I really didn’t want to do that, so I never asked.”

  We lock eyes again.

  “To the best of my knowledge I haven’t got a sex tape,” he says. “I wasn’t always exactly sober during the act, but if it’s not surfaced by now, it probably doesn’t exist.”

  “That’s not what I was getting at,” I say, even as my eyes fill with tears.

  Gavin’s past with other women is something I’ve stayed far, far away from, but I’m more relieved than I thought I would be.

  “Were you trying to explain how not knowing is better than getting hurt by the answer?” he asks.

  I sniffle.

  “Yeah, but you put it a lot better than I was going to,” I admit.

  “That’s because I’ve been to loads of group therapy in the past ten days and I’m a fucking expert at discussing my feelings,” he says.

  A tear rolls down my face, even though I’m trying not to cry, and he reaches out and brushes my hair back from my face.

  “Not all the answers are going to hurt,” he says softly. “An
d I can’t beg you to give me another chance if you don’t know everything. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  I exhale, still trying not to cry.

  “Don’t beg,” I say, trying to make a joke of it. “It’s a bad look for you.”

  “My point does stand.”

  I take a deep breath. I drag one thumb under my eye, wiping off some tears.

  “Okay,” I say. “Tell me everything. Start with the coma.”

  48

  Gavin

  Marisol holds my gaze steadily. For a moment, I wish I’d not done this, that I’d let her continue in ignorance. But that’s how I got into this in the first place, by hiding the truth because I didn’t want her to see my ugliest side.

  And here it goes, out into the light.

  “I don’t remember a lot of it,” I admit, taking a deep breath. “Being in a coma and everything.”

  Marisol nods.

  “I’ll give you the short version first,” I start, since I’ve got no idea where to begin.

  The actual beginning is probably in a club in Yorkshire when I was seventeen, or when I picked up a guitar at fourteen, or when I befriended Liam in primary school because we both had black eyes and no lunch money.

  “We were in Seattle, about to play a show,” I say. “It was our first show back in the U.S., close to the end of the tour for Lucid Dream, and things had gotten a bit ugly with the band, so I’d taken to getting high before we went on stage to take the edge off, as it made dealing with Darcy and Trent a little easier. Of course, part of the reason things had gotten a bit ugly was that I had a vicious heroin problem, so I wasn’t helping matters.”

  Marisol just watches me, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “On the tour, Liam and I had befriended one of the roadies, Allen, and when I say befriended I mean we got high together and I didn’t even know his last name until I read his obituary. I think he liked hanging out with rock stars, and the two of us liked having a regular person there, as if it made us less degenerate. Anyway, Liam knew a bloke in Seattle so he went out to score, got the stuff, came back to the hotel room.”