Darling

by Gabrielle G

  I look at Art, but I know better than to get him to help me when he agrees with Lars. Our band should have been named the Troubled Devils because Lars is the boss. I’m just the singer and songwriter, and Art follows along with whatever Lars decides.

  “Let’s go, Darling!” Art says. “Or do you need help showering?”

  “I can shower myself, come on.”

  “I wasn’t going to do it myself. But the girl in the bathroom could help you.”

  “There’s been a girl in my bathroom this whole time?”

  Art laughs hard at my puzzled expression. Lars doesn’t seem impressed.

  “Don’t worry, guys, she signed an NDA,” Art says, strolling toward the bathroom.

  I turn to Lars and raise an eyebrow. “And you think I’m the one who needs constant supervision? At least I've got an excuse for my behavior. What’s his?”

  “He’s a rock star.” Lars shakes his head.

  Art reappears, pulling a girl behind him and showing her the way to the door.

  “He likes them younger and younger,” Lars comments.

  I sigh as I walk to the bathroom. “Except for that girl in Montreal. We might have to card them soon.”

  “Be ready in one hour,” Lars shouts over the noise of the shower I just started.

  I nod as if he could see me, then start a breathing exercise to calm my negative thoughts. Seeing my father is another step on the way of recovery, and even if it feels like an impossible jump, I can’t avoid the trigger he could be. There’s no detour and no shortcut. It’s an important step to take, and I have no other choice but to make it.

  23

  Anna

  “Dan?”

  When I saw Asshole Rock Star flashing on my screen, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to answer or if I should answer. I’m still a little hurt and a lot confused. We’re treading in unknown waters, but I can’t deny the pull he has over me. I want to text him, and I want to hear his voice, and because I didn’t want to overthink it, I let my heart decide.

  “Hi, love.”

  My heart is a glutton for punishment.

  “Hi.” I try to sound neither confused nor excited.

  “Am I catching you at a good time?”

  Checking the time, I calculate rapidly that it’s almost one in the morning in London. I’m surprised Dan is calling so late—for him. I’m home and on my sofa, the very same sofa Dan and I enjoyed together. Every time I sit on it, I think of that day, his body and mine.

  “No,” I say in a raspy voice before clearing my throat. “What’s going on?”

  “I was wondering if you still sounded the same.”

  “You tell me.” I smile, propping my bare feet on my coffee table and getting comfortable.

  “You do.” His voice is breathy, seductive, and makes me feel lots of things I shouldn’t feel. “I wasn’t sure you would pick up.”

  Hearing him sound so insecure is new and refreshing, compared to the overzealous man I met.

  “Why?”

  “People tend to run away once they know you’re bipolar.”

  “And men tend to cut me lose when they know I can’t have children.”

  “Well, it seems I can’t cut you lose.” He laughs slightly.

  “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

  I read about bipolar disorder, and it seems some people can’t sleep appropriately during a crisis. There are so many websites with advice and articles about it, it’s overwhelming. I learned that there are four different types of bipolar disorder: Bipolar I, Bipolar II, Cyclothymia, and Mixed. The categorization of someone’s disorder depends on the strength of their episodes, the length of cycles, and sometimes different symptoms, but they all have noticeable changes in mood, intense thoughts, and similar behavior. I realized fast that I needed to know what type of bipolar Dan is. Call it curiosity or interest, I want to know more about his particular condition.

  “Are you okay?” I ask when his answer doesn’t come fast enough.

  “I had a difficult evening, and I was afraid it would trigger something. I meditated in the car on the way back to the hotel, but as soon as I came back to my bedroom and said good night to Lars and Art—who have been checking on me incessantly—I needed to hear your voice.”

  I’m not sure what to say, so I don’t, thinking maybe he’ll explain what happened. He doesn’t.

  “Too much, too fast?” he asks.

  “No.” I walk to the kitchen to make myself a tea. “I’m glad you called. Do you want to talk about it? I mean, it’s okay if you don’t want to. I don’t want to force you or anything.” I sound like a stupid adolescent.

  “Anna, I’m not going to break, and I know that if I don’t want to tell you, I don’t have to. It’s just… I’m not sure I can give you more of my crappy life.”

  “‘The Crappy Life of Dan Darling.’ Could make a great movie,” I tease.

  “I don’t think so, love.” He sighs deeply, and my heart hurts for him.

  I can’t imagine what it is to live with mental illness. Oliver has had some ups and downs since his fiancée died, but I wouldn’t say he’s suffering from any disorder. He’s grieving and it’s taking him a long time to overcome losing the love of his life, but he’s getting better. Knowing that you can only be better when you take your medication, that you have to take it for the rest of your life and even then you might still suffer, that feels harder to accept than the death of a loved one or the idea of never becoming a parent. Even if they’re not comparable.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t try to joke,” I say.

  “Please, love, joke about it. I’m the one who’s a downer tonight. I don’t want to burden you.”

  “Don’t call me ‘love,’” I say while my kettle whistles.

  “Why not?”

  “Do you call every woman ‘love’?”

  “I don’t.”

  “The stewardess said you called her ‘love.’”

  “Ah… what I’m about to tell you will sound awful.”

  “Go ahead,” I say, getting ready for the worst while pouring my tea.

  “I was thinking of you the whole time.”

  His revelation makes me laugh.

  “Why are you laughing?” he says while I go back to my sofa. “It’s not funny. Believe me, when I’m in mania, I can fuck whoever’s in front of me, but I never called them love. Only you.”

  “Well, I didn’t call Ben ‘rock star,’ but I was thinking of you when we were together.”

  “What do you mean you were together? Who’s Ben?”

  “Oh my, Dan Darling, are you jealous? Seriously? I had to read in a gossipy magazine the tell-all of the flight attendant you fucked after dumping me by text, and you’re jealous I had sex with someone else?”

  “It’s not my fault,” he says defensively.

  “Well, it’s not mine either, and it’s only fair, don’t you think?”

  He grunts.

  “You did fuck her after the text, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that what happened with the model you were dating?”

  “Anna, can we not—”

  “I’m just saying, you dumped me by text, and I lost myself in another man while thinking of you. It’s not that different.”

  He grunts again then sighs. “Yes, I was off my meds and cheated on her the night I was going to propose.”

  A heavy silence falls between us. I direct the conversation to something other than sex with other people. Cheating is one of my hang-ups. From what I read, people with bipolar disorder are hypersexual and can’t really stop themselves from cheating. One article said that their infidelity is fueled by mania. I’m not sure I could go through again what I lived with Joel. I’m not convinced I can accept this as a part of any mental issue. I don’t know if I’m strong enough if it happens again.

  “Let’s change the subject,” I tell him before the envy of hanging up and fleeing takes over me. “Let me ask you something, did you write that song for me?”
>
  “I wrote seven songs for you.”

  Seven? Like the number of dwarfs, seas, and deadly sins.

  “You wrote me seven songs?”

  When he speaks, I hear his smile. “Yes, and I’m not done.”

  “Why?” I look at the bottom of my cup, trying to decipher what I feel about this new information.

  “Well, it’s… don’t freak okay?”

  “Okay.” Not okay.

  “My therapist said I should write you a letter or something to explain what happened so we could both have closure. But I had already started to write songs for you. I thought it was the mania, I thought that’s why I was obsessing about you. But even once I wasn’t in my cycle anymore, I continued writing as if I was talking to you. I wrote a song for Lars and Art too, but they know nothing about it yet. All the rest were written to share my thoughts, my disorder, my life, with you.” Dan could drop the mic and quit the stage because I think he just stole my heart. “I’m thinking of calling this album Letters to Anna.”

  Confirmed, Dan Darling has robbed me of my heart. Without even trying, he made the biggest gesture any man has ever made for me.

  “Would that be okay?” he asks.

  Thank God he can’t see me. I have tears in my eyes, and my cheeks are on fire. “Of course, Dan, it’s… thank you.”

  “No, thank you. Seems you’re my muse.”

  I sip my tea and cover myself with a blanket. I’m his muse… Soon he’s going to tell me I’m the Kim to his Kanye or the whatever-guy-did-her-wrong to his Taylor. It seems…

  “Are you there?”

  “Yes, sorry, hmm… when can I listen to the rest of the songs?” I try to get back into the conversation and shut up my brain. I could be his Sarah Lowndes or his Marianne Faithfull… what is happening? Seriously.

  “Well, depends, did you sing these past weeks?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Sing for me?”

  “Now?” I laugh. “Yeah, sing for Dan Darling, of course. That’s not intimidating.”

  “Sing for Wes Moore then.”

  “Still no.” I chuckle. “I don’t sing anymore.”

  “So no phone concert for you then, sorry.” He laughs.

  Dan always seems to want to do something on the phone with me. First, phone sex, now phone concert. It’s ridiculously cute. I laugh with him, but his dies.

  “I love hearing you laugh. It’s spellbinding. If I could, I would bottle it up.”

  Swoon. “Are you trying to woo me tonight?”

  “Is it working?”

  “A little… it’s just…” I can’t finish my sentence, afraid again of the consequences. “Are you feeling better?”

  “Yes, love, talking to you is therapeutic.”

  “That’s how I felt when you were here. I can be angry at times, and you calmed me.”

  “I heard you fought with Naomi because of the song. I’m sorry.”

  “Seriously, Lars is a gossip. Naomi is always tight-lipped. Do you know what’s going on between those two?”

  “I think they’re friends.”

  “With benefits?”

  “I don’t think so. I think this is the first time Lars has had a female friend.”

  I raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever had a female friend?”

  “Not until you.”

  “I’m a friend?”

  “You’re a friend, but maybe more.”

  “I’ve never had mind-blowing sex with a friend before.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Dan?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me something you never told anyone?”

  “I miss you.”

  “I miss you too, rock star.”

  “Can I call you tomorrow?”

  “I think I’d like that. You need to sleep now. It’s almost two on your side of the world.”

  “Good night, love.”

  “Good night, Wes.”

  As I hang up, I’m flabbergasted and happy. The next Darling Devils album will be titled Letters to Anna. Dan Darling misses me. He loves my laugh. He called me to stay grounded. I’m his fucking muse. And even if adult Anna is freaking out, my younger self is screaming over the attention a celebrity is giving her.

  After our conversation, I know Dan Darling isn’t just a fling to me. He’s a lot more. On my computer, I resume my research on bipolar disorder but focus on dating. I should research what dating a rock star involves as well, but one step at a time. The effects of any mental illness could be difficult on a couple, but certainly no more than stardom.

  Not that I want to date him, or at least not yet. I don’t know. What it entails—the infidelity, the life he lives, the mood swings—scares me. And I still don’t know what type of bipolar disorder he has. I decide to text him and ask before he falls asleep.

  Me: Can I ask what type are you? Bipolar 1? 2? Cyclothymic? Mixed?

  Asshole Rock Star: Are you reading about my condition, Love?

  Me: I’m educating myself, is that okay?

  Asshole Rock Star: Of course, it’s rather charming even.

  Me: So? What’s your diagnosis?

  Asshole Rock Star: 2. My manic episodes aren’t as strong. Does it freak you out?

  Me: A little, but the more I research, the better I feel.

  Asshole Rock Star: Thank you.

  Me: For?

  Asshole Rock Star: Trying to know what I am but not letting it define who I am.

  Me: You’re welcome.

  Asshole Rock Star: Change my name on your phone.

  Me: To what?

  Asshole Rock Star: Best of your life?

  Me: You wish!

  Asshole Rock Star: Favorite Rock Star?

  Me: Meh…

  Asshole Rock Star: Favorite Asshole?

  Me: My brother might be jealous but ok! Good Night.

  Darling: Goodnight. Talk Later.

  Me: Will do *smile emoji*

  24

  Dan

  “Dan, get up.”

  Depressed mood is the first symptom of a depression cycle. Getting out of bed is what I should do. Starting my day is the healthy thing to do.

  But I feel empty and I’ve found refuge under my blankets.

  My bed is my solace. My sheets are my cocoon.

  I feel tired after being in bed for ten hours but sleeping only three. I feel jaded with the life we live. I’ve been unable to move for half the day and I feel guilty. The band was counting on me to record, but I can’t do it. Not today. I should have texted one of them to let them know it was a hard day. I didn’t want to fail them, I thought I could get up on my own, but I couldn’t. I thought I was okay. I thought Anna had worked her magic and had pushed away the trigger of visiting my father. Unfortunately, she only delayed it for a few hours.

  “What do you need?” Art asks.

  Only one answer comes to mind. She’ll hate me for imposing. I should listen to music, scream into my pillow, fight it. I should think about something positive, direct my thoughts another way, and battle the sound of silence in my head. Would she come if I asked her? I swallow hard. Hope is my worst enemy, but I need her to show me she cares. I need to feel that I matter. As long as I have hope, I’m not totally swallowed by my darkness. Sadness is taking over though. I feel it creeping in my throat, in my eyes.

  Today I woke up with a stranger in my head. He’s loud and depreciative. He hates me and everyone else. If I give in to him, my self-worth and motivation will disappear.

  I need to get up.

  I need to start the day.

  I can’t give up, but it would be easier.

  I should stick to my routine.

  “What can we do?” Lars insists.

  So I tell them. Because I do believe she can help me. She did last night. If she doesn’t come, I’ll slip further. If she doesn’t come to me, it will tell me what we are. I know she won’t. I’m not worth it.

  “Let’s call his shrink,” our manager says from somewhere in my room.
>
  I try to smile. He’s right, I need my shrink more than Anna, but she’s the only one I want to talk to. Even if she comes, she can’t be here before tomorrow, and I need to speak now. I need to tell them to help me.

  This isn't me. I can’t let the stranger in my mind win.

  I need my therapist.

  I need guided meditation.

  I need to get out of that bed.

  I need Anna.

  I open my eyes and look at my friends. This task, uneventful for others, takes most of the energy I have. “Anna.”

  “Shrink, medication, shower. Then Anna,” Lars counteroffers.

  I nod. He won’t fight me, but he will make me take the right step forward.

  He steps away with his phone already at his ear, disappearing into the next room of my suite. Art hands me my meds, and I reluctantly sit up.

  “What else?” he asks.

  Nothing he can do. I shake my head.

  “You know we love you. You are loved. You are adored by millions of people. You are Dan Darling. The best rock star. The best of friends. The best of everything.”

  I succeed at smiling this time. He knows. Losing his brother, he knows what to say.

  “Bath or shower?”

  I don’t see the appeal of taking a bath alone. I send Art a look. He chuckles, knowing what I mean.

  I see his hand hovering over the blankets. He wants to pull me out of bed, but he stops. It’s crucial I kick off the sheet myself, that I’m the one who wants to get out of bed. He puts his hand in his pocket and jolts his chin in my direction.

  I slowly breathe in and out. I need to fight. I look around me, and it feels like the rising of the king, there are so many bystanders waiting for me to get out of bed. It’s ridiculous. I look at Art, hoping he can understand me. Of course he does.

  “Out!” he says to our assistants, our manager, my trainer.