Bright Side

by Kim Holden

  I text Gus immediately: Call me. That’s an order.

  My phone rings in my hand at 2:25 that afternoon. I’ve been holding onto it for over twelve hours waiting for this call. “Hey Gus. You okay?”

  “I feel like Bruce Lee is battling Mike Tyson inside my skull.” He sounds like he’s on the losing end.

  “Who’s winning?” I have to try to cheer him up.

  He coughs. I think it was supposed to be a chuckle. “Bruce is a fast little fucker, but Mike is fierce. It could go on a while, dude.”

  “Rough night, huh?” I don’t want to chastise or nag. I’m sure he’s heard enough of that already.

  He sighs. “That’s what they tell me. Though I beg to differ. I’d take a night I don’t remember over the way I’m feeling right now any day.”

  “Gus, I’m not gonna get all sanctimonious on you, because that would make me the world’s biggest fucking hypocrite, but maybe there’s a better way to deal with all of this. Maybe a way that’s more conducive to keeping the band afloat and the tour train in motion. You have to be able to function, dude. This is your dream, remember? Don’t fuck it up.” I can feel sorry for him, but I can’t baby him. Coddling doesn’t do anyone any good.

  I hear the click of a lighter, followed by a long inhale and an equally long exhale. For the first time in my life, I don’t have the heart to put in my two cents.

  “I know, but this is all so fucked up. I’m sorry, Bright Side. I just don’t know how I’m going to get through this. I don’t even know how to begin to deal.”

  He’s sounds sad, it breaks my heart. “I wish you didn’t have to. I’m sorry.”

  “Stop. Please don’t apologize. You being sick and me worrying about it is not something you’re allowed to be sorry for.” Annoyance fades to an aching echo.

  We’re both quiet for several seconds. “You should write, Gus. Get it all out.”

  He huffs and I know he thinks it’s a bad idea. “No one wants to hear that kind of anger.”

  “Who says anyone needs to hear it? Just write the song for you. You can share it with me if you want. We could collaborate. Kind of a last hurrah. What do you say?”

  “Is that a challenge?” He’s thinking now. I don’t hear concession yet, but he’s thinking.

  I know he never backs down when he’s called out, so I bully him a bit. “Yes it is.”

  “Aw, damn you woman. You’re evil, you know that?” I can hear his smile through the phone.

  The weight’s lifting off both of us. “So I’ve been told.”

  “Well shit. Nothing to lose, right? Maybe I will. Besides, my liver could use a rest. Just the thought of whiskey makes me want to throw up.”

  “It will help, I promise. I wrote a lot after Gracie died.”

  “You never told me that.”

  “That’s because I never told anyone. I just wrote. Most of it’s for guitar because I couldn’t bear to play my violin. It’s probably all shit, but that’s not what mattered at the time. At the time it was cheap therapy. And that’s what I needed.”

  “Huh. I’d like to hear it sometime, what you wrote.”

  “Sure. Someday. Now go get some rest before your show tonight and promise me you’ll start writing tomorrow.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He sounds more like himself now.

  “Do epic.”

  “Do epic,” he echoes quietly.

  “I love you, Gus.”

  “I love you, too, Bright Side.”

  “Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  Wednesday, November 30

  (Kate)

  Gus and I talk on Skype. He plays me what he’s written. The acoustics on the bus aren’t great but it’s hard for me to hold back my emotion watching him bare his soul. He was right—it’s angry. But it’s also beautiful, because I know it’s Gus at his most raw. He’s not hiding. It’s just gritty guitar and unfiltered words. That kind of purity tears me up.

  When he finishes there are tears in his eyes, too. I let him compose himself before I jokingly say, “I think you might have some rage issues, dude.”

  He swallows hard. “You think?”

  I shake my head. “No. I was stalling. I just needed a minute.” I did. I still do. I swallow hard. “Dude, that was outstanding. What about adding some violin to soften the violent tendencies?”

  He coughs and takes a drink of water from the bottle on the table. “Violin might help take the edge off; you know, tamp down the hysteria.”

  I don’t want to laugh, but he needs the encouragement. “I’m all for tamping down hysteria with strings. Can you record what you’ve got on your ridiculously smart phone and email the video to me? I’ve got something turning over in my head but I need to hear it again.”

  “You got it.”

  “Right on. I’ll touch base with you tomorrow. Keep up with the writing.”

  “Thanks, Bright Side. For everything. This helps.”

  “Me too, dude. Love you, Gus.”

  “Love you, too.”

  “Bye.”

  “I’m not saying goodbye anymore. I love you.”

  Skype disconnects, and his picture disappears.

  Friday, December 2

  (Kate)

  It’s been a few days since I’ve been to my dorm room. I need to grab my detergent and do some laundry.

  I slip the key into the lock but it’s already unlocked. That’s strange. Dorm room 101/Creeper 101—always keep your door locked.

  Sugar’s lying on her bed, but she’s awake. I decide to offer up a friendly greeting and say, “What’s happening, Sugar?” even though I doubt I’ll get much in return. Hostile or dismissive responses don’t count.

  Nothing. She says nothing. Fine. Whatever. It’s not like we’re best friends. Hell, we really aren’t even friends so I move on quickly to the task at hand.

  As I’m stuffing clothes from a pile next to my bed into my laundry bag, I hear a sniffle from Sugar’s side of the room. I’ve just been put in the position where I have to make a split-second decision—do I acknowledge that she’s crying, or don’t I? I want to ignore her, but I can’t. I glance back and notice she’s huddled up in fetal position and tears are silently streaming down her cheeks onto her pillow. Her face is devoid of any emotion, which is the scariest kind of breakdown. It’s the mask of shock. The mask your body puts on when what you’re going through is too intense and it would rather shut down than contend with it head-on.

  Well shit, it looks like I’m not getting any laundry done this afternoon.

  Since we aren’t exactly friends, I’m not going to go over the top, but I am concerned. I hate to see people cry. “Sugar, dude, you wanna talk about it?”

  No response. She doesn’t even blink.

  I try again because I can’t walk away now. “Listen, I know I’m the last person you probably want to talk to, but I am a good listener.”

  She blinks and looks up at me like she’s just noticed me for the first time. The tears keep coming.

  “What’s up, dude?”

  She sniffles again and I hand her a tissue from the box on my desk. After she blows her nose, the expression on her face is somewhere between sadness and embarrassment. She sniffles again. “I’m pregnant.”

  For an instant I think, And this surprises you, you nympho? But the mean thought exits as quickly as it entered because I’m certainly not a saint in this department. Only a virgin could pass judgment right now. That’s certainly not me. “How far along?”

  She rubs the tears from her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “I don’t know. I missed my period last week. I took three tests yesterday. All positive.”

  My mind is racing. I can’t help but put myself in her shoes. It’s like some sort of morbid version of living vicariously. God, what the hell would I do if I were Sugar? So I try to be supportive, again without being fake. “Have you talked to the father?”

  She shakes her head and lets out a laugh that’s part disgust and part self-loathing. “I don�
��t even know who the father is.”

  “Can you narrow it down? Maybe if you find out how far along you are, it would help.”

  She rolls her eyes and they land on the tissue she’s shredding into confetti onto the bed in front of her. “You know as well as I do how many different guys have come through here.” The tears have started up again. “I’m so fucking stupid, Kate.”

  I have this sudden urge to comfort her, because everyone messes up. Everyone. I sit down on her bed and offer another tissue. “You’re not stupid, Sugar. Horny maybe, but not stupid.”

  She blows her nose loudly and glares at me.

  It makes me smile. For the first time, I’m having a real conversation with the real Sugar. “What are you going to do?”

  “I can’t have a baby,” she says without reservation. “I just can’t.”

  My heart hurts. Although I absolutely believe that this is a decision every woman needs to make for herself, my head still has me in Sugar’s shoes. I know that, deep down, I would want to keep my baby. I swallow and remind myself that this isn’t about me, it’s about Sugar. And only Sugar knows what’s best for Sugar.

  But I still have to play devil’s advocate because it’s what I would do for a friend. “Can you live with that decision? One, two, ten years down the road? Can you live with it?”

  There’s fear in her eyes, but she repeats, “I can’t have a baby right now.”

  I nod. She’s thought about it. “Have you been to the health clinic on campus? Maybe they can help.”

  She shakes her head. “No. I’m ... I’m scared.”

  I can’t believe I’m saying this. “Go wash your face and put some clothes on. We’re going on a field trip, Sugar.”

  Sugar takes another pregnancy test at the campus health clinic. It confirms what she already knew. She talks to the PA on duty, with me by her side, and takes the standard pamphlets and cards they provide on pregnancy, adoption, and abortion.

  By the time we walk out the door, she’s resolute. She has a plan. Still, her hands are shaking so hard she can’t dial her cell to make an appointment.

  I take the phone out of her hand and finish dialing the number on the business card. When a woman answers on the other end of the line I proceed. “I need to make an appointment for a friend.”

  We set up an appointment for next Thursday morning.

  Thursday, December 8

  (Kate)

  Sugar had an abortion. I took her to the clinic. It’s done. Final.

  I made sure she got into our dorm room afterward and that I got her something to eat and drink. She thanked me, and then I had to leave. I’m not holding this against her. I’m not judging her. I’m really not. But my stomach hurts and I can’t stop thinking about Stella. What if Lily and Keller made the same decision? No Stella. The thought of no Stella makes me want to cry.

  I run to my car and start driving. By the time I get to Keller’s, I’m still out of breath. I don’t know what it’s like to have a panic attack, but this has to be close. My goddamn heart is going to beat itself free of my body. I feel like I’m losing my shit. It’s terrifying. I’ve never felt like this before. I barge into his apartment and double over, hands on my knees, trying to pull oxygen into my lungs and quiet my mind, but the only thing I can think about is nonexistence. And I can’t help going down the road where nonexistence equates to death.

  Keller’s next to me in an instant. “Katie, what’s wrong?”

  I look up. “Stella. I need to talk to Stella right now.” I’m sucking in ragged breaths. “Can you please call her? Right now?”

  He looks confused but pulls his cell out of his pocket and calls immediately. He walks me to sit on his bed while it rings. “Hey Melanie. Can you put Stella on please?” He pauses, waiting. He smiles at me but it’s strained. His eyebrows are pulled together. I’m scaring him. “Hi baby girl. How’s my Stella?”

  I can hear Stella’s tiny voice faintly. My heart rate begins to slow down.

  “Stella, Katie wants to say hi. I’m going to put her on the phone now so she can talk to you.”

  My hand’s already outstretched desperately awaiting Stella on the other end. “Hi sweetie.”

  “Hi Kate. Whatcha doin’?” She sounds so grown up.

  “I was just thinking about you and realized it’s been a few days since I talked you. How’s Miss Higgins?” This is good. This is what I need.

  “She’s good. She ate apples this morning. She loves apples.” She drags out loves for a good three seconds and it makes me smile.

  “Well, good. I’m glad to hear it. What did you do today?” I can breathe normally now, but I need another minute with her.

  “Melanie and I went ice skating and she read me the pony book, but she doesn’t read it good like you do. She doesn’t make horse noises. It’s kind of boring.”

  “I’ll read it to you next time I see you, okay?” I know I shouldn’t make promises I may not be able to keep, but I can’t help myself.

  “Okay.”

  “I’m going to put your daddy back on the phone. Have a good night, Stella.”

  “I will.”

  After he hangs up, Keller takes my face gently in his hands and looks directly in my eyes. There’s still worry in his. “What just happened, babe?”

  “I don’t know. I kinda freaked out. Sorry. I just … I had to take someone to do something earlier ... and it was hard … it made me feel …” I realize that I’m rambling, so I stop. I look at his beautiful face. “I think I just had my first freak-out moment about dying. I’m sorry.”

  Saturday, December 10

  (Kate)

  Gus and I have been working on his song for the past week and a half, and yesterday we played it for the rest of the band. Gus has decided (and by decided I mean he’s hell-bent and nothing will stop him) that he wants to record it.

  It’s 8:00am and he’s already calling for the first of what I’m sure will be many calls today. “Hey Gus, what’s up in Portland today?”

  “Portland’s rainy. How’s Grant?”

  “Haven’t been outside yet, but I would say there’s a one hundred percent chance of freezing-ass cold.”

  He laughs. “Hey, I won’t keep you long, but I wanted to make sure you’re free next weekend?” He says it as a question.

  “Sure. I have finals this week. I think my last one is Thursday morning. After that I’m free. What’s up, dude?”

  “I’ve been talking to MFDM about recording this song, and he lined us up a recording studio in Minneapolis next weekend.”

  “What about your shows?”

  “Postponed. We’re all flying in Friday morning and we’ll have the place until Sunday evening when we fly out.”

  He’s not wasting any time with this. It’s a good thing because my pain is getting more intense even on my new meds, and I’ve noticed that it even hurts to breathe sometimes. My lungs just aren’t working like they should be. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to play or sing. “Okay. Are the guys going to be ready?”

  Gus is all business. “They’ll be ready.”

  “Yeah. Wow, no pressure, dude.”

  “Sorry, Bright Side. I know this is a lot to put on you. Are you going to be okay? I mean how are you feeling?” He’s stumbling all over himself because he doesn’t want to say the wrong thing.

  It’s time to reassure him. “I’m fine, Gus. Next weekend will be fine. I can’t wait to see you guys.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, too. I’ll call you later with all the details.”

  “Sounds good. Love you, Gus.”

  “Love you too, Bright Side.”

  We hang up after that. I guess I can’t say goodbye to him anymore either.

  Sunday, December 11

  (Keller)

  We’ve been drinking coffee all night while we’re studying for finals. Katie looks exhausted, but she’s a trooper.

  “Keller?”

  “Yeah, babe?”

  “Can we take a bre
ak for a few minutes?”

  That question brings to mind so many things I’d rather be doing right this moment.

  Namely Katie.

  I set my book down on the floor next to the loveseat and stand up, offering her my hand.

  She looks at it questioningly and raises her eyebrows.

  I offer it again. “Dance with me, pretty lady.”

  The smile I love touches her lips. It’s the smile that opens up and pulls you inside. It lulls you into her world. It’s my favorite place to be. She takes my hand and stands slowly. “Are you serious?”

  I pull my phone out of my pocket and thumb through my music. After selecting “Pictures of You” by The Cure, I turn up the volume, set the phone on the coffee table, and lead her by the hand to the open space behind the loveseat. “I never joke about romance.”

  Katie glances to the floor before fixing me with those incredible eyes of hers and I know what she’s about to say means a lot to her. She has this way of telling half the story with her eyes before she even opens her mouth. “I’ve never slow danced before.”

  I wrap my left arm around her back, pulling her to me while taking her right hand in mine and resting them against my chest. “You love to dance. What do you mean you’ve never slow danced?”

  “I’ve danced with guys,” she says, nuzzling her cheek against my chest and kissing the back of my hand, “But never a proper slow dance. This is old school. It’s nice.”

  It is nice. The song is melancholy, emotional, but that’s what makes it absolutely beautiful. And it’s almost eight minutes long. Every slow dance should last at least eight minutes. We sway and melt into each other. I could hold her like this all night long. As the song finishes, she pulls back slightly and looks up at me.

  I know that look.

  I love that look.

  It is so on.

  Her fingers are already curled around the hem of my T-shirt. I lean down and kiss her lips. “Are we still taking a break?”

  She nods and pulls at the drawstring on my sweatpants. “Mmm hmm.”

  I pull my shirt over my head and step out of my pants. I lean down, touching her thigh and running my hand up her bare leg until it disappears beneath her pajama shorts. “What did you have in mind?”