Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

"Sure. Just remember when you're doling out all of your forgiveness and understanding to save some for me."

  "Let's go." I'm surprised to feel Heath's lips settle against my mine briefly, arms reaching around to squeeze me tight, before turning toward the door. Mark and I exchange uncertain stares, as if not knowing what the appropriate course of action is, until finally, he leans in and drops a kiss on my cheek.

  Squeezing my arm quickly, he says, "I've missed you." I want to respond as he shrugs back into his coat and digs his car keys from his pocket. Instead, I just stay as he follows Heath without a backward glance.

  Sadly, I wonder if I poke the embers a bit, whether I can revive any of the fire. How much dead ash do we have to remove before the flame smothers and burns out?

  * * *

  He looks so pale. Messy dark hair splotches the white pillows, punctuated by the dark smudges under his eyes, a testament to the sleepless nights that brought us here. Dark green and purple bruises stain the pale skin of his inner arm around the IV as I stroke his hand gently, watching it twitch in his sleep before tightening around my own.

  Simon's lashes slit open slightly, cloudy with confusion before meeting mine. A slight spark of recognition registers momentarily until, with a small smile, he sinks deeper into sleep, his hand in mine.

  "What's in the IV?" I ask the nurse while I continue to watch Simon's chest rise and fall gently.

  "Mostly just potassium and saline. We need to get him hydrated, and we've given him a mild sedative. Better we put him into a controlled sleep than have him tinkering with his own concoctions. I really think it was an accident, since his alcohol levels weren't that high. He just created a bad mix. People think natural remedies are innately benign, but anything can go bad in the right combination. From the look of it, he needs some better nutrition and some fresh air. These creative types always like to burn the candle at both ends."

  I smile faintly and grip his hand tighter. Better to let her think that. I know Simon has the opposite issue, but that's something he and I are going to discuss. It's not good for him to be at loose ends. Someone like him needs to keep moving. This self-imposed timeout he's put himself in is proving dangerous to someone used to being on the road. Especially at the level he's created.

  Sliding a chair forward, I settle in to wait, my hand still linked with Simon's as I watch him sleep and heal. We may have averted this immediate crisis, but now, it's time we work on preventing future mishaps.

  The smell of antiseptic makes my nose twitch as I shift in the chair and try to make myself more comfortable, before drifting into my own uneasy sleep. Drowsily, I wonder if there's ever truly enough food to feed the soul.

  * * *

  "How are you feeling?"

  My eyes blink at the question, and my entire body protests at the cramping in my joints, which feel as stiff as a rusty lock. Trying to focus, I realize that the question wasn't directed at me. A nurse's hand locks tightly around Simon's wrist, checking his pulse as he grimaces.

  "Hey." Reaching over, my hand strokes gently across his cheek, watching his focus sharpen until his head shifts on the pillow toward me.

  "What happened?" he croaks from a dry throat, the words breaking slightly until he tries again. "Shit."

  "Seems like you've been mixing some bad combinations." A doctor pages through the chart, scribbling notes before setting it down to pin Simon with her stare.

  Jesus. When did doctors start looking like pro-ball cheerleaders? Even in a white coat with a stethoscope around her neck, she resembles a twenty-something, marathon-running, vegan, trophy wife. Licking my dry lips, I release the messy hair escaping from the stretchy band and smooth the snarls before tying my hair back again in a loose braid.

  Running my tongue across the fuzzy slippers that have made themselves at home over my teeth, I grimace slightly. Where's a toothbrush when you need one?

  "Were you trying to hurt yourself?" The doctor's question surprises me. I swiftly change my focus back to Simon and less on my own discomfort.

  Gripping his hand more tightly, I stare at him mutely before whispering the question.

  "Were you?"

  "No," Simon groans. "I was just trying to get some bloody sleep. Looks like I lost a few more brain cells in the process." His voice begins to strengthen, although still at a whisper. "Sorry, luv. I didn't mean to scare you. Honestly, I don't know what happened."

  "You were pretty dehydrated," the doctor says mildly, and I envy her calm, even though the pressure around my lungs has finally started to ease. "You also need to watch your water intake. The drugs probably wouldn't have been as concentrated in your system if you were flushing more regularly."

  "I think the lack of sleep has been making me delirious," Simon says sheepishly.

  "I wouldn't be surprised. Lack of sleep can cause a whole host of problems—lack of focus, lack of judgement, depression. Are you depressed, Simon?" The doctor asks the question casually, while my emotions teeter, waiting for his answer.

  "No more than usual. I was taking some stuff for a while, but I stopped a couple weeks ago. I didn't like the way it was making me feel."

  "Taking what? Antidepressants?" the doctor probes.

  "Yeah, but I'm not a pill popper. They were making me too fuzzy."

  The nurse finally plops a cup of water on a tray in front of Simon with a straw. Reaching for the cup, I drop it to a comfortable level and watch as Simon takes a long sip, clearing his throat in relief. His hands cup my own before pulling the cup away and squeezing my hand gratefully.

  "How long were you taking them?"

  "A couple months."

  "When did you start weaning off them?"

  "I didn't. I just chucked them. That's when I started having problems not being able to sleep, but it was better than feeling so up and down."

  "Simon, it's very dangerous to just stop taking medication. I'm not surprised you ended up here. These things need to be monitored and done gradually, but now that you've done it, I see little point in adding them back into your system. I would like to prescribe some mild sedatives to help you sleep, but only if you need them. Good food and fresh air will usually do more for situational depression than anything else. If it's more than that, I can give you a few referrals to some local therapists."

  "Nah, I'm good, Doc. I don't—"

  "We'll be happy to take the referrals, thank you." Squeezing Simon's hand, I finally find my voice. "I'm going to make sure that he starts taking much better care of himself."

  "But—"

  "Agree now, or I'm making them admit you, Simon. Either you let me help you, or I'll make sure you're forced to accept their help." My tone is uncompromising, as is the pressure of my hand in his.

  "Fine."

  "Good." The doctor scribbles more notes, handing the chart off to the nurse. "I've signed your discharge papers and added a prescription for a mild sleeping aid. I've also added a script for a follow up visit to the clinic in five days. I want another run of your blood work there. Let's make sure all traces of the various meds are out of your system. Refrain from alcohol until your follow up."

  Reaching across the bed, the doctor shakes Simon's hand briefly.

  "Good luck to you." Turning my way, she adds, "Make sure he takes care of himself." As she turns to leave, the doctor hesitates slightly, finally turning back.

  "Before you go, could I get an autograph?"

  Chapter 42

  Helplessly Hoping

  The slide of the key in my lock heralds a small yowl from the opposite side as Daisy sits like a statue, wide-eyed and inquisitive, as I push the door open.

  Mark helps Simon through the opening, an arm around his waist to steady him, before dropping the small bag of essentials he packed while at Simon's apartment.

  "Where do you want him?"

  Biting my lip, I realize I didn't plan this very well. "Let's put him in my bed for now until I clean off the bed in the guest room."

  Mark's grunt is the only acknowledg
ement, although the sardonic smile sent my way is proof that he's not pleased with my decision.

  "It's ok," Simon says, straightening. "I can get by on my own." The slight wobble in his step is proof that his bravado is only a front.

  "Simon, shut up and let Mark help you to the bed for now. You need to sleep, and it's obvious you're still jacked up on whatever drugs they were giving you. At least your color looks better."

  "Whatever you say, luv." His smile is still sickly. "I don't fancy falling on my face in front of you."

  Mark's arm tightens around Simon's back as he walks him down the hall, and Daisy meeps from the top of the sofa, tail swishing in agitation.

  "It's just for a few days," I assure her. "Just until we get him on his feet again." Unnerved by the accusing stare I continue, "Don't look at me like that. It's not like I brought Brutus, too."

  "What?" Mark asks as he emerges from the hall, eyes sweeping the room as if searching for someone. Or maybe he's trying to see me with new eyes, trying to figure out how everything went wrong. Taking a last look at the couch, where so many of our happy chapter breaks took place, I wonder if he's trying to hold on to the remnants of what we had.

  "I was talking to Daisy."

  "Of course you were. Because it's easier to talk to someone who can't talk back than have a rational discussion like an adult."

  "I believe our discussions have been completely rational for my part. You're the one who went rogue and started making decisions without me."

  "Damnit, Jos, when—"

  "I've got it from here," I cut him off abruptly. "I'm done with that discussion. Did you get Brutus settled?"

  The tightening of Mark's lips presages another argument, but he surprises me by shoving his hands in his pockets and just giving me a sharp nod.

  "Ok, well I'm sure we could all use some sleep right about now. It was a long night. Why don't you head home?"

  "Right. Far be it from me to interrupt your Florence Nightingale fantasy. I guess I need to be injured to get any sympathy around here."

  "No, Mark, you just need to be honest."

  "Uh huh. Maybe you need to refine your definition of honesty, because you made me believe you were more open-minded. Where did that woman go?"

  "That woman is still here," I declare icily. "It's not my fault that you didn't take the time to learn what mattered most to her."

  "Maybe she didn't give me the time," he replies heatedly.

  "Go home, Mark. This certainly isn't the time."

  "When will it be the time? We'll never clear the air if you keep refusing to talk about it! Or are you just going to replace me with Simon and move on?"

  "That's so beneath you!"

  "Is it? It's not like Cliff and I haven't seen it coming. You just can't stay away from Simon. Don't get me wrong, he's a good guy, but I'm not willing to fade away because you decided you found a new toy you like better. Not without being able to fight for my place."

  "Will you keep your voice down? The only fighting I'm doing is to keep Simon from hurting himself."

  "Wow. Keep lying to yourself, Josie, and see how that all turns out. You know what? I'm out of here."

  Spinning away, Mark brushes by Daisy who takes a swipe, snagging his sweater with a claw as we both stare in astonishment.

  "Put your claws away," he says gently, disentangling her paw. "I'm done."

  Daisy's disgruntled mewl makes me wonder if she wanted him to go, or if she was trying to make him stay. It seems that neither of us know what we want anymore.

  * * *

  Like many people, my guest room acts as a hybrid catchall of plans and ideas that never quite came together. My original desk hides in the corner from when I believed it should be an office. That lasted until I bought the oh so expensive beauty that is now sitting unused in my living room. Then I determined that I prefer to sit with my laptop on the couch.

  Staring at the brightly-painted aqua walls that I thought would stimulate my creativity, I contemplate repainting in a softer tone, something more conducive to sleep.

  A half-deflated exercise ball is wedged under the desk, and the elliptical machine is hidden by the laundry hanging from its arms as a de facto drying rack for delicates. Even the daybed with the intricate metal scrollwork is partially hidden by laundry waiting to be folded.

  My obsession with daybeds came from my love of historical novels where they were always mentioned, along with fainting couches. Really, it's somewhat remarkable that society used to be so prudish when they essentially had ladies entertaining guests from makeshift beds in every drawing room. Surely someone was taking advantage of the inherent opportunities presented. What I wouldn't give to have been privy to the gossip down in the servants' quarters. I bet there was some pretty salacious stories and conjecture belowstairs.

  My eyes assess the mess, and a shudder quivers through my body as weariness from my sleepless night signals total shutdown. My ability to deal with anything more complicated than where to lay my weary body can wait. I simply can't deal with the clutter right now. Maybe I'll just let Simon stay where he is for the time being and curl up on the couch for a nap.

  Shutting the door behind me, I shoot a quick text to Nate telling him I need a few days off and that I'll call later with details, before I slip silently into the bedroom to check on Simon.

  His long form starfishes across the bed, lying atop the duvet rather than under the covers. He took the time to remove his shoes, but he's still in the skull t-shirt—which is even more macabre under the present circumstances—and navy sweatpants. The drawstring has loosened and they hang low on his hips, leaving a pale slice of flesh visible across his toned stomach. The black t-shirt can't be comfortable, balled up under his back unevenly and twisted around his torso, as if he's shifted several times already.

  Reaching across the bed, I try to tug the edge of his t-shirt from under him to straighten the fabric around his chest. Closed eyes flutter to lift lazily to mine, a faint but sweet smile on his lips as he turns to me and lifts a hand in invitation.

  "At last," he murmurs.

  Perching on the very edge of the bed, I put my hand in his.

  "At last what?"

  "At last I found a way into your bed." His fingers caress the back of my hand before linking with mine.

  "Next time, let's try something a little less dramatic, shall we?" I caution. "I don't think my heart can bear any more surprises like this."

  "I'd like to see your heart, or any other part of you bare right now. Maybe you should take off your clothes so neither of us are surprised." The words are teasing, more a reflex I realize, which contrasts with his serious face. He doesn't even realize how quickly he slips that veneer on.

  "Simon." I resist the pull of his hand trying to bring me closer. "Has it escaped you that you just left the hospital?" The wetness leaking from my eyes triggers an answering sorrow in his own. "That's not something to joke about."

  "I'm sorry, luv. I didn't mean to scare you. I promise not to let it happen again."

  "Damn right, you won't! I will kick your ass from here to London if you don't start taking better care of yourself." I sniffle. "Now go to sleep. You need rest. When you wake up, I'll make you something to eat and we'll chat about what's bothering you. I'm a great listener."

  Except when it comes to Mark, my inner harlot whispers.

  Shut up!

  "You must be tired, too, luv. Why don't you climb in and keep me company?"

  "Because you need rest," I emphasize. "I don't trust you to take that seriously."

  The darkening of Simon's eyes are the first indication that he realizes how close he came to accidentally killing himself.

  "I take you seriously, luv. Never doubt that. We're two of a kind. We hide behind our happy smiles, when deep inside, we're just waiting for something to happen. Sometimes, we can't hold our breath any longer before we tap out." Rolling closer to me on the bed, Simon's irrepressible smile returns. "Although, I'm not complaining. All things
considered, it got me into your bed.” The smile fades just as quickly. "It's time for me to let go. What about you? Are you ready to let go for a while?"

  Finally swinging my legs onto the bed, I prop myself against the pillows as Simon scoots closer, laying his head across my chest. Stroking my fingers through his hair, I shut my eyes briefly, considering his question.

  "What did you let go of?"

  "Anger, mostly," he replies, settling in deeper. "I don't know if I ever realized how angry I was at my mates. We had a good thing going for a while until they fucked it up with the drugs and the women. We were supposed to be friends, but they took us all down in the end, and never once said they were sorry."

  "Why didn't you just go do your own thing?"

  "Don't you think I tried?" Simon's head shifts so his eyes meet mine, sparking in anger. "I got tainted with the same brush. No one cared that I wasn't the one dusting lines of coke in the green room or shagging underage girls. Not that I didn't have some fun along the way. I'm no saint," his eyes lower from mine, "but I never made my mum cry with my antics.

  "I wasn't the frontman. I was just the one hanging in the background, keeping schedules and sobering up my 'friends' so I could keep doing what I loved—writing music and playing to the audience. There's nothing better than hearing a crowd sing your words back to you." I wait as Simon falls silent, my hands moving from his hair to rub soft circles on his chest, over his heart.

  "Anyway, I couldn't believe it when they finally got their heads out of their arses and cleaned themselves up. I practically sold my soul to get us some new dates on the road, promising I'd get everyone there sober and in one piece. And then the crash happened…and everything just went to shit."

  The shaking of Simon's shoulders tears me apart as I sink down lower to pull him more firmly against me, my lips in his hair as wet tears soak through my t-shirt.

  "I never cried for him, you know? I was too fucking angry. He didn't deserve my tears." Simon's red-rimmed eyes meet mine again. "But he was my friend…"