Over You

by Cole, Stevie J.

  Because I still loved her.

  Because I knew how good we could be together.

  Because one day I’d be better. . .

  I threw down the pen, stood, and got dressed, swearing under my breath for hopping out of the limo with nothing but the clothes on my back. Ah! And my drugs. But when I shoved my fingers into my pocket, they came back empty. I dropped to my hands and knees and looked under Georgia’s bed, under the bedside table. Nothing aside from my half-dead phone. It must have fallen out when I was stumbling around outside. I punched the mattress, then glanced down at my cell and noticed the eighty-seven missed texts messages and calls.

  Ricky: #fuckthelabel???

  Ricky: #suckmyass!?!?!?!?!?

  Ricky: Where are you!

  Ricky: You better be in Glastonbury by tomorrow. If you miss that show, it’s your ass.

  Nash: Dude!

  Nash: Where the hell are you?

  Nash: Seriously. Not funny. We can’t do the show without you.

  Leo: I hope you find the peace to get clean one day.

  Even though that self-righteous comment grated my nerves, sober me felt like a dickhead for choking one of my best friends. My Buddhist, everything is Zen, don’t kill bugs because they’re living creatures, best friend at that.

  I had a show.

  The right thing to do would be to catch a ride to Glastonbury, suck it up and apologize, and not let my fans down. I opened the last text from Nash and typed out: I’ll be there. My finger hovered over the blue send arrow. That worn-out Jiminy Cricket voice that tried to keep my ass out of trouble whistled, and I glanced around the room.

  While most of last night was foggy, the way Georgia looked at me in that pub stuck out like a gangrened thumb. Her eyes were a little sad. A little hopeful. She’d given me those same eyes when I had climbed onto her roof that first night, when I had left for our debut tour, and the last time I had told her I was sorry, then fucked her on the counter. There was still something there. Any idiot knows love doesn’t just go away. It morphs maybe, possibly even into hate, but a person can only hate someone they loved. And the way I saw it, hate was the heart’s defense mechanism.

  Not a day had gone by that I hadn’t thought about her. Missed her. I would be a fool if I just walked away, willingly surrendering the one thing that made life worth living.

  Screw the label. Screw the guys. The fans would get over it. Dropping my chin, I rubbed at the tattoo of Rapunzel’s tower on my forearm. After all, Flynn Ryder ignored his pack of thieves for Rapunzel, right?

  This was more important than any record contract would ever be. I would give up every penny, every ounce of fame if I could have a do-over. I knew Georgia Anne and I were meant to be together, but the shitty thing about life: Do-overs didn’t exist.

  This philosophical bullshit was why I hated being sober. Everything was too clear when my mind wasn’t muddied. At the very least, I needed to have a serious talk with her. Forgiveness. Resolution. Closure. Something.

  Anxiety buzzed through my chest like a swarm of bees when I made my way to the steps. My nerves had never been wound so tight—not even at Midnite Kills’s first, sold-out show. By the time I had moved into the living room, a cold sweat dotted my forehead. Pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. I had no idea what I was going to say. It wasn’t as simple as, “I’m sorry.” Definitely not as easy as “Come back home.” She had thought her leaving would drive me to sobriety, and I wished it had.

  Maybe I could get away with an: I love you. I’m sorry. I’ll do better. God, I was selfish.

  When I rounded the corner, it was Lottie, not Georgia, standing at the stove with a teapot in hand. What the hell was she wearing? Polka-dot tights and black jean overalls. Dear God, Georgia, are you living with Boy George’s cousin?

  “Hey. Where’s Georgia?”

  She jumped and spun around with a hand over her heart. “Bloody hell. You’re like a stealth ninja. And Georgia’s in class.”

  I rubbed at my throat. I was stuck in the same rut, digging the hole deeper and deeper, and she’d literally started a new life. “So, she’s in college?”

  “Yeah. Uni.” Her gaze narrowed. “This is mental. I’m standing in my kitchen, talking to Spencer Hailstorm. Who happens to be my best friend’s. . .” She choked back her next words by faking a cough. “Not to make you feel weird or anything, but it’s making me feel kind of weird, so, you know.”

  I thumbed over my shoulder. “I can go if you—”

  “Oh no. No, I didn’t mean for you to. . .” She lifted the teakettle with steam billowing from the spout. “Want some tea?”

  “Nah. I’m good.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. I didn’t drink tea; Georgia was right. “What’s she studying?”

  “Creative writing.”

  Georgia had hated writing assignments in school. She had moved in with me halfway through her senior year, and she was failing English and math. I’d had to withhold sex on several occasions to force her to finish term papers. She moaned about how tedious writing was and now. . . How was it possible that within the course of a year I no longer knew her? One year should not trump five.

  Lottie poured water from the kettle into a thermos, then grabbed a tea bag, dunking it on her way across the kitchen. “Does that shock you?”

  “A little.”

  A soft grin shaped her lips like she was privy to some secret I wasn’t. “They’ve dubbed you the Houdini of Punk Rock. Runaway Rock Star.” She took a backpack from the kitchen table and shouldered it.

  “I’ve been called way worse.” I traced my finger over the edge of the table. “What time does Georgia usually get back?”

  “Around three.” She pulled her hair free from the book bag strap. “I’m about to head out to Glastonbury, you know, the festival you’re supposed to play at. And while I feel I should tell you that you’re about to let down a lot of fans, it seems there are some pretty important things you need to tie up here.”

  She snagged keys from a hook. Sunlight spilled into the tiny kitchen when she yanked the door open and hesitated at the threshold. “She may not have told me who you were, but she talked about you. A lot. More than I’d ever talk about a guy I didn’t still love. And I want to believe that if you love her as much as she loves you, you can find a way to fix it. Or at the least, show her that you’re trying.”

  Before I could respond, she was out the door, and I was alone with my sober thoughts.

  After an hour alone in Georgia’s house, I got antsy.

  It was closing in on twenty-four hours since I’d been high, and my mood was swinging in a bad direction. My stomach growled. I went to the fridge and found nothing but yogurt and vegetables. Boxes of rice and fig bars filled the pantry, and I was craving a bag of Cheeto’s, some Whoppers, and a Red Bull.

  I let myself out through the back door and rounded the townhomes, then crossed over to the market I’d bought liquor from the night before. The acne-riddled teen behind the register peeked over his book when I walked in. I froze, waiting on him to ask for an autograph, but he barely gave me a second glance before going back to reading.

  I grabbed a drink and then made my way down the snack aisle. I didn’t recognize a single thing. Walker’s. Wotsits. Maltesers—those looked like Whoppers.

  My phone dinged with Nash’s text alert.

  Nash: Jimmy Rage is going to step in and do the gig. He sucks two crab-infested left nuts.

  They were going to let Jimmy Rage sing my motherfucking songs? Heat bled over my face and down my neck. I squeezed my phone until the protective film bubbled and bowed. I had a good mind to text Ricky and. . . Fuck. What did it matter? Me: MIDDLE FINGER EMO

  Nash: For real though. Ditching the show aside. How are you going to leave your wingman like this?

  Nash: If it’s because you’ve gone off like a rogue shark so you can attack all the pussy swimming in the waters, I’ll forgive you. And your welcome for the condoms.

  Me: It’s you’re. And condoms?


  Nash: Check your wallet, dildo.

  A white-haired lady wearing a housecoat and a red Fedora brushed past me in the grocery aisle. I pulled my wallet from my back pocket. A string of dick sleeves sat behind my stack of bills.

  Me: Stop worrying about my sex life.

  Nash: I don’t want you to suffer spontaneous jizz combustion.

  I rolled my eyes and grabbed a bag of Wotsits, the closest thing to Cheeto’s, and then crammed my phone into the pocket of my snug jeans on my way to the cashier. I dropped everything onto the counter.

  The guy at the front huffed like I was putting him out. He placed the book on the counter. Fifty Shades of Grey.

  “I hear the guy in there put a piece of ginger root in someone’s ass?” I chuckled.

  He gave me a brow before punching the keys on the old register. “Ten pounds.”

  I placed a wad of crumpled cash in his waiting palm, took the bag, and then left the shop. With the exception of a man in a tweed jacket walking a schnauzer, the sidewalk was empty. The rustle of the wind through the trees and the intermittent chirp of a bird were the only sounds. I’d grown up in California. The only places I’d traveled—outside of tours where I never set foot off of a bus, a hotel, or an arena—were the big cities to party. I’d never experienced anything like this. Maybe that was why Georgia had chosen to settle down here. She needed a little quiet.

  I leaned against the building and tore into the bag of knock-off Cheetos and then popped the tab on the energy drink. Just as I licked the orange dust off my fingers, a scooter zoomed around the corner. The guy on the Vespa glanced in my direction, then slammed on his brakes, and turned the bike around. Here we go. . . I balled the foil bag in my fist and tossed it in the garbage can by the road followed by the empty can.

  The kickstand hit the pavement, and he shuffled toward me with a goofy grin. “Mate. You’re the singer to Midnite Kills.”

  Like I didn’t know who I was. Jesus. People. “Yep.”

  “Ah, this is brill! Can I. . .” He patted over his vest.

  I highly doubted he had a Sharpie in there. Lucky for him, I always had a pen on me—and gum. I dug out the pen, held it up, and shook it by my head like a dangling carrot.

  “Thanks.” He took the ballpoint.

  I tried to keep confusion from wrinkling my brow when he handed it right back to me.

  “Can I get your autograph?” He rolled his sleeve to his elbow and held out his arm.

  “On your arm?”

  “Yeah.”

  I scribble my name over his skin, then shoved the pen back inside my pocket.

  “Ah, thanks, mate. You’re a legend.” His eyes remained locked on my autograph as he walked toward his scooter. “I’ll get David to ink over this.”

  “Hey, uh.” I couldn’t believe I was about to ask this stranger if he knew where I could get any blow. Dude definitely wasn’t a cop, and he was a fan which meant, chances were, he wouldn’t be shocked. It was public knowledge I had a bit of a problem. “Do you know where I could find a little. . .” I clucked my tongue.

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Actually.” He thumbed under his nose before pointing down the street. “If you go over to the cathedral.” The cathedral? “Go into the confessional and—”

  “Nah, man. I don’t think you understand.”

  A sleazy smirk curled his lips. “Trust me, mate. Go into the confessional and tell Father Kingsley you sinned. Make sure you use the word grievous sin. That’s the signal that you want some blow. When he asks you how many Hail Mary’s will rite your soul or whatnot, tell him the number of grams.”

  I felt every muscle in my face go lax. This dude was serious. I thought the Latter-day Saints that delivered to your door where messed up, but a drug dealing priest? Talk about issues. “Thanks, man.”

  He waved before swinging his leg over the seat of his scooter. The engine whined when he cranked it.

  While he puttered around the corner, I headed to the church. I strolled past a clothing boutique, a café, and a candy shop that would give Willy Wonka a hard-on. I wove down the cobblestone streets, underneath a little Union Jack wavering in the breeze, and I eventually stood in front of a gothic, stone cathedral, complete with a clock and bell tower. The Brothers Grimm must have thrown up this city.

  Tourists stood on the lawn, snapping janky-angled photos. Kids cartwheeled across the grass. Was I seriously about to go into a church and place an order like it was a narcotic drive-thru?

  My feet moved along the sidewalk in answer to my question.

  The warmth of the sun disappeared when I stepped into the shadow of the mammoth structure. Incense wafted through the arched doors where a volunteer smiled and passed out pamphlets.

  A maze of flying buttresses crisscrossed the rounded ceiling. Daylight poured through rows of windows that flanked each side of the sanctuary. Women stood, whispering prayers in front of a statue of the Virgin Mary while they lit candles. But what really got me to stop and stare was the gigantic, round, stained-glass window over the altar. The sun caught in the panes, casting a kaleidoscope of color across the worn stone floor. A place like this made it hard not to stand in awe. This—this gave a person a sense of the supernatural. The all-powerful. Of something greater than human comprehension. I found myself stumbling around with my gaze aimed at the colorful window while tourist brushed past.

  I’d set foot in a church exactly twice in my life. Once when I was ten and afraid I was on my way to hell for dying my fourth set of foster parents’ poodle blue. The second time was for Bennington, the son we’d lost. Georgia was hell-bent on a church funeral, one that no one outside of Nash, Leo, and I were allowed to attend. The media had no idea we were expecting, and we didn’t need the stress of them finding out and running our misery into the ground. She was twenty weeks along when she went into labor, and I was at a show in Sydney. I left in the middle of the concert and boarded the fourteen-hour flight.

  She had dealt with that alone.

  And I would never forgive myself. My vision blurred, and I swatted the damning tears from my eyes.

  A cold, bony hand touched my arm. “Can I help you, son?”

  I turned toward the man beside me “Oh. Um, Father Kingsley?” I needed those thoughts to be buried under a mountain of bliss-inducing snow. “I have sins.”

  His thin lips curved in a sympathetic smile. “The confessional’s around the corner.”

  I nodded a thank you and took off. My footfalls reverberated into the tall ceilings, like a tattle-tale to God as I booked it toward the confessional. I tried to convince myself the reason it felt like some omniscient power was watching me was thanks to my being on the brink of withdrawal psychosis. . . I ducked into the wooden box, then flung the blood-red curtain closed. A shadow shifted behind the brass lattice divider.

  “Um, I’ve never done this.”

  “It’s alright my child. God is understanding.”

  I wet my lips with my tongue and swiped the sheen of sweat from my brow. “Grievous sins.”

  A low chuckle tinged by the scent of cinnamon floated through the divider. “Confess your grievous sins. God’s listening.”

  The kink in my stomach almost made me bolt right out of that booth, but my demon tugged at my sleeve, begging me to feed him. “So, forgive me for my sins and shi—” I swallowed the profanity down. “And stuff. I think I need to do some Hail Mary’s.”

  “And how many Hail Mary’s will rite your soul?”

  “One. Or Two. Maybe three.”

  “Three?”

  “Yeah, let’s go with three.”

  “Place your offering of five hundred pounds in the hymnal of the third pew on the right. Come back in an hour and take the prayer cushion.”

  I gripped the velvet curtain, slipped out, and made my payment.

  14

  Georgia

  Professor Humphrey paced the front of the lecture hall with his hands clasped behind his back. His protruding gut led the way. Right. Left. Right
.

  He stopped at the side of the wooden podium and lifted a clenched fist. “Sin. Redemption. Damnation.” Then he paced again. “Marlow’s work suggests that hell is not a place. Instead, it is a state of being.” His gazed honed in on Tom who sat slouched in the seat beside me. “Mr. Perry, you look as though you may be in hell this very moment. Rough night at the pub, aye?”

  Most of the student’s attention shifted to Tom.

  He dragged a hand through his coffee-brown hair. “I was busy selling my bloody soul to the devil.”

  The class chuckled. A handful of the girls swooned. I thought the statement may be true, thanks to his encounter with Kirby the night before.

  Professor Humphrey cleared his throat before continuing with the lecture, but I couldn’t focus. My mind kept drifting back to Spencer. With each thought, my stomach knotted. I may have gone on with my life, but only because I had no choice. Only because I refused to be weak or to be an enabler. I had to treat loving Spencer like my own addiction, which was why I had moved five thousand miles away. I had removed myself from the temptation.

  Did I make the right choice, though?

  That question had cycled through my head several times a day over the past year. When I couldn’t sleep, I’d think about what we’d had, how good it was before. Even with him using, there were still more good times than bad until the very end. The good memories were the ones that haunted me, and that’s when I had to remind myself of what that addiction did to me.

  Living with an addict made me feel like an addict.

  While he obsessed over his next high, I obsessed over him.

  When Spencer had promised, time and time again that he’d be sober tomorrow, I’d promised I’d leave if he wasn’t.

  By the end of it, I’d lost weight from the stress of everything. I rarely slept. I looked more like an addict than him. While he was the one using, he at least found peace in that evil dust. And my solace had been taken away by drugs.

  My life had been ruined by a drug I’d never used.