by Kim Holden
Sunday, July 23
(Gus)
It’s the middle of the afternoon and I’m fucking restless. The water’s too crowded to surf. There’s nothing on TV. Ma’s at a baby shower this afternoon. The deck is too quiet. I sat out there for the past couple of hours, drank, and smoked a pack of cigarettes. Now, I’m antsy. I can’t sit still. I can’t turn my goddamn mind off.
I don’t want to be outside.
I don’t want to be inside.
I’m at the point where I just … don’t. I know that doesn’t make any fucking sense, but it’s how I feel. I don’t.
When I go back in my room for another pack of smokes I can hear Impatient’s voice. I ignore it at first, but I realize that it sounds like she’s in pain. I rush to her bedroom and her door’s open, which is unusual. She’s lying on top of the covers in a pair of running shorts and a long-sleeved T-shirt. And she’s deep in sleep. Scary deep. Like if a meteorite fell from the sky and landed in the middle of the room it wouldn’t wake her. My first inclination is to nudge her awake because I think she’s in the middle of a nightmare, but the longer I stand and watch her, the more confusing the whole scene is. She keeps saying, “Michael,” over and over again. Every time she says it, her face somehow morphs from pain to pleasure, from heart-wrenching sadness to ecstasy. Then she begins to moan. She’s still in deep REM sleep and I know I’m in a fucked up state of mind and I’ve had more than my share to drink today, but … goddamn. This just turned erotic as fuck. And now the moaning is mixed with, “Michael,” again. Her voice is almost breathless now.
I should not be here. There’s no doubt that she’s mentally having some mind-blowing sex right now. I feel like a voyeur. Not only is my drunk mind getting turned on, but my drunk body is two steps ahead of it. I'm beyond aroused.
That’s my cue to leave. But just as I step away from her doorway, across the hall, and back into mine, the depth and volume of her voice increases. Every negative emotion has left her and all that remains is the satisfying of pure need. Carnal need. There’s room for nothing else, and it’s somehow invaded me. The need.
I’m inside my room now. Door open. Eyes closed. Hand inside my shorts. Stroking.
Fucking stroking.
Holy shit.
This is fucked up.
I need to take a cold shower.
And forget this ever happened.
Monday, July 31
(Gus)
Ma and I had a long talk last night. She’s concerned about me. My life. My health. My emotional state. My work. My future.
She made an appointment for me to have a physical with our family doctor. I’m in the waiting room now. I hate doctors' offices. They remind me of Bright Side. Bright Side at the end.
Dr. Donnelly was direct and to the point and covered all the basics: eat better, quit smoking, curb my drinking. I’m good otherwise. She likes that I’m surfing or running almost daily.
I didn’t share any of the emotional shit.
I’ll deal with that myself.
I’ll heal myself.
Someday.
Sunday, August 6
(Gus)
Ma’s out of town for the weekend. She drove up the coast to cut loose in San Francisco. It’s good for Ma, she works hard and deserves the break. She always comes home a little lighter in the stress department when she’s had a weekend away.
The house is quiet. I know I should be writing, but this block is still weighing on me. If you want to know the truth, it’s bearing down full-force now. It’s all I can think about—the fact that I can’t think. Creatively, I’m at a standstill—completely mind-fucked. It was irritating at first. But, after a month, and with mounting pressure from everyone involved with the band—agents, managers, producers, the record label, etc. fucking etc.—it feels like a prison sentence. Music fills me with anxiety. It used to just fill me. I guess that’s the difference money, contracts, and deadlines make. It’s utter shit.
So I’m drinking.
A lot.
By Monday morning I’ll wonder if Saturday and Sunday even happened, or if the entire time lapse was a hallucination—that’s how much I intend to drink.
After a quick trip to the liquor store to buy Jack and cigarettes, I park myself in the lounge chair on the deck.
An hour later, I’m halfway through the first bottle and in need of a bathroom break. On my way back outside, I find Impatient in the living room.
She’s wearing a scowl and it’s aimed at the bull’s-eye that seems to be me.
I’m in no mood for her shit today. We’re usually civil, not friendly necessarily, but civil. But not today. I’m anxious and pissy, and unfortunately it looks like I’m about to take that out on her. “You know what your problem is?” I snarl. “You just need to get laid.” Minus the alcohol I wouldn’t say that to her, but my filter is suspended at the moment.
She physically sways like I slapped her. “What?”
I’m buzzing enough that this has just reached an entertaining level and I intend to continue. “Fucked,” I say it slowly, enunciating the word and pointing at her. “You. You’re wound way too tight. You need to go get laid. The situation is dire, dude.” And now I’m thinking about her dreaming a couple of weeks ago and exactly what she sounds like when she’s getting physical.
She huffs. She’s not amused, and I wouldn’t expect her to be. Honestly, that's the reason I’m pushing this. “Not everything is about sex,” she says.
I nod. It’s been so long since I’ve slept with anyone, she may actually be on to something, but then I remember I’ve been pissed all day and I dive back into my aggression. “Only a fucking virgin would say something like that. Is that what’s going on? No wonder you’re so goddamn frigid.” I don’t know why I’m talking to her like this, but I am. And I can’t stop. I hate it. After knowing her for a few months, I know she’s more shy than anything else. Introversion is her coping mechanism. And after listening to that dream, I know there’s no goddamn way she’s a virgin.
Her face is blazing now. She’s angry, like pick-up-the-lamp-and-throw-it-across-the-room angry. “Fuck you, Gustov. You don’t know anything about me.”
Shit. She’s never cussed me out before. Now I’m looking at her bare legs and my thoughts are getting scrambled and I can’t focus on anything else except the fact that we’re arguing with each other about sex. My anger is morphing quickly. “Name the last time. I want to hear it.” I want details too, because apparently I’m a sick bastard.
She’s glaring. Those hazel eyes are boring a hole through my forehead.
I know I should just let it go, but this is the most we’ve talked in weeks and even though we’re fighting, I don’t want to stop. On some weird, irrational level, I need this. So, I push. “When?”
Her eyes drop, and so does her shield. It’s only a few moments but there’s regret or vulnerability, something I didn’t expect. “New Year’s Eve,” she whispers. And then just as quickly, the shield goes back up and her eyes meet mine. She’s staring and she’s biting the inside of her cheek. Then her eyelids start blinking double time and they’re getting glassy. The shield slips again. “He’s an asshole.”
“Boyfriend?” I question. My heart’s beating a million miles a minute. I hate seeing anyone hurt and even though I was pushing her hard, now that she’s crumbling I feel like hell. My emotions are on a fucking roller coaster, up one second, down the next. Alcohol doesn’t help. I really need to stop drinking.
A single tear slips down her cheek and she quickly wipes it away with the back of her hand and fixes her angry eyes on me again. The laugh that escapes is contempt. “You’re all the same, right? It is all about sex, like you said earlier. Maybe that’s why you’ve never been in love.”
That one simple sentence sets off a firestorm inside me. Bright Side’s face flickers in front of me. Smiling. Light green eyes sparkling with mischief. She’s been gone for months and I’m still fucking in love with her. It’s my turn. I spit her own w
ords back at her. “Fuck you. You don’t know anything about me.”
The attack doesn’t faze her. She shakes her head. She’s brushing me off again. “Oh, I know you. I watched you hook up with a different woman every night during the first half of the tour. That’s not love.”
I step toward her. I’m so close I can see the mossy green ring that wraps around each of her pupils. “Maybe I’m not looking for love.” I eye her up and down. Damn, those long legs. They’re distracting me again. And I’m suddenly ten shades of turned on.
She raises her chin defiantly and locks eyes with me. She rarely makes eye contact. “Obviously.” It’s sarcastic and scornful, but the emotion she’s showing is real. She's let her guard down completely now. She's vulnerable, but strong at the same time. It’s almost like when she’s pushed, her strength rears its head.
“Obviously,” I echo. My eyes have drifted to her mouth. Her lips are full and pursed into that pissy pout of hers.
She shifts her weight and the result is a determined challenge. She’s not backing down from me. We’re almost chest-to-chest and my fucking groin is aching. I don’t know quite when this showdown transitioned from anger to lust. I suppose they’re on the same spectrum—it all boils down to passion.
I glance back up to her eyes and they’re zeroed in on my mouth, pupils dilated. Her breathing increases and her cheeks flush. I know this look. I’ve seen it a hundred times. I can feel the sexual tension radiating off of her body in waves.
Usually in this situation I’m thinking about sex, just sex; an act to satisfy a need. But looking at her right now, so open and vulnerable, all I want to do is kiss her.
I tip my head down until my forehead is resting against hers. She doesn't pull away, but tilts her face slightly to the right. She’s trying to hide, even though our foreheads are still touching.
“Hey,” I coax softly. My emotions have done a three-sixty from antagonistic, to sexual, to protective. It’s the fucking roller coaster.
She flinches and turns her head even more making eye contact impossible.
With my forehead still resting against her left temple, I realize that I need to walk away before this gets carried away. If I kiss her I won’t want to stop, and the look in her eyes a few seconds ago tells me she wouldn’t stop me. “You were too good for him,” I say. “And you should be looking for love, which is why I need to go back outside. You’re too good for me, too.” She is. She’s smart and goal-oriented, she works hard, she takes care of herself, and she’s beautiful. Most of all, she’s fragile. I don’t want to be just another ass who breaks her. I kiss her temple as tenderly as I can. It’s an apology. “Sorry for everything I said earlier,” I say quietly, and I turn to walk away, back to my bottle of Jack.
(Scout)
Holy.
Shit.
My heart is beating so hard and so fast I have some genuine concern that it may explode. I don’t know where that came from. The argument. My admission. The attraction. It all came out of nowhere and even though Gustov’s gone back outside, I’m still reeling. I can still feel the heat of his body against mine. I can still see the passion in his eyes. I can still feel the need tingling through me. The heat spreading. I’ve never experienced anything like that before. It was undeniable and irrational lust.
I need to go for a run and clear my head.
Friday, August 11
(Gus)
There’s a sticky note on my door when I wake up. Marathon is tomorrow. Audrey and I are leaving at 7:00AM if you want to come.
That’s an unexpected invitation. I know it must have taken a lot for her to write that note, especially after our encounter last weekend.
And if she’s willing to invite me, I guess I’m willing to accept.
Besides, I need to get out of the house.
Saturday, August 12
(Scout)
I ran my first marathon today. I wasn’t fast, but I feel a sense of accomplishment that I don’t think I’ve ever felt before. I pushed myself preparing for it. Running started as a nothing more than a way to cope with everything this past spring. It was an escape, a distraction, a way to block out life. But it turned into a way to prove a point to myself that I was strong.
I am strong. Physically, I’m strong.
Mentally, well, that’s another story.
But today during the race, every time I was struggling and I felt like I was ready to give up, Audrey and Gustov would pop up along the route and cheer me on. No one’s ever cheered me on like that. So enthusiastically. Not for anything. It was the encouragement I needed for the mental part of this game to keep up with the physical game.
I don’t know if I’ll ever run another marathon. I feel like I’ve gained so much perspective today. I’ll never stop running, but this goal has been conquered. Now I can continue running, for me. Just for me. Because it reminds me that I’m strong. In every way, I’m strong and getting stronger.
I thanked Audrey before heading to bed.
I tried to thank Gustov, but his bedroom door was shut. I know he was inside because I could hear music playing—the blues, something bone deep sad and emotional. I didn’t want to knock, so I left a sticky note instead. Thanks for coming today. I don’t think I would’ve finished without you guys. I feel like a barrier is slowly lifting between us. Even when our interaction isn’t so positive, there’s always something to gain as far as insight into how he ticks. There’s a struggle deep within both of us, but after today, everything feels a little lighter. I saw him grin more today than I’ve ever seen. It's a small step, but it was real.
Saturday, August 19
(Gus)
The doorbell is ringing. It’s been ringing for a couple of minutes. Jesus, can no one else in this house answer the door? I’m tired and I’m hungover. I don’t want to get out of bed. I shoot a peek at the clock on my nightstand. Nine-fifty. Guess I should get up. The doorbell rings again, as if to second the motion.
After I put on some shorts, I head for the front door. The shades are drawn and the whole house is dark. Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes with the heel of my hand, I open the door. I’m met with blinding sunlight and it’s way too damn bright for my current state. I squint my eyes and hold my hand up to shield my eyes from the glare that’s taunting my receding state of drunkenness. I blink my eyes, adjusting to the brightness, and realize that whoever is standing before me hasn't said a word. I slowly draw my hand away from my face to reveal a man standing before me. I squint again to take him in. He’s manicured and styled in that I’m-a-douchebag-rich-fuck kind of way: expensive suit, matching tie, shiny shoes, perfect hair, and glistening white teeth straight out of a toothpaste commercial. He still hasn't spoken a word, but his ego precedes him. He projects it out in front of him like a warning. Or an accolade. I’m tempted to shut the door in his face. Instead, I talk to him. “What can I do you for, buddy?” I ask, laying on the sarcasm. Truth be told, I couldn’t care less who he is.
He clears his throat and the self-important voice that always accompanies a cocky douchebag answers. “I’m looking for Scout MacKenzie.”
I eye him hard. I don’t know who he is, but I’m not getting a good vibe from him. “What do you want with her?”
He smirks and if it’s possible I dislike him even more for his bold, pretentious manner. “Scout and I are old friends. I was in town and wanted to say hi.”
For two seconds I consider shutting the door on him again, but then I question him instead. “She know you’re stopping by?”
He shakes his head and the smirk slips before it’s replaced by a wolfish grin. “No. I thought I would surprise her.”
I don’t like this guy and for some reason I don’t want him looking for Impatient. I don’t want her to want him looking for her. I need to go back to bed and start this day over. I sigh. “Hold on. I don’t know if she’s home. Lemme go check,” I shut the door on him and finish my sentence. “Dick.”
Just then Impatient walks into the room. She’s
dressed for her morning run. I motion over my shoulder. “Door’s for you.”
Her eyebrows knit together. “For me?”
I nod and sidestep her so she can answer the door this time and I can remove myself from the situation. But I don’t leave the room. I know I should give her privacy, but with the alarms this guy’s already set off, I’m not leaving her alone with him. I stand out of sight, but within earshot.
When she opens the door she gasps. It’s not fear. It’s shock. “Michael?”
Fucking Michael. Ex-boyfriend-call-out-his-name-when-she's-on-the-verge-of-an-orgasm fucking Michael.
“Hi, angel.” His salutation is smarmy and way too smooth, like it's been rehearsed. She isn’t buying this, is she?
“Hi.” She doesn’t return his enthusiasm.
One point to Scout. Zero points to fucking Michael.
“How’d you find me?”
I instinctively take one step closer. I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
“I talked to Jane. She gave me your new address. I needed to see you again. I’ve missed you, angel.” He’s laying it on thick. I can’t see his face to know what kind of a show he’s putting on for her, but I can hear the insincerity in his voice. He knows exactly what to say to her, but he’s forgotten the part where he should actually mean it.
I can’t see Impatient either, I’m behind the door, but I can feel the tug of war going on inside her. She’s not scared, but she’s apprehensive. “Michael.” Her voice caresses his name hesitantly. Like she’s said it, exactly like that, a thousand times before. “I think you need to leave.” Her words say one thing while her voice says something else altogether.
