by M. C. Frank
Silence descends between us, heavy and thick.
“Did you write this? Why would. . . ?” I look at my shoes and he sighs. “I don’t get it. What does it mean?” he asks in a changed tone. “Are you sick again?”
“No, no, I’m not,” I say quickly. “That’s not what this is. The thing is. . . ”
He’s looking at me with such intensity that I can’t look away. His whole body is tense, air coming out of his nostrils as if he’s out of breath. I can’t think when he’s staring at me this way, like there’s an entire universe hanging upon my answer.
“The thing is. . . ”
Gosh, what is the thing? What was I going to say? He didn’t get it from just that piece of paper, he didn’t understand, of course he didn’t. I’ve just written four lines on there. I’ll have to tell him. I’ll have to use actual words.
“I have this huge fear.” I swallow, trying to keep my voice steady. “Well, not fear exactly. . . it’s more than that. It’s this crippling, debilitating thought: what if it starts happening again?”
“Why—” his voice cracks and he has to stop. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
I stare at him; he’s shaking.
“I just wanted to leave you alone. After what I did to you. . . I couldn’t die on you again,” I whisper. “I couldn’t let you go through that a second time, don’t you understand?”
If anyone had told me two months ago that I would miss therapy, I’d have punched them in the face. Now, however, I’d give anything to be talking to quiet little whats-her-face, instead of laying my inner demons out in the open to the one guy I swore would never know.
And it turns out there was a reason for that.
His eyes turn cold and hard. “No, I don’t understand. I don’t get it. Your reason is a ‘what if’? That’s it? All these months of wondering why you suddenly hate me, what I did, and you. . . you’re just worried about something that will never happen.”
I stagger back, as though he slapped me. The accusation in his voice stings worse than that.
“I’m not worried about something that might happen,” I say in a low voice, to myself. “I’m scared about something that did happen. I was scared that—”
“Dammit, Ari!”
Something falls on the paper, startling me. At first I think it’s just another snowflake, but it’s not.
It’s a fat tear that starts to dilute once it’s come in contact with the paper. Another one follows it down Wes’ cheek. His long finger wipes it away, smearing the ink, before another one follows it.
“I’d never have. . . If you’d just told me that you—I wouldn’t. . . Dammit.”
He turns his head away and presses the back of his hand to his lips. Then, in one swift movement, he tears the paper up in tiny pieces, letting them scatter from his fingers to the ground.
“For heaven’s sake,” he whispers brokenly, “are you still hurting about this? You went through hell, but it’s over now. Just let it go. That girl you describe in there, she’s not you. It’s so stupid, it’s like you wanted an excuse. . . You know what? Sod this.”
He turns around and walks back into the pub without a single glance back.
◊◊◊
I take a cab home and call Rosie on the way to check up on her.
“What’s wrong?” she asks me immediately.
“That’s my line,” I tell her, letting out a sound that was supposed to be a laugh. We both reassure each other that we’re fine, although I hope that it’s more true in her case than in mine. Then we say goodnight.
About an hour later, I’ve just gotten into bed, when my phone blinks. It’s Wes. I let it ring a couple of times, deliberating what to do. Finally, I give in and I answer it.
“Hi, love,” he says.
He’s drunk.
“Wes, what do you want?”
He’s not even listening. His voice sounds high-pitched and weird, like it belongs to a stranger.
“You’ve. . . you been my Rosencrantz,” he says.
“Your what? Listen, Wes, don’t drink any more, just get some coffee, all right?”
“That sklull hath a tongue in it,” he replies.
Oh, he’s quoting Hamlet now. Or trying to. Great.
I’m starting to hang up when I hear a loud noise as though his phone is hitting the floor. I call his name a couple of times, but all I can hear is static and music in the background. He must still be at the club. How is Heather letting him drunk call me? Maybe she’s left. Who cares?
Mad at him, I turn off my phone and bury myself under the covers.
The room is perfectly still and quiet, and all I can hear is my own heart beating like a drum. I grab the covers and drag them over my head, creating a warm cocoon that I can crawl in, sleep and forget. I close my eyes.
Five minutes later I’m at the door, dressed, and pulling on my gloves as I call Wes again and again. He doesn’t answer. I get into a cab and give the address of the pub. I secure a thick scarf around my neck—I’m sleepy and freezing in nothing but my pajama top, a pair of jeans and a jacket—and settle down in the back seat to wait nervously.
The fairy lights on the trees blur past my window, and I try to close my eyes, but I can’t fall back asleep.
I finally allow myself to think of the paper Wes tore up.
Sometime after I locked up my journal, I’d decided I needed something tangible, as a reminder. Something I would be able to look at whenever I missed Wes so much it hurt. So I’d printed out an online post from a blog called ‘Crazy Planet’ and titled The Lives and Loves of Wes Spencer. It was posted a couple of days before Wes showed up in his M&M boat in Corfu.
It had a list of all his ‘serious girlfriends’ according to the writers, of course, along with a tiny, disgusting story to go with every girl’s name. It used to make me want to hurl every time I read it, so I don’t.
But at the bottom of the page, I’d added one more.
9. The sick girl - Ariadne Demos
We’re talking about the stunt girl whom Wes Spencer met while filming First Sentences on the island of Corfu. Her relationship with Spencer is said to have been one of the most painful experiences of his life, especially when the brain tumor that threatened her life suddenly started progressing again. Spencer has stated that this period in his life is a time he’d rather forget, and we don’t blame him.
A dying girlfriend, that’s the last thing our Tristan needs.
It’s just fiction, really, and bad fiction at that. But it wasn’t intended for anyone else’s eyes; only mine. Not even Katia knew about this. They are just a few words jotted down and meant to remind me in a very raw, real way, of what might have happened. What could have happened if I hadn’t let him go.
To remind me of the kind of pain and drama he didn’t need in his life; of the harm I could do. Or maybe of what I am still scared might happen to me.
It was, I see it now, a personification of my fear. Perhaps by writing it, and reading it all the time, I thought it would eventually help me to overcome it, or maybe even let it go.
I can still see it in front of me, although the paper must be pieces of mush buried under the frozen mud by now. It will take a lot more than someone tearing up paper for me to get over this irrational fear.
Of course it does sound stupid if you call it a ‘what if’ reason. A ‘what if’ fear. But it’s not just that, is it?
This disease turned me into this pathetic, scared person, and I thought that being alone would help me overcome my fears. Become my old self again, or, I don’t know, an even better self. Unafraid, indestructible.
But no one will ever become that, will they?
People form solid links to each other, and that’s how they remain upright when life throws a tsunami on them: by supporting one another.
Images, random memories flash before my eyes. Rosie being lifted in Theo’s arms; the glass being shattered in the theater so that clean air would blow in after the fog machine blew up. Pan’s student
s at the concert, looking intently at him for direction. The four guys at that desk on auditions day, joking, laughing, creating art. Distracting Wes from the sight of me walking in.
The truth is, people don’t survive alone.
And they certainly don’t thrive alone.
But that’s what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve tried to think that I’ll be safer alone. I’ve tried to isolate myself so that I’ll keep myself away from danger. Only it’s not working. And it’s not working because I’m carrying the greatest danger to myself inside of me. With me. For the first time since the operation, I’m not thinking of my brain or my body as my enemy.
I haven’t even thought about it in weeks. Not since I came here, that’s for sure.
It’s other things that I have to fight. My past is staring me in the face everywhere I go, my mistakes, my choices. My unfinished business. And I can’t deal with it like this; not by running away.
It slowly dawns on me that I did the exact opposite of what I should have done if I wanted to stay alive, stay strong, stay myself. It slowly dawns on me that I’m going to need all the help I can get.
Help. Help from them. From the people I hurt, from the people I’m scared of hurting again: dad, pappou, yiayia, Katia, Coach. From the new people who have come into my life, and without whom I wouldn’t even be here right now: Ollie, Jamie, Rosie, Matt.
And from him.
Wes.
If he’s still willing to give it. I mean, he must be pretty sure I still feel the same about him by now, but I’m not sure he cares. I did see him kiss that girl in front of me. And he was spitting mad at me tonight. Or maybe, not mad, worse: Disappointed.
Plus, he didn’t laugh at the ‘Tristan’ reference.
tumblr.
spencerstumblr
10 steps to overcome addiction
1. Stop lying to yourself
2. Always ask: ‘why do I need this?’
3. Stop lying to yourself
4. Stop making excuses
5. Get rid of the people who enable you
6. Get rid of the people who don’t believe
you can beat this
7. Stop lying to yourself
8. Find something creative to do. Best cure ever.
9. Don’t DON’T quit cold turkey. Never works.
10. Love
Bonus step: 11. Stop lying to yourself
#personal
546,009 notes
SEVENTEEN
We arrive and I’m snatched from my thoughts abruptly. Let’s get this over with.
I pay quickly and slam the door behind me. As I enter the dim interior of the pub again, my eyes start searching for Wes’ lean, tall figure, but I don’t see him anywhere. I’m about to leave, thinking that he must have left and I was worried about nothing, when I stumble to a stop, mouth agape.
There’s someone huddled in a corner on the floor, long, angular body in an unnatural heap. I run over; it’s Wes. I can’t believe no one is paying any attention to him. Everyone I know is gone; I wonder why.
Wes is absolutely still. His knees are reaching his chin and his head is hanging limply on his chest. Next to him lies his cell phone, still clutched in his fingers, as though his hand dropped and he hasn’t lifted it since. He’s not moving. Around him people are talking and laughing, oblivious, and my heart shreds to pieces to see him lying there, broken and alone. Heather is nowhere to be seen.
I drop to my knees and take his chin in my fingers, trying to tip his face back, to see if he’ll open his eyes.
His head feels heavy. I shake him lightly and it flops back with zero resistance. My heart thunders with sudden panic.
“Wes, hey. . . ”
He mumbles something indistinctive; he’s not unconscious, at least not yet. I sag in relief, and my back bumps into someone. I turn in their direction blindly. “Would it kill you to take a look around you?” I say to whoever is standing behind me, angrily. “There’s a guy falling to the floor here, and no one is. . . ”
“Easy there, tiger,” a sardonic voice drawls next to my ear, “it’s just me.”
Pan materializes out of nowhere and thrusts a finger underneath Wes’ nose. I turn around and see that he’s the ‘someone’ I bumped into.
“Good, he’s breathing,” he says coolly. “A little help here?”
He’s draped one arm around Wes’ shoulders and is trying to lift him in an upright position, but Wes is barely able to stand and his legs are wobbling dangerously. I place a hand under his elbow and feel his weight leaning heavy on me.
Between us, Pan and I half-drag, half-support Wes out into the cold, wet night.
“Where. The. Hell. Are. His. Bodyguards.” I mutter between panting breaths.
“Not here, that’s for sure,” Pan answers curtly. How is he not even breaking a sweat? “He rarely takes them when he goes out with friends. Come on, I’m parked over there.” We cross the street to where a shiny black and white mouth-watering MINI Countryman—I mean, seriously? This guy must be loaded—is parked carelessly with the indicators blinking on and off. We prop Wes on the door to catch our breaths for a minute.
“So he called you too, huh?” he asks me with a pleasant smile, as though we’re making small talk.
“It’s you he called ‘two’,” I tell him dryly. “He called me ‘one’.”
He snickers. “Hey, for all I care, he might not have called me at all. Only he lent his driver to that Heather person or something, it was hard to understand what he was saying. He won’t shut up about you, you know,” he adds with a shrug. “It’s irritating. As are you. Hey, dude!”
Wes is being sick on Pan’s leather boots. I stifle a laugh, and run to open the door so we can push him in before he lands sprawling on the pavement.
“Can I come too?” I ask, feeling suddenly out of place, as Pan slides in behind the wheel.
“No,” Pan says, shutting the driver’s door softly. Then he rolls the window down and looks over it up to me. “You can come, one,” he winks.
Letting out an exasperated grunt, I nudge Wes’ knees out of the way, and get in the back seat beside him. Pan eases off the curb, and then proceeds to push down on the gas as hard as he can.
“You know, I’m a stunt actor,” I say after two full minutes of furious racing around corners and tires screeching in protest, “and I drive like that. . . never.”
He’s calm as hell. “Do you want to go to sleep sometime before February?” he asks in a bored voice as he turns on the radio.
Wes grabs my shirt and mumbles something against my shoulder.
“What?” I lean down.
“I’m sorry. . . ” Wes says, his voice slurring. His head is tipped back, his eyes closed. “I’m sorry about Heathrer, I was confused, alone. . . so alllone. All these pleoples, but alone. I thought. . . I thought you dinwanme, Ars, Ari, Ari mou.”
Did he just speak Greek? ‘Ari mou’ that’s what grandpa calls me. My Ari.
Something that sounds suspiciously like a snort comes from the driver’s seat. I shoot an evil glance at the back of Pan’s head and make calming noises, smoothing down Wes’ hair. He settles on my shoulder again.
I’d never thought of it like this—that he might need me too. A sudden wave of emotion hits me, and I look for something to talk about.
“You. . . you weren’t here before,” I say and Pan turns the volume down so he can hear me. “Rosie and I showed for about an hour; then we left. Now everyone’s gone.”
“I thought Wes and I had decided not to come,” he says. “But apparently Spence had a change of mind. I’m not surprised everyone left, he’s not a pretty sight when he. . . ” he doesn’t finish. “I don’t drink. Ever.”
“Cool,” I murmur, trying to hide my surprise.
He flashes a brilliant smile full of teeth at me in the rearview mirror. “Why waste my precious brain cells?” he asks.
“Well, some people. . . ” I begin but he cuts me off.
“I didn’t say oth
er people’s brain cells are anything worth saving. They might as well get drunk.”
“You know what, never mind.” I settle back. Conceited much?
Wes begins to snore heavily, his breath smelling like a brewery. He’s making a sort of gurgling sound with every breath that tears my heart in two.
Pan eyes me through the mirror. “And while we’re on the subject,” he says as he brings the car to a halt an inch from the bumper of the Ford that’s stopped in front of us at a red light, “I would appreciate it if you told your friend Rosie to stop drooling. It’s not happening.”
I sit up.
“What,” I say with dangerous calm, “did you say?”
“Please, you don’t need to go all defensive on me. I’m just stating facts here.”
“The facts being that you’re a jerk.”
He bursts out laughing. “As for that Heather thing. . . She’s not even in the picture, all right? Just so you know,” he goes on undeterred. “She was out of here the moment Wes started yelling at Matt for casting you, even I saw that.”
“What do you mean even you. . . ?” I start asking, my heart beating wildly. “Oh, wait. I don’t care what you think.”
He laughs harder. “I may even start to like you,” he says. “But yeah, basically you broke him.”
I don’t answer; I can barely hear him. I’m staring down at Wes. This can’t be happening.
“Pan,” I whisper in horror.
“What?” he asks, whipping around. His gaze meets mine with sudden understanding. For the first time I see a shadow of fear in his eyes. “What?” he repeats, swerving the wheel a bit. “Don’t panic, check his airway.”
Wes falls on my lap, face down. Then he’s absolutely still.
“He’s not breathing,” I say, fear rising in my voice. I shake him. “Wake up!” I yell, but he just slides away from me and I move quickly to catch his head before it hits the floor. “Pan, he’s not moving, he’s. . . ”
