Gus (Bright Side #2)

by Kim Holden

  I glance through my door at the clock on my nightstand, and the glaring red numbers tell me it’s almost three in the morning. I need to go to bed, but I don’t want to let this moment go. I want to curl up right here on the floor next to his door just so I can be close to him. So I close my eyes and I give myself another few seconds to linger in the dissipating magic before I stand.

  Before I walk back to my bedroom, I walk to the kitchen. There’s something I need to do.

  I return to Gustov’s door and set a sticky note on the floor, along with a plate and glass. I knock and then take the three steps required to put me behind my bedroom door.

  I hear his door open just after mine closes.

  (Gus)

  I open my door to find a plate filled with saltines slathered in peanut butter and a glass of grape juice on the floor in the hallway. My stomach growls in demanding appreciation at the sight of them. I haven’t eaten since lunch. When I pick up the plate, there’s a sticky note stuck to the hardwood floor underneath it. It makes me smile. Eat this. You didn’t have dinner. And thank you. That song filled my soul tonight.

  She was here, listening, the whole time. I want to knock on her door. I want to hug her. I want to thank her for sharing the past few hours with me.

  I don’t know how to explain it, but the way the song came together, I knew I wasn’t alone. I haven’t written like that since Bright Side was around. I always feel her in my heart these days, because that’s where she lives. I walk around with her inside me every day. And it doesn’t hurt anymore. But the presence I felt tonight wasn’t internal. It was physical. Tangible. Like someone was in the room with me, feeding me. Little did I know, she was just on the other side of the door.

  Filling my soul.

  Friday, December 8

  (Gus)

  I’ve been writing nonstop this week. Going through Bright Side’s stash on her laptop has started my creative juices flowing again. I've even used a few of her melodies and choruses as a springboard to get me started. Other songs have grown out of the feelings she conveyed in lyrics she’d written. Not the words themselves necessarily, but the emotion behind the words. Those are my favorites. I’m also drawing inspiration from the sticky notes Impatient’s been leaving on my door—I find them every morning. Most mornings, she’s already left for work or gone for a run by the time I open my door. It’s never more than a couple of words but it lets me know she’s been listening. That I’m not alone. That she digs what I’m doing. Or that sometimes she doesn’t. I should probably just invite her in at night when I’m working, but half of me is scared it will stunt my mojo. The other half is scared I’ll choke altogether in her presence, because she’s one of the only people I find myself looking to for approval, probably because it’s so damn hard to earn it. She doesn’t fling compliments freely in the direction of everyone around her; she picks and chooses, and when she says something, she means it. There’s no bullshit with her. For now, I like knowing she’s just on the other side of the door, listening. Her presence is a palpable force in the room, driving me to dig deeper. To do better. To do epic. I haven’t felt that in such a long time. So for now, I’ve got two of my favorite girls pushing me, bullying me, cheering me on in their own physically non-existent, but emotionally so-fucking-present way. It’s eerie, but it works. It more than works. It’s fueling me.

  Music is a visceral experience if you’re doing it right.

  I’m doing it so fucking right this week.

  Impatient’s note this morning reads, Song 2. Chorus. Perfect now.

  I grab a pad of sticky notes and a Sharpie from my nightstand, because that’s where I keep them now, and write back a reply. Thanks. It’s getting there.

  Saturday, December 9

  (Scout)

  It’s early. The sun’s coming up. I’m headed out to run. When I open my bedroom door, Gustov’s door is open, too. I peer through the doorway, but he’s not inside.

  Then I walk into the living room and I find out why. He’s outside, pacing the deck. I see him through the sliding glass door. Back and forth. Back and forth. And his lips are moving. He’s talking to himself and he looks tense, distraught. As I approach, I can hear his words through the glass door.

  “You don’t need one. You don’t want one. You don’t need one. You don’t want one.” That’s what he’s muttering to himself.

  Confused, I open the door. “Gustov? Everything all right?”

  He’s startled out of his internal conversation. He raises his head to look at me, but doesn’t say anything. He’s fidgety. He’s never fidgety. He's always laid-back and fairly calm these days.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He stops pacing and puts his hands on his hips. He inhales deeply once and then drops his chin. “I quit smoking a few days ago.”

  “That’s great,” I offer.

  His eyes flash to mine and he looks a little irritated and a little helpless. “It is so not fucking great. I want a cigarette so bad. So fucking bad.” And he’s pacing again.

  “Maybe you just need some oral stimulation.” And as soon as the words are out of my mouth I know how bad it sounded. Really bad.

  The pacing has stopped and he’s smirking at me now. “Jesus. Did you just say what I think you just said? When did we segue this conversation to BJs?”

  Well, at least I took his mind off his withdrawal. My cheeks are burning. “Gum. Toothpicks. That kind of oral stimulation. Like a substitute. When I quit smoking, I chewed a lot of gum. I know it sounds stupid, but it helped. I’ve got some in my purse. I’ll go get you a piece.”

  When I return, he takes the piece of gum, unwraps it, and pops it into his mouth. “Thanks. Though unless this is jam-packed with an intense fucking amount of nicotine, I don’t think it’s gonna do shit for me.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Suck it up, buttercup.”

  He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “That’s how it is?”

  I nod and start down the stairs toward the beach. “That’s exactly how it is. If I can do it, you can do it.”

  “I can’t do it!” he calls after me.

  “Yes you can!” I yell back.

  (Gus)

  I calmed down a bit after Impatient left and my cravings subsided. I don’t think it was the gum, but I was able to go back to bed with Spare Ribs and sleep for a few hours.

  When I open my bedroom door around noon there are a couple dozen packs of gum on the floor—every brand and flavor imaginable. And there’s sticky note stuck to one of them. Suck it up. :)

  That damn smiley face is sneering at me.

  “Suck it up,” I repeat. And then I put the sticky note on my bathroom mirror so I have the reminder.

  Wednesday, December 13

  (Gus)

  “Hey, asswipe, what's shakin'?”

  “Come over. I’ve got sixteen solid songs.”

  There’s a long pause on the other end and then, “Seriously?”

  I’m nodding my head dramatically even though he can’t see me. “Seriously.”

  Another long pause. “I’ll be over in ten.”

  Ten minutes later, I’m standing in the driveway wishing I was smoking a cigarette, but most importantly not smoking a cigarette because I’m fucking determined to kick this shit and it’s already been a week, when Franco pulls up to our house. He gets out of his truck and his grin is huge, even by Franco standards. His headphones are hanging around his neck, a pair of drumsticks are tucked into his back pocket, and he’s carrying a case of Modelo.

  I point to the beer. “I see you brought lunch.”

  “I like to call it inspiration,” he says. He actually is pretty damn creative when he drinks, but I don’t say anything.

  He knows the refinement and fine-tuning that needs to happen now is up to me and him. It used to be Bright Side I relied on. He knows those are big shoes to fill, but Franco hears music with his heart. He gets amped up about it. I need him this time.

  We stop in the kitchen on the way t
hrough to my room. Franco grabs the Tupperware container of Impatient’s homemade cookies from the counter and two oranges from the fruit bowl and places it all on top of the box of beer and starts walking.

  I’m staring at the mixtures of tastes he’s clutching.

  “What, man?” he questions.

  “That’s fucking disgusting. You’re seriously going to eat oranges and cookies while you’re drinking beer?”

  He doesn’t miss a beat. “Yeah.”

  I shake my head. “Dude, that’s a bad combo. That’s like toothpaste and OJ.”

  “No way. Scout’s cookies go with everything.”

  “Sure you don’t want a glass of milk? I’m a dunker,” I say as I open up the cabinet and pull out a glass.

  He laughs. “You’re such a fucking rock star.” That was sarcasm at its best, but after he watches me pour a tall glass of the cold stuff, he clears his throat. “Pour me one, too.”

  It’s my turn to laugh. “You’re such a fucking rock star,” I mock. Then I pull open the drawer next to the fridge, looking for a straw. “You want a bendy straw, dude?”

  His face lights up at the sight of the blue and white plastic straw. And then it fades quickly as he reins it in, because that was a lot of damn excitement for a grown man to exhibit over a straw. He clears his throat again. “Yeah. Sure. I mean, only if you’re gonna have one.”

  I stick one in each glass and flex the tips. “Yup. Bendy straws are the shit, dude.”

  He immediately takes a drink through it when I hand him the glass. And then he smiles that shit-eating grin of his. “Bendy straws are the shit. Now let’s go do rock star stuff.”

  After milk and cookies we get down to business for the next eighteen hours. The sun sets and rises again before we quit. The beer is gone. The songs are better than they were before. And Franco is stoked.

  I love it when Franco’s stoked.

  He’s always straightforward with me, so his excitement is also approval. It means that we’re onto something here.

  I’m so relieved. I’ve been living under this shroud of my own disappointment and doubt and disregard for almost a year now. I know we’re not home free, since we still need to play this for the rest of the band and for MFDM, but I don’t feel like a burden anymore. I feel like Gus again.

  When Franco leaves, I’m home alone. I grab my Sharpie and pad of sticky notes and I write a note and stick it to Impatient’s door before I go to sleep. It reads, Songs are done. I couldn’t have done it without you. Thank you.

  Thursday, December 14

  (Gus)

  There are two sticky notes on my door when I open it. It’s a long message and it makes me smile. I didn’t do anything. I listened. That’s it. You, on the other hand, made me feel. Feel more than I probably ever have. I felt happiness, sadness, fear, and anger, but most of all I felt hope. I’ve never been so honored to eavesdrop.

  I don’t need praise. Never have. I’ve always been more about just giving it my all, doing my best, and pushing myself creatively.

  But her note? I’d play for her every day to hear that over and over again—to make her feel hope.

  Saturday, December 16

  (Gus)

  I knock loudly, push her bedroom door open an inch, and shout through the crack. “Cock-a-doodle-do! Rise and shine, Impatient!”

  “What?” is her sleep-scratchy response. “No roosters allowed. Go away.”

  I push the door open further and peek in, making sure she’s covered up so I don’t embarrass her. “Not gonna happen. Someone’s buying a car today. And her name is Scout MacKenzie.” I inhale sharply, a fake gasp. “What a coincidence, that’s you.”

  She opens her eyes and looks at the alarm clock on her nightstand. “At seven-thirty in the morning?”

  I nod and smile. “Yup. Don’t sass me, dude. Get your ass in the shower. You’re skipping your run this morning. I found you a car in Carlsbad. We need to get on the road soon. Franco’s picking us up and giving us a lift. I’m going to wake up Pax.”

  The truth is I didn’t really sleep last night because I was too excited about this. I’m forcing them to join in on my mission.

  “I hate you,” she growls. I’m not gonna even lie, it sounded pretty hot, especially since she was smiling when she said it.

  “I know. Hustle, lazy ass.” I step out of the room and immediately close the door, because I know she won’t get out from under the covers with me watching. And I don’t want to hear her smartass reply. Okay, who am I kidding, I totally want to hear her smartass reply, so I crack the door again just in time to hear her say, “Compliments will get you nowhere, lazier ass.” And then I shut the door again quickly before the name calling continues.

  With Impatient and Pax roused, we get on the road. Franco came by and is dropping us off at the car dealership on his way to Jamie and Robbie’s place this morning. Impatient, Pax, and Franco all seem a little sleepy and there’s not much in the way of convo during the ride, which is fine. We listen to a new album I downloaded last night instead. Royal Blood. They’re wicked good. Heavy bass and drums, the perfect soundtrack for the start of a gorgeous day. I’m into it.

  Impatient and Pax have their driver’s licenses, but have never owned cars before. Pax didn’t need one at the boarding school he attended in Boston, and Impatient always lived in the city where public transit was the way to go. Here in Southern California a car is a little more of a necessity. Impatient’s been saving for one. She only wants to spend eight grand. She’s been researching models and scouring the internet for weeks. I think she’s just scared to pull the trigger, because she’s intimidated by the process. Yesterday while they were at work and school I drove up to the Carlsbad Honda dealership and checked out a few. Let’s just say some money’s already traded hands. She doesn’t know that. I hope my cockamamie plan goes off without a hitch or we’re walking home.

  The sales guy, Donovan, is a pretty chill dude for a car salesman. I thought they’d all just be douches, but we hit it off pretty well. He’s waiting for us when we all walk in.

  After introductions are out of the way, Donovan leads us to the lot, toward the car I asked them to set aside. Impatient drives the car. She loves it. I can tell. She’s not the type to get giddy, but she smiled during the entire fifteen-minute test drive. That’s huge. She tells Donovan that she likes it, and that she'd like to discuss the price. As we walk back to the sales office, Donovan looks to me and I nod. We worked through this scenario yesterday. Cramming the four of us into his tiny office, he turns to her. “Well Scout, for that model, we're looking at nine thousand.”

  She looks puzzled, but ponders this a minute before politely asking, “Can you excuse us for a moment, please?”

  After he leaves the tiny sales office, her eyes squint. This doesn’t make sense to her. “Something must be wrong with it.” Of course she’s skeptical. “That car should be at least fifteen thousand based on what I’ve seen cars listed for on the internet.”

  I shrug and point to the sales banners hanging throughout the showroom around us. “They’re having a sale. I guess this is just your lucky day. Besides, he said it’s a certified used car and comes with a two-year warranty. They’ve already checked it out. I’d say you’re golden, if you want it.”

  She takes a deep breath and looks from me to Pax, and back to me. She wants it. Bad. She’s chewing on her bottom lip thinking it through. “I don’t really know how to do this. I only have eight and that needs to include fees and taxes. I’m not sure how to start negotiations.”

  I shrug again. “Don’t know what to tell you. I bought my truck off a dude at the beach for two g’s cash and some surfing lessons when I was sixteen. Not your standard car transaction. But I’d suspect that if you just cut to the chase and tell Donovan what you want and stick to it, he’ll either tell you yea or nay. Either you go home with the car or you don’t.”

  She nods. She’s not blinking. She’s thinking. Hard. “I really want it.”

 
I smile because it’s so cute the way she said it. Cute, but super confident. That rarely happens. “I know you do.”

  She nods her head and puts on her game face again. “Let’s do this.” She waves her hand and motions for Donovan through the glass window.

  She makes her offer like a boss.

  He leaves to consult his manager, but I suspect he just ran to the can. He returns with a paper in hand with some figures scribbled on it. It looks familiar; I went through this same drill yesterday with him.

  They accepted her offer.

  She’s over the fucking moon happy.

  We all move to the finance office, again, just like I did yesterday. And she signs her paperwork.

  When we’re done, they hand her the keys and she clutches them like they’re sacred and stares at them the entire walk out to the parking lot. When we reach the back of the car she looks up at me and smiles. I would give anything to freeze time and take in this expression for hours. It’s so many good things all rolled up into one: it’s confidence, satisfaction, pride, and complete, unbridled joy. And it’s not just about the material possession; it’s about the process and the accomplishment. She opens her mouth to say something, but then she hugs me instead. She’s squeezing the shit out of me and hangs on for probably ten seconds. It’s thank you. A million and one thank yous.

  She has no idea this car really did cost fifteen thousand dollars. Or that I paid for half of it yesterday.

  And she never will.

  I made a lot of money off the first album and I still have most of it. I don’t spend a lot. I don’t need a lot. I’m stoked to share it with people I care about.

  She’s so proud and happy with herself right now. She rocked the hell out of the negotiations, even if they were rigged. She didn’t seem self-conscious at all when she was focused on her task. I think her appearance is always on her mind. Sometimes at the forefront. Sometimes in the back. This morning, it was absent. She wasn’t hiding. And it was awesome.