I nod and sit back and finish my beer.
Franco lets me.
End of discussion.
Monday, March 27
(Gus)
As the plane hits the tarmac at San Diego International Airport I let out a sigh of relief. I feel like I've been holding my breath for two months. I know it's totally irrational to think that geography will change what's going on in my head, but being so far from home and everything that's familiar didn't help matters. The European leg of the tour wrapped up last night in Paris. I'm tired as hell and all I want to do is sleep for the next three weeks straight before the US tour starts up again.
Franco elbows me when the aisle frees up enough to squeeze out into the flow. After retrieving my bag from the overhead compartment, I trudge through the airport to baggage claim. I'm following Franco. He's not talking. I know he's as beat down as I am from the clusterfuck of the past two months.
Though I haven't done any drugs since that night shit went down with Clare, I haven't been sober for the past sixty-something days. My blood's been holding steady at 80 proof. It's wearing me out if you want to know the truth. I did it to hide from life, but now I just feel buried alive.
Clare stayed on for the rest of the tour and finished her job. She didn't talk to me after the big blowup. And I didn't talk to her. With the distance came a newfound clarity—she might be even more fucked up than I am. I don't know what made her the way she is, but there are definitely some issues behind her tailspin. If I had a guess, I'd say she's going to crash. Hard.
Tuesday, March 28
(Gus)
MFDM got them to hold off on the album rerelease until today.
He knew I couldn't deal with "Finish Me," and playing it while we were on tour was out of the question.
I love the dude for fighting for us.
Wednesday, April 19
(Gus)
I've spent the past three weeks avoiding everything. Sleeping as much as possible. I eat dinner with Ma every night, but that's the extent of my contact with the real world. It's the only part of my day that I look forward to—time with Ma, even if we don't talk much. It's comforting for both of us.
Thursday, April 20
(Gus)
I'm holding my phone in my hand looking at it like I have no idea where to begin. Or maybe I'm second-guessing making the call at all. I haven't seen or talked to Bright Side's boyfriend, Keller, since the funeral. But during the past few days I can't stop thinking about him and his daughter, Stella. Wondering how they're doing. He's a good guy and Bright Side loved the hell out of him, so I hope he's keeping his shit together better than I am.
I dial his number. Before it starts ringing, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I'm going into cardiac arrest. I hang up.
I guess I'm not ready for this.
Friday, April 21
(Gus)
The tour starts tonight in Vegas. It's early, eight o'clock in the morning, and Franco's in the kitchen talking to Ma. We need to leave soon but I haven't packed yet. I grab my duffle bag out of my closet and toss it unzipped on the bed. I throw in a few T-shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear, along with my laptop, toothbrush, toothpaste, and deodorant. I check my pockets for my wallet, phone, cigarettes, and lighter. Throwing the bag's strap over my shoulder, I glance back at Bright Side's laptop. It's still sitting untouched on my dresser. Goddamn, I want to take it so bad. To open it up and dive in. Dig through everything she left behind. To have her back in my life again. But it's not that easy and it's so fucking intimate that it almost makes me cry thinking about it.
Instead, I snag my guitar cases from the corner and shut the door behind me. I shut the door on Bright Side. Again.
Ma and Franco are talking. I hear them from the hall. But when I step into the room there's instantaneous silence. Coincidence? Nope.
"It's okay, don't let the fact that I'm actually standing in the room with you stop you from talking about me."
Harsh? Yeah.
Do I care? Yeah, with Ma and Franco I do.
Can I stop acting like an asshole? Nope.
Ma frowns and hugs me.
I hug her back. It's an apology. "Morning, Ma."
"Good morning, Gus." She's forgiving me.
I love her to death for it, because she shouldn't forgive me.
The flight is short and we've landed in no time. A cab drops us off in front of some monstrosity of a hotel on the strip. It's eleven o'clock. I'm ready for a few stiff drinks and a nap, but Hitler met us at the door and wastes no time ushering us through the masses to an elevator.
It's not until we're tucked away inside a shiny elevator that he starts talking at us. "Jamie and Robbie arrived about a half hour ago. The two of you have ... " he pulls back the cuff of his dress shirt to get a look at his Rolex knock-off, " ... twenty minutes before the photo shoot begins."
Jamie and Robbie have been in Vegas for a few days. A mini-vacation. Good for them.
I look at myself in the mirrored wall in front of me. My clothes look like I slept in them. Come to think of it, maybe I did. My hair hasn't been washed in a couple of days and it's pulled back in a ponytail. It's getting long again. I'm thankful for the sunglasses because I can't see my tired, bloodshot eyes staring back at me. Admonishing me.
Hitler doesn't say anything else.
Neither do we.
The elevator stops on the fifteenth floor, and when the doors open we follow him out. Everything in Vegas is opulent and over-the-top. I've always hated it. It's pretentious and fake, just a lot of smoke and mirrors. Hitler stops a few doors down and opens the door to what we soon discover is a suite, like a house inside a hotel. The furniture has been cleared from one end of the living room and a crew is setting up backdrops, lighting, and cameras.