"Thank you." He presses his lips to the back of my head. It's a kiss that's loving and sweet, but there's depth that's nothing short of reverent. He lives life with his heart fully exposed. From the inside out. His life isn't about what's going on outside, the Gus the rest of us see and perceive. He doesn't live life, he feels it. I've seen it. I've seen grief strangle him. And I've seen happiness make him glow with a brightness so intense it's almost blinding. That's what makes him so special. It's not his talent or his looks. It's how much he feels.
After we strip down to our underwear, he sets the alarm on his phone and I remove my hearing aid, and we crawl into his bed. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me into him, the back of me against the front of him. His skin is warm and there's so much of it exposed. Touching him like this should be scary for me, because we're just touching. It's not sexual, it's intimate and human. All of the focus is on contact. He can feel my scars. All of them. And his touch, the way he's holding me so completely, makes my heart overflow. I exhale a long breath. I've been tense, guarded ... forever. But lying here with him is like slowly letting the breath escape that I've been holding for over a decade. I can feel it pass through my muscles and bones, and I feel pliable in his arms, like I'm finally me. The person I've been searching for. The person I knew was deep inside, but who was distorted but the protective shell I wore on the outside. I'm smiling through tears that are trickling down my cheeks and onto the pillow.
"I just want to hold you tonight. It's not that I don't want to tear your bra and panties off and dominate you with my manhood until you're screaming my name ... because I do." He presses his erection into my backside to illustrate his point. "Goddammit, I do. But I just want tonight to be about us and this insane, unstoppable need I have to be near you. Around you. To be your friend. To make you smile. To make you laugh. To make you happy. To protect you. I want to learn everything about you, Scout. Your past. Your present. Your future. But there's time for that tomorrow and the day after that. Tonight I just want to fall asleep with you. And tomorrow morning I want to wake up with you. I'm working on the whole living in the moment thing, and now ... this moment, that's all I want."
There are so many things I want to say to him, but I'm so overcome by everything that's just transpired that I know it would come out all wrong. I couldn't do it justice. So, instead, I take his hand that's resting on my hip and bring his palm to my mouth and I kiss it. And I tell him, "Me too, Gus." And I don't let go of his hand; I hold it against my chest over my heart.
And we fall asleep. And it's sleep like I've never known, deep and restful and healing.
Saturday, January 6
(Scout)
"I don't need a fucking cigarette. Tell me I don't need a fucking cigarette." This is what I hear when I answer the phone. He sounds stressed.
"You don't need a fucking cigarette."
"I do." It sounds distorted a bit, like his mouth is full.
"You don't. How many pieces of gum are you chewing?"
"Five," he answers.
"Good man. Suck it up."
He takes a few deep breaths. "Thanks Scout. I gotta get back in the studio. I told them I needed a piss break, but I really just needed to be talked off the ledge. I'll call you back later tonight."
"You don't," I repeat. "You've got this." It's adamant.
"I know. Adios."
"Bye."
Thursday, January 18
(Gus)
I call Scout every day. She grounds me to reality, because what we're doing in the studio seems so unreal. I don't mean that in a bad way. I'm looking at this album differently than I did the first one. With the first album, we didn't have a fucking clue what we were doing. Don't get me wrong, I wasn't a pushover, but we entrusted the project to MFDM and let him drive it. I'm driving this time. I'm still leaning on him for his expertise, but the vision's all mine.
She answers on the third ring, "Hi, Gus." My heart stutters every time I hear her first words when I call. She's smiling, I can hear it. It's not a smile born out of excitement, it's a smile born out of contentment. It's my favorite smile on her.
"What's happening at chez Hawthorne this evening?" It's ten o'clock, so she's probably getting ready for bed.
"I baked some peanut butter cookies."
My mouth's watering. "Mmm ... I love me some peanut butter cookies."
"I know. They're for you. I'll get them to you soon."
"You should hand deliver them. I'd like to taste you both. My appetite's huge and it feels like weeks since it's been ... satisfied." She's always a little shy when I make any kind of sexual reference when we talk on the phone. It's cute, that's partially why I do it. The other half of me is hoping she'll open up to it eventually.
The line's quiet.
"Scout, you there?"
"Yeah, I'm here. I was trying to decide if I should deal with the cookies or go in my room and pleasure myself."
What the fuck did she just say? "Can you repeat that again ... please?"
"You heard me." She's still smiling.
Loud and clear. "Maybe I did, maybe I didn't. I need to hear it again to be sure."
"I said, I was contemplating going into my room, taking off my panties, and touching myself."