"I'm sorry I made you skip your fun rock and roll party."
"It wasn't that fun," I say. "Nor was it that rock and roll."
"Still," she says, and then we both go quiet for a long moment.
Marisol doesn't move, her chest rising and falling. I refill her water glass as quietly as I can, set it by her bed.
And give in to the wild urge to kiss her on the forehead.
"Stay," she murmurs, her face just underneath mine.
"Go back to sleep," I tell her, nerves suddenly jangling.
"Please?" she says, her voice soft and sleepy and distant.
"Your couch isn't big enough," I point out.
"Don't sleep on the couch."
I nearly kiss her on the lips, because she's soft and warm and tempting and I'm stretched near my breaking point, but I don't. In the last few months, since rehab, I've done a lot of teaching myself to think about consequences, so now I think about waking up tomorrow, Marisol remembering I've kissed her while she was incapacitated, the betrayed look on her face.
And I know I should do the same about staying here. I should call an Uber and go to my own house, my own bed, but I don't.
"All right," I say. I take off my jacket and shoes and I lay down next to Marisol, still wearing my shirt and jeans. She turns to face me and puts her hands in mine.
I can't believe I'm doing this. I can't believe I'm dead sober next to a girl who's out of her mind, I can't believe I'm fully clothed in her bed, and I can't believe I'm not going to do a thing about it. If Gavin from six months ago saw this, he'd laugh his arse off.
"Thanks," Marisol murmurs.
Past Gavin can go fuck himself.
I wake up because it's too hot and too bright and I've clearly slept in my clothes.
Hungover and jonesing again next to some groupie slag, I think automatically, more asleep than awake.
My eyes open onto an empty pillow, and I brace myself for the crashing headache. It doesn't come.
You stopped doing that, you pillock, I think, but it's somehow still a pleasant surprise that I don't feel like a clammy wreck itching in my own skin, and that I can remember everything from last night perfectly well.
I'm at Marisol's, in her bed, because she asked me to stay. Being sober feels like life on easy mode sometimes, and I roll over, looking around her cozy flat in the daylight.
She's not there. It's easy enough to see her whole place from the bed, and she's not anywhere in it. Half-awake disappointment crawls through me, and I sit up slowly, feeling a bit stupid.
I'd thought, as I fell asleep holding her hand last night, that maybe I'd wake up with her in my arms this morning. That maybe she'd look at me, whisper my name and we'd kiss properly as she rolled over, straddling me, my hands sliding up underneath her shirt-
But she's not here. All that's here is a note on the table.
Gavin-
I went to study group & didn't want to wake you. Help yourself to coffee & breakfast if you want it. Lock the knob when you leave.
Valerie's called a meeting at 5pm in her office. See you there.
Marisol
I'm gut-punched, and last night is fading away, replaced by the constant, unforgiving hard sunlight of Los Angeles.
She was toasted off her gourd, I think. She barely even knew she was asking you to stay.
I feel like an idiot. A sober idiot, but an idiot to think it meant anything. Now all I've got is a drummer with a black eye, a furious band, and a pretend girlfriend who's really just pretending no matter what I tell myself, not to mention the fucking train wreck of a human staying at my house indefinitely.
It doesn't fucking matter, I think. You've cocked this up beyond repair and you didn't even need to be high. You just needed to be you.
I stand and put my shoes on again, shove both hands through my hair, and stuff the note in my pocket.
I at least deserve a fucking drink, I think. If everything's going to hell in a handcart, might as well drink while it does.
As I turn to go my eyes sweep across the dresser, stacked with Marisol's books. The ones about getting clean and sober. My stomach turns. I take a deep breath.
If you still want one after the meeting.
Then I lock the knob on Marisol's door, shut it behind me, and leave.
22
Marisol
All day there's been a feeling of grinding dread deep in the pit of my stomach, and walking toward the skyscraper that contains Valerie's Public Relations firm, it's only getting worse.
Everyone's angry. Gavin's angry with Eddie. Eddie, Darcy, and Trent are angry with Gavin. The record company is angry with Gavin. Nigel's probably on his fourth scotch already, and it's barely four in the afternoon.
Every gossip website is running stories about how he's out of control on a drug and alcohol-fueled bender. It's rumored that Dirtshine is breaking up because Gavin's a total maniac and they've completely had it with him.
And it's my fault, because I ate some gummi bears like an idiot. I knew they tasted weird, and I ate them anyway without stopping to think hey, Marisol, you're backstage at a rock concert, maybe don't eat things that taste weird.
And because there are probably children who can keep it together better when they're super high than I can. Who the hell curls up in a bathtub and babbles on and on about dissolving just because they're stoned? Who makes their very famous fake boyfriend spend the night in their shitty apartment just because they had a little pot?
I don't think I'm cut out for this. I don't think I'm helping anything at this point. My contract specifies that I still get some of the money, and I think it's enough that I can get my parents another apartment, just until I've got a real job and can help them better.
I pull open the heavy glass door on the building's ground floor lobby and try to steel myself for what's coming. If I don't get fired, I'm going to suggest that maybe I'm not the right choice, and maybe Gavin and I start having our public breakup.
Walking through the lobby, I go over my reasoning one last time. This isn't fair to him; he needs someone who can handle the attention without getting awkward. After all, I had to work up the nerve to kiss him on the cheek, and when it came to lip-on-lip I botched it completely.
Plus, I can't act for shit; he deserves someone prettier than me; he needs someone who won't turn down important things like awards shows. Overall, I'm just the wrong choice, and we'll go our separate ways professionally and amicably.
And yet, I want to cry, because I went and got attached.
It's just more proof that I'm not the woman for the job.
I round a corner toward the elevator bank, then stop in my tracks. There's a very familiar form leaning against the wall, and he looks up from his phone.
"There you are," Gavin says, walking toward me.
"You're early?" I ask, because that's not exactly his normal style.
"Just this once," he says. "I wanted to see you before the piranhas moved in."
Tell him now and get it over with, I think. He's going to be the hardest one to tell, so just do it first.
"Good, I'm glad you came down," I say.
I straighten my back and take a deep breath.
"I think we should start discussing our breakup because I'm clearly not the right person to be playing your girlfriend," I say, all in one breath, spitting it out before I lose my nerve.
Gavin doesn't react. He just stares at me, in the hallway by the elevators. Two women in suits walk by. One of them turns to give him a second look.
"No," he finally says.
There's a huge lump in my throat, and I'm holding my breath, trying to act normal and not get emotional in near-public like this.
"What do you mean, no?" I ask.
"No," he says again, shaking his head. "No to you, no to this, no to all the bloody play-acting-"
He breaks off, looking around. Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward a door marked EXIT.
It's also marked FIRE DOOR, DO NOT OPEN, but he ignores that and pulls me through into a narrow-but-sunny alleyway. An alarm goes off in the building, silenced as the door shuts behind us.
I start talking.
"I got high by accident and freaked out, I don't know anything about music, I'm awkward in front of cameras-"
Gavin turns and takes my face in both hands.
"I don't care," he says.
I keep talking, an anxious train that can't stop.
"-I was almost too nervous to kiss you on the cheek, and then the lip-on-lip was really awkward and bad-"
He kisses me.
His lips are warm and firm on mine, his fingers in my hair, and for a split second I'm so surprised that I don't move.
Then I kiss him back. There's no one else around. No cameras, no reporters, no other people at all. Just us. I drop my briefcase and slide one hand around Gavin's neck, his skin hot underneath my fingers as our mouths move together, slow and deliberate.
He pulls back a fraction of an inch, one thumb stroking across my cheekbone. In a heartbeat, I close the distance between us again, pressing my body against his, one of his hands trailing down my back as my spine turns to molten liquid.
It's nothing like the kiss yesterday.
When we finally separate, he leans his forehead against mine, and I try to breathe, my heart slamming against my ribs.
"I'm not pretending," he says, his voice low and quiet and rough.
"I'm not either," I whisper.
He kisses me again. It's almost deliriously slow, our mouths moving together, our bodies drawing closer as we explore each other for the very first time.