And right now, he's drunk, probably high, his arm probably fucking hurts, and he knows he's a goddamn train wreck.
"You didn't kill Allen," I tell him.
I've told him that over and over again. Sometimes he seems like he believes me and sometimes he doesn't.
"I gave it to him," he says miserably. "I fucking handed him the needle. I told him it wasn't as much as it looked."
I look over at the cop car so I don't have to think about that night. One cop's got a laptop out, determinedly pecking away with two fingers.
"He'd never so much as snorted coke before I met him," Liam says, sniffing hard. "He-"
Liam grabs the bottom of his blood-covered shirt, puts it to his nose, and blows.
"Jesus Christ," I say, and jump up, heading through the door. I don't think I've got tissues anywhere, but there's a roll of paper towels on the counter and I grab those.
Out on the counter is a bottle of whiskey, a brand I've never heard of.
All the same it fucking calls to me. Just one shot, quick, no one would ever know but it would make Liam so much easier to deal with, the cops easier to take, muffle all the bullshit of this stupid night.
I pick it up. It's half-empty, the glass cool and heavy in my hand, the liquid inside sloshing slightly. Just one drink.
But then I think of the books on Marisol's nightstand. Of being in her bed, her head on my chest, her hair tickling my nose.
I put the whiskey down and walk back to the door.
Liam blows his nose into a towel, then stares into it like he can read the future in his snot, and he's quiet for a long time.
"I've still not worked out why you could do it and I couldn't," he finally says, his voice low and raw with misery. "I thought we were the same, we'd come up together and had our problems together and you were just a much of a wreck as me but then..."
He waves the snotty towel at his bandaged arm.
"Fucking look at this," he says.
I take a deep breath. I don't feel like a success, not yet, not when thirty seconds ago I looked at a bottle of cheap whiskey and had to practically drag myself away.
"Let me send you to rehab again," I say.
"It didn't fucking work."
I rub my hands together, staring down at the ground.
"Research shows that people often have to go more than once, and it rarely sticks on the first try, but it does often stick," I say.
Liam looks at me, eyes watery and bloodshot.
"Research shows?" he says incredulously. "Who the tits are you, some pompous university wanker?"
"No, I'm fucking sober while you're snot-crying on my front steps," I snap.
He swallows.
"Sorry."
"Marisol's been doing a lot of reading on addiction and heroin and all that," I say. "And rehab is one thing that's really excellent at breaking the cycle."
"Is that the false girlfriend?"
I sigh, because I've got the feeling that the truth is too intricate for Liam right now, but I may as well give it a go.
"We really are dating," I say.
"It's me, mate," he says. "Fucking lie to someone else."
"It did start out that way," I say. "But it turned out we quite liked each other, and... are now actually dating."
He just rolls his eyes.
"You honestly think anyone's going to believe that story?" he asks, and then pitches his voice higher. "'Oh, right, we weren't dating until we were caught in a sham but now it's real.'"
"That's not what I sound like," I say, because it's clear that I'm not going to convince Liam of anything right now, and besides, I don't really give a flying fuck what he believes.
"It is when you're trying to get one over on me."
"I'm not."
A car door slams, and we both look over. The cops are walking toward us, so we stand. They look from me to Liam and back again.
"I'm guessing you're not interested in pressing charges," the taller one says.
I glance over at Liam. For a split-second I wonder if I ought to, teach him some sort of lesson or something, but I haven't got the stones for it. I'm a fucking soft-hearted kitten.
"No," I say.
Both cops nod, officially.
"All right then," the one on the left says. "Then we'll be leaving you two alone, and I hope your Tuesday is better than your Monday was."
"Thanks," I say. "I hope so as well."
I think they're going to leave, but they simply stand on my drive for another long moment before the one on the right clears his throat.
"Listen, I hate to do this," he says. "But my daughter's seventeen and she's a huge Dirtshine fan, and I wonder if you'd mind signing something for her?"
I'm exhausted, it's near two in the morning, and I've still got a broken window to deal with, but I make myself smile.
"Of course, mate," I say. "If you can hold on a tic I've got some posters inside the house."
34
Marisol
I wait until I get home to finally call Sandra back, because I hate it when people are on the phone on the bus, and because she knows me too well. I'm a little afraid that the second she answers the phone she'll know I got laid, and I've always been bad at keeping secrets from her.
It's why we haven't talked much the past month, which I think she's upset about. But I still haven't told my family that I'm seeing someone, let alone pretending-to-date-and-now-really-dating an actual rock star.
Sandra answers her phone on the second ring.
"Yo," she says.
"I looked at those listings," I say. "Is that an okay area? I don't really know Brea Park."
Sandra groans, and I can hear the sound of her dramatically flopping onto her bed. She lives in North Hollywood with two roommates, where she has three separate part-time jobs and also does freelance graphic design.
"I think it's not that bad of an area," she says. "To be honest, I don't really know it either, but it looks kinda nice. The one building even had a cute little courtyard?"
"I can't get out there to help until this weekend," I say.
My parents aren't exactly internet-savvy. They've got smartphones, but only because that's the only kind of phone you can even buy now. They don't own a computer, and they don't have a clue how to search Craigslist or anything.
"I'm not working Thursday morning, so I could go then," she offers.
We hash out the details. Silently, I pray that one of these is the apartment that works out, because we're running out of options quickly. They're out of their current apartment in two and a half weeks, and since they were given proper notice, that's the day the police can escort them out.
I'm fully aware that I'm dating a wealthy rock star. I'm fully aware that he's giving me a million dollars, and that if I asked for an advance, I think he'd hand it over in a heartbeat, but I hate the thought of that. I want to solve this on my own, without feeling as though I'm using my boyfriend like an ATM.
So I haven't told him anything about this.
"Once they're in a new place I swear we should buy them a computer," Sandra says. "I'll pick up some extra gigs, you edit a few more shitty undergrad papers, voila, they find their own next apartment."
"As long as you configure their internet and teach them to use it," I say, lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling.
The pillow smells a little like Gavin, and my heart thumps.
"Oh, God, I hadn't thought of that," Sandra says.
She's quiet for a moment.
"We can just keep helping them with apartments," she says, and I laugh. "I tried to show my manager Instagram today and it did not go well, Marisol. She kept trying to - oh! Holy shit, that reminds me, I called you earlier because are you on TMZ?!"
I go dead quiet.
"Marisol," she says.
"Probably?"
"Okay," she says.
More silence.
"That was an invitation for you to explain!" she half-shouts into the phone, and I can practically see my little sister, flopped on her bed, waving one hand in the air. "You're dating the guy from Dirtshine but not really and he's having a fight with the drummer who's new and not the original drummer that everyone thought was kind of cute? And they're fighting over you?!"
"Kinda," I say.
"I swear to God, Mar-"
"Okay, okay," I say.
I explain the whole ludicrous situation, top to bottom, starting with the secret concert at the Whiskey Lounge and ending with tonight's meeting, though I leave out our afterparty. When I finish, there's a long silence on the other end.
"I swear they used that plot on Pasión Prohibida last week," she says. "Are you sure no one got jilted at the altar so you could go full telenovela?"
"Shut up," I say.
"No wonder you don't want mom and dad to have the internet," she says.
"Please don't tell them," I say. "I'm going to, but it's all kind of weird and ridiculous right now."
"I could blackmail you," she says, laughing.
"Do not blackmail me."
"Just for dumb shit," she goes on. "One of mom's pork tamales left in the freezer? Sure, Marisol, you can have it if you want me to tell..."
"You're a monster," I say, rolling my eyes.
Sandra just laughs.
"It's pretty fucking weird, but if he treats you right and you're happy, we're good," she says.