Finally, he starts up again and now it sounds like an actual song. Four bars in, he starts singing.
Whisper me to sleep, your fingers on my heart. Starshine on the ocean and you -
I hit the stop button, sobbing so hard I'm shaking again.
I can't do this now. I can't. Maybe in a week. Maybe in a month.
But I know that if I listen to any more of these tapes, all labeled with the things we did together, the things we said to each other, it'll destroy me.
I shove the box under my bed and cry myself to sleep.
45
Marisol
Two days later, on Friday, I get the letter. It's in Gavin's handwriting and it's got his name on the return address, which is for a rehab center in Malibu, and I stand in front of the row of apartment mailboxes staring at it in my hand like it might bite me.
He couldn't even talk to me, I think, the words echoing around my brain. He had to write because he couldn't even stand to have a conversation.
Not even over the phone.
I'm an idiot.
I'm tempted to tear it into pieces and throw it into the apartment's garbage bin, because I want to forget that I was ever naive and starstruck and dumb enough to fall for a man who can't even dump me properly, but I don't. I march up three flights of stairs to my apartment, open the door, shut it firmly, lock it, throw my bag on the bed, and take a deep breath.
Then I sit on the bed and open the letter as my heart tries to claw its way out of my throat.
Marisol,
I'm sorry. I keep starting this letter only to crumple it up and toss it in the bin because I don't know how to do it properly, but I've decided that this time whatever comes out of my pen will have to do, so here it is.
I fucked up. I fucked up once and then I kept at it. I fucked up until you left. When you were gone I kept fucking up and now I'm here and I'm not even allowed to make phone calls for the first week, that's how much I've fucked up.
I should have just told you about Liam. The reasons why I didn't sound stupid when I say them out loud in the bright light of day.
Forgive me if you can. Somewhere along the way I fell in love with you so hard it terrifies me. I didn't think I could do that.
I've run out of things to say except I miss you and I've fucked up and if you asked for my heart I'd rip it out of my chest with my own hands. Letter-writing has never been my strong suit. You'd be appalled at how long this single page has taken me.
I'm sorry. I love you. I'm sorry.
Gavin
P.S. Liam's a fucking liar but I've a feeling you sorted that out already.
I read it at least five times, and by the end I'm sobbing again. I miss him. I was afraid I'd never see him again, that he had gone back to England or something to deal with his problems and he'd left me here with a box of tapes and a broken heart.
But he's in rehab, he's relapsed, and that's an ocean of uncertainty. I don't know that he'll ever be better. I don't know if addicts get better or if they're always just addicts who haven't had a fix in a long time.
Gavin, I'm terrified too, I think.
There's another letter Saturday. I haven't written back yet. There are about fifty pieces of notebook paper balled up, most in my trash can, but I haven't actually gotten through a letter yet. I don't know how to say yes but no but yes but please don't break my heart, you could, you really could.
Or maybe I should just say that.
Marisol,
I've made several small ceramic bowls. That's what we do in rehab, at least in California: we alternate between talking about our feelings and making pottery. Sometimes baskets. There's a painting class I could take but I'm absolute rubbish at it.
I'm not permitted phone calls until next Thursday, by the way. They've taken my mobile, and I'm pretty sure sneaking a call isn't too difficult to arrange but I'm trying, for once, to follow the rules properly. It isn't my forte but I'm really giving it a go, I swear.
This letter's longer, and he just goes on about the things he's doing at rehab - half sharing what's going on, half making fun of Californians - but I read it in his voice and then I close my eyes for a moment, just wishing he were here.
It's been five days. I know it's stupid to miss him, but I do.
In any case, I don't recommend going to rehab if you don't need to.
Love you.
Gavin
After another fifty tries, I finally write back on Sunday.
46
Gavin
I'm the first to admit that I don't like rehab. It's boring and full of addicts, a whole bunch of people trying to find the motivation and inspiration to sober up for good this time, and that means that it's like walking around inside the pages of a self-help book.
That said, I do keep a list simply titled reasons not to do heroin. Marisol features heavily, but one line simply says rehab is stupid and I hate it.
My days are structured. I'm never alone. I've even got a roommate, because being in rehab, besides being boring, is also like being a citizen of a very mild police state: there's always someone around to watch you. Luckily Greg's not so bad, but privacy is a bit difficult to come by and mostly occurs in the shower.
Marisol's not written me back yet. I don't know if she will. I try not to think about it too much, at least for right now, because we are to accept the things we cannot change et cetera. And I know that if I finish my stint in here and haven't heard from her, I'm not giving up.
She's too important. That bit about the tearing my heart from my chest was probably a bit graphic, but it was true.
I get a letter Monday, so no need for dramatics. When I find it in the mail basket on my door - already opened to make sure it's not hiding illicit substances, of course - my heart practically leaps out of my chest. I take it to the bathroom and sit on the toilet with the lid down, the only place I can actually be alone to read what she's written me.
Gavin,
I'm not very good at writing letters either. I've started this one about a million times too, but I keep talking about the weather or something and then crumpling them up. The weather doesn't even make sense to talk about. We live in Los Angeles. What weather?
See, I did it again.
Here goes.
I don't know what I'm doing. I'm still hurt that you lied about Liam (I figured out he's a liar, no worries), but when Nigel gave me the tapes I thought for sure that it was your way of saying goodbye to me, and I was devastated. Because somewhere between rubber gloves and the alley, I started liking you and then quite liking you, and it's really strange that you, of all people, turned out to be the one for me but there it is.
Crap, your letter was a lot better. This sounds like I'm drawing up a contract or something.
I think I need you, and I think I love you, but I'm afraid that I shouldn't feel either way, that you'll wind up relapsing again and breaking my heart. I'm not sure I can do that.
Please advise. There's the lawyer-speak again.
Love,
Marisol
Shit. It didn't even occur to me that she could think the tapes meant goodbye. I was still wasted when I told Nigel to give them to her, but it was the only way I could think of just then to tell her how I felt. To beg her not to give up on me, to wear my heart on my sleeve and lay it all out there completely, no secrets, only rough takes and me fucking around on a guitar for a long time with lyrics that will definitely need some work.
They're all about her, after all. Or mostly about her, but she's the one who unlocked me again, made those songs possible at all. I guess I forgot to tell her that part.
I read Marisol's letter one more time, trying not to laugh at her for please advise. I know the letter doesn't say I'll take you back but it does say I think I love you. That's not something you think, it's something you feel, but it's Marisol. Of course she's going to analyze and overthink this. Strangely, I love that about her.
I keep writing her every day, and I start getting letters back. I don't know what to say, so I tell her about the terrible crafts I've made, I make fun of the woman who runs our group therapy sessions, I tell her the sunsets are sub-par because she's not there.
She writes about helping her parents move into their new apartment. The letter starts out casually, but it's nearly four pages long. She apologizes for not telling me about their problem sooner, that it's not nearly the same level of offense as my lie about Liam, but she understands how something like that grows until it takes over.
She writes about growing up in a dangerous part of Los Angeles, about knowing early that luck happened to other people and she was always going to have to fight for everything she got. About Brianna getting married to a rich guy while Marisol was in her second year of law school, a hundred grand in debt, and crying in the bathroom at their wedding wondering if she'd picked the wrong path.
I laugh, despite myself. I'm in rehab for the second time and Marisol's wondering if she's gone wrong in life.
I tell her I'm glad she picked the path that led her to me, at least.
Thursday I get telephone privileges. They don't give me my mobile back, but there's a small office with a phone, a signup sheet, no door, and a nurse in the next room. I've got forty-five minutes.
I spend the first ten with Nigel, because I need to get him out of the way. He confirms that he's done everything I've asked, and then, after a long awkward classic-Nigel pause, tells me Liam's gone home.
"He hasn't got a home," I point out.
"His mum's," Nigel says, slowly. "Back in Mountford Wye."