“Hey. Let’s talk.” The line is quiet for a moment.
“Okay. Is it about Bear?” Sighing—I sit back on the stool behind the checkout counter—rubbing my forehead with my hand.
“Yeah. I need you to tell me what’s going on, Felix.”
“Why can’t you ask him, Aaron?”
“Do you really think he’s going to tell me? Do you think if I walked up to him and asked him, he would tell me the truth and not laugh in my face?” I hate how desperate I sound—how scared.
“He’s not doing good.” Felix finally gives in. “His depression is pretty bad again and he’s almost never sober. He only smokes and drinks so I haven’t tried an intervention again or anything—but I think I get sober Bear once a week. And he…” I know what he wants to say. He doesn’t want to hurt me.
“Tell me.”
“He’s always bringing some new guy home. I don’t know if he thinks that he’s healing by doing it—or maybe he’s torturing himself—I don’t know. But they’re not all very nice and he’s never happy when they’re done. And he won’t go near women. I saw a girl try to slip her number into his pocket on campus the other day and he came home and cried.” My hands are sweating and the room is suddenly too small. I don’t know what to do—how to handle this.
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know. But I think… I think he was really in love with you. And now he’s completely convinced you never wanted him—never loved him. That everything was a lie.” I take a deep breath, try not to cry. “Aaron… you should tell him. Even if you think he won’t believe you—you should tell him. Make him listen to the whole story.”
“I don’t know if it’ll help. He hates me.” Felix sighs, clearly over this entire conversation.
“Are you stupid, Bub? He doesn’t actually hate you. Listen—sometimes when he has night terrors, he wakes up calling for you. Like some part of him just figured you’d be there to fix it—to make it stop.”
I can’t stop the tears, the ache I feel from the reality of it. I crushed him. Someone who loved me that much. We’ve passed by each other so many times now—been stuck in this endless cycle of hurt and longing.
“Come to our show tonight. Come talk to him. Please.”
“Okay.” I agree—because what else can I say?
Benjamin once said that if I had loved him back it would have made a really great story. But it didn’t. It made for a sick, fucked-up reality. And I guess I have to show him that.
Chapter Twenty Eight
July 2020
Benjamin
The best thing about performing is that the crowd is so far away that they can’t tell if you’re fucked up or not. Well—that and picking out the outfits.
Tonight, Phoebe is going for ahot-summervibe, so Cammie has on her daisy dukes and her tank top which is adorable. Felix is sporting a pair of jean cut-off capris and no shirt. He’s getting riskier every day. I’m teaching him very well. Fuck-face loser Drew is wearing a plain white shirt and black shorts because we can always leave it to him to ruin the fun.
ButI—Benjamindresses better than youDickinson—am wearing a white button-up completely unbuttoned—no undershirt. I paired that with some scandalously low-rise blue jeans with a pair of aviators hooked to the front pocket just to add to the summer effect.
I love performance nights. Cavetown gave us a normal spot on the roster after our last show did so well, so now I get to vent out my feelings to the world and get plastered like all normal celebrities. It’s better this way. It’s better that I’m constantly distracted, intoxicated or performing. Or—like most of the time—all three. That way I’m not thinking.
Then, when night falls, I grab the hottest guy I can find and take him to bed. Sometimes it’s okay, sometimes I’m terrified, and sometimes I feel nothing at all. But one thing is always the same: their touch startles me—shakes me to the core. And once I kick them out, I go to my room and give myself another beauty mark—another reminder that I’m here and I’m doingsomething. I’m not dying—not yet. Even if I want to. I apparently really get off onself-destruction.
My PTSD is pretty bad sometimes. Night terrors—screaming and crying during sex. The second one is always a bit awkward to try and explain—but whatever. I never have to see them again. I have a hard time on campus, so I do a lot of online school now, but I still have to go a couple times a week.
Felix knows I’m smoking a lot. He knows I have visitors at night. But he doesn’t push, he’s probably just happy I’m not back on hard drugs. I’m trying in the only way I know how.
The only thing I can’t seem to figure out—to work through—is Aaron. When the PTSD is really bad, he’s all I think of. Running to him—calling him. When I’m bent over my bed—crying into my pillows, I try to imagine it’s him behind me and then maybe I won’t feel so scared. His existence follows me everywhere. I’ll never escape him. It’s killing me.
I need another drink.
Another shot of moonshine later and we’re getting on the stage at Cavetown. Everyone’s screaming and clapping but the lights are so bright I can’t see most people past the first two rows. They cheer when Felix waves—freaking out over his bare chest. Cammie spins her drumstick in the air. Drew gives the crowd his sweet boy-next-door smile.
And me. I make sure the mic is where I need and take a deep breath. Here we go.
