R. Lilley: Rock Bottom

“I didn’t.”

“I think it would be good for him to take it up again. It would make him feel closer to Jared, and he needs that.”

“Do you think that will help right now, or make it worse?” I asked. I wasn’t asking because I had the answer. In my opinion, it could go either way.

“I think it will help. They were so close. Forgetting his brother is not an option, and staying close to what made Jared whole is the best way to remember him.”

I could tell by his voice that he believed that.

Later, much later, I would regret telling Tristan about the phone call, about the guitar. Some part of me, the part that liked to wallow in my own misery and dwell on the past, would blame that guitar for everything that went wrong between us, because it brought him back to the band and that lifestyle. But the logical part of me knew that Tristan would have gone back to old habits and old friends, and that whether he sank or swam was, inevitably, in his own hands.

Every misstep that led us down the path to our destruction was our own doing, but to this day, I still hated that guitar.

DANIKA

When we hit the party scene again, we did it in force. We were people of extremes, to be sure, though I’d never have put myself in Tristan’s league when it came to decadence. After several weeks of seclusion, staying home night after night, we began to go out again.

It was supposed to be one night, one party, but that wasn’t how things worked with Tristan.

It was my firm belief that to properly mourn the loss of a person, you had to deal with the silence in your head and accept what it turned into when life didn’t keep you too busy to think. We had some small bit of that, when we spent time alone together, just the two of us. I didn’t think we had nearly enough of it before we started up again with the party scene, but Tristan didn’t agree. He was determined to escape from the silence in his head, at all costs.

I felt helpless to stop him. His demons were so very different from my own.

We found ourselves at another house party, of another friend of a friend, celebrating something or other. I was thoroughly over it by then. The house parties didn’t even have danceable music most of the time, and Tristan took off to talk to Kenny nearly the second we arrived at this one. Frankly, I’d as soon have been home studying or at the dance studio practicing.

The consolation prize for this party was that Frankie was there. She almost made up for the fact that Dean and Twatalie were in attendance.

Unfortunately, long before I found Frankie, Twatalie found me.

I was just grabbing a drink from some stranger’s kitchen when a voice spoke to me from behind.

I stiffened instantly in recognition.

“Well, you are an exotic little piece of ass, I’ll give you that. But I don’t suppose the yellow fever can last forever. His first love is for blondes, you know.”

I blinked slowly at her random little diatribe, then smiled big. This I could handle. It was the keeping my mouth shut and the claws in that had been a struggle.

“Not all of us can look like Bratz dolls,” I said, my tone idle. “Did your doctor give you a discount when he realized that you’d lost the ability to blink your eyes or close your mouth? If not, you should definitely write a nasty letter. Though, in your case, I guess the more you have in common with a blow-up doll, the better.” I met her furious eyes straight on, making my expression into one of surprise, popping my lips out and slightly open like hers were permanently; my best impression of a blow-up doll.

“You’re a real bitch, you know that?”

I rolled my eyes, disappointed that was the best she could do. I’d been ready for a real sparring match. “And you’re a tired old Vegas slut of a gold digger.”

“I’m only twenty-six!”

I had to bite my lip to keep from laughing. It really said it all, that the old part of my statement was the only thing she took exception to. “Sluts that bang old men age in dog years, didn’t you know?”

She had nothing for me besides a hand throw in the air and some heel stomping as she walked away. I knew men liked boobs, but I was baffled that Tristan had fallen for her. Unaccountably, dealing with her just always made me want to throw things at him .

“Why do you look like you want to hit something? What did Tristan do now?”

My mouth twisted ruefully as I turned to look at Frankie. “You know what’s infuriating? Verbal sparring with a blow-up doll and realizing that this used to be my boyfriend’s ‘type.’”

“Ahh, Twatalie. She’d put anyone in a bad mood.”

“I swear she’s stalking us. She’s everywhere we go lately.”

“She wants him back. She’s making no bones about it.”

That made my gut twist. He’d given her a ring once, and I was almost certain there were still some feelings left between them.

“It would never happen, Danika. Get that look off your face. He wouldn’t do that to you, especially not with her.”

“I walked in on them flirting once. It was months ago, but I could tell there were still feelings between them.”

“I bet you misunderstood.”

“I don’t think I did.”

“For the record, I think your jealousy is clouding your judgement on this one. They have a long history, yeah, and I think he went from resenting her to feeling sorry for her. I think she had a rough childhood, and Tristan was always trying to rescue her from it. He’s got this savior complex…”

“Savior complex…You think he’s trying to save me ?”

“No. That’s not what I’m saying. What I mean is he’s a good guy, and he always sympathized with her. That’s a part of him that won’t change. He doesn’t like what Nat’s become, but he’s got a soft spot for what she’s gone through. As a matter of fact, that’s also why he’s still friends with Dean, mega-asshole that he is. I guess Dean had a tough childhood, and that’s why Tristan cuts him so much slack.”

“Well, that soft spot makes me want throw things at him. Does that make me a bitch?”

“Not in my book. Just don’t mistake a soft spot for some kind of an emotional affair. He’ll barely talk to her now, sympathy or no, because he knows how much it pisses you off.”

“That’s only fair, when he’d try to kill one of my ex-boyfriends if he saw them so much as looking at me.”

“True. You make a solid point. He can never ever complain about you being jealous, since he turns into a maniac if anyone looks at you funny.”

“Exactly.”

We tracked Tristan down in a crowd of people laughing by the pool. He was talking to Kenny, with Cory and Dean just a few feet away. The band was back together. I could tell at a glance. And the man in a suit that seemed to be kissing their ass made my gut twist.

I was about to lose him. The thought was swift and hard to shake. But something was happening here, some big move for the band that was bound to take him away from me, be it in time or distance.

He smiled huge when he saw me. I hadn’t seen him so happy since Jared died.

I wanted to throw up I was so worried about what he was going to tell me as he left the group, grabbing my hand and tugging me away.

“I need to talk to you about something,” he explained.

I followed on leaden feet, wanting to stall, or run, whatever it took to stop this thing in its tracks. I was being ridiculous, I knew, but knowing that didn’t stop the horrible feeling in my gut. “That sounds ominous,” I told him, keeping my voice steady.

“It’s nothing bad. It’s good, I think, actually.”

He pulled me until we found a private little corner on the side of the house. He moved close, touching his forehead to mine and smiling before he began.