“Hey Eve,” Gabe said quietly. “Are you crying?”
There was silence except for the quick, shallow breathing of the girl in his arms. He gently let go.
“Ha!” She cried, spinning around and shoving him away from her.
Gabe just stared at her. She pulled the same trick the first night they met at the dance, and it was jarring. He couldn’t tell if he was reliving the emotions he had when he was 17, or if she was producing fresh feelings of anger.
“You still fall for the same tricks,” she said.
“What’s with the act Eve, really?”
“I told you.”
“Come on.”
“It’s easier. It really is. I’ve tried to fade my accent, but I can’t pick up the British intonation for the life of me. I blame it on watching ‘The Godfather’ too many times with you.”
Gabe smirked.
“Friends,” he asked, sticking out his hand.
“Only if you’ll keep my secret.”
“How about this. You help me and my band get some gigs out here, and I’ll keep your secret.”
She left his hand outstretched.
“No one knows. You’d think with the Internet someone would have figured it out, but changing my name made it very easy.”
“What would happen if people found out?”
“Probably impeachment, public humiliation and the stripping of all my awards.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell no. I’m a pop singer not a politician. But it may hurt my chances to marry Prince Harry.”
Gabe smiled.
“But no telling anyone. Not even your band. I think Lord Mumford would have an aneurysm if he found out, and I can’t lose his backing yet.”
“Yet? But I thought you were already a hit.”
“Yes, here. But not in the States. And that is when the super stardom hits.”
“So it’s about the fame?”
“Music first. But fame is a nice gift to top it off.”
“What did you think of the band?”
“I liked what I heard. Though your subject-matter has gotten a bit more depressing since high school.”
“That’ll happen when you grow up.”
“Who was it?”
“She was my girlfriend.”
“Was?”
“She passed away a year ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Gabe didn’t respond. He walked over to the large, L-shaped couch in the middle of the room and let his body crumple into it.
“That bad?”
No answer.
“Are you fucking with me now?”
Gabe shook his head.
“You’re going to have to get over this poor puppy routine at some point.”
“What?”
“At this point, it’s selfish. You prefer to wallow because you’re scared about what the world will bring again if you move on.”
“That’s a load of shit.”
“Then what is it?”
“Why do I have to justify how I feel?”
“You do when you’re choosing to feel that way.”
“What do you know?” Gabe said, his voice rising. “You have no idea.”
“I just saw the life evaporate out of you as soon as I asked about her. That was a choice you made on how to deal with it in the moment. You’ve been coddled too much.”
Gabe almost didn’t comprehend what was spewing out of her mouth.
“Don’t discuss matters you don’t understand,” he replied.
“Oh I understand, more than you’d know. Do you want to up the ante on tragedies.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“That’s what you inferred.”
Gabe sighed. “Why are we fighting about this?”
“Because no one had made you fight about it for the past year. I can tell. You must have very patient friends – too patient.”
“And now you’re insulting my friends.”
“They’re enablers.”
“You’re a horrible therapist.”
“Have you seen one?”
“Who can afford one?”
“I know where you come from,” Eve said her mouth curling into a smirk. “Stop pulling those pathetic excuses.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get one. Why should I?”
“Selfish.”
“How does it make me selfish to not to go to someone and talk about myself for hours at a time?”
“Because you don’t want to get better. You want to stay where you are in every way.”
Gabe didn’t want to respond. He wanted her to leave. Her statements circled in his head and festered. He didn’t want any more thoughts to enter in. He didn’t want to fight back. He just wanted her gone.
“Eve please leave.”
“Fuck no.”
“I’m asking you politely.”
“Can you ask impolitely?”
“Why should I have to?”
“It’s good for you. I’m making you eat your emotional vegetables.”
“What a crock.”
“You’re the crock.”
“What’s going to get you out of my face?”
“Stand up. Acknowledge how you feel, and then move on.”
“Easier said.”
“True, but you’re like an addict.”
“What?”
You’re addicted to grief. You can’t get yourself out of the feeling, and it becomes debilitating. Instead acknowledge you feel shitty, but don’t dwell on it. Don’t let it control your actions.”
“Okay whatever.”
“This would be the deal. You keep my secret, and I become your grief sponsor. I'll introduce your band to the right people and the gigs will come.”
