Chapter 34 Clarity
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Clarity
Tristan stood at the shore, gazing out at the endless Pacific Ocean.
The sun scorched his skin, and the heat made sweat pour from his pores.
Not far from him, a couple was kissing, the man holding the woman tightly as her black hair gently blew in the wind.
A little further ahead, some children were splashing in the shallow water.
There were barely any waves; even the sea seemed sluggish in the heat.
After Leaf had left, Tristan felt like he couldn’t breathe.
The confinement of the memory-laden rooms had driven him out of the apartment.
Swallowing his pride, he grabbed the car keys from Milo’s room and took off in the Chevelle.
First, he drove straight to a car wash, as the car was covered in leaves and had cat paw prints on the windshield.
Inside, everything was spotless—Milo had always taken care of that.
The ashtray was clean, and the tank was full.
Without thinking too much, Tristan had driven to Santa Monica, then taken Highway 1 north to Topanga Beach. He and Milo had often been here, goofing around and celebrating their freedom. Making plans and promising each other the world.
“I believe in you, little brother,” Milo had said. “You’re going to make it big. But never forget, I’ll always have your back. No matter what.”
Tristan exhaled and closed his eyes for a moment.
The bright light blinded him, even though he was wearing sunglasses.
He felt exhausted and dazed, with a sense that his life was slipping away from him, like a chain slipping through his hands, following a heavy anchor to the bottom of the sea.
It seemed there was no lever to stop it.
Maybe a crowbar would help, but Tristan had no idea where to wedge it to halt the fall.
Time and again, Leaf appeared before him, peering at him as if he were a mess he himself had trampled on.
How could someone bear so much guilt? He didn’t need to.
All Tristan wanted was to kiss Leaf, hold him, and tell him everything would be okay.
He would keep saying it until Leaf believed it himself, because Tristan knew it was true, even if it didn’t feel that way yet.
The six days he had given himself were almost up, and he had done nothing to improve the situation. But what had he expected? That by returning, everything would go back to normal? Definitely not, as long as he didn’t have himself under control.
Exhaustion and weariness were evident in Leaf’s appearance.
The needle marks on his arm were burned into Tristan’s mind.
Was there still time to avert a catastrophe?
The fact that his partner and best friend was fighting a battle with himself and wouldn’t let anyone help him felt like a paralyzing electric shock.
When he had confronted Leaf about the needle marks, it had been one of those rare moments when Leaf couldn’t hide his fragility behind indifference.
His lips had quivered, those beautiful lips of his.
Tristan sighed in exasperation. He adjusted his sunglasses and tied his curls with a rubber band.
O Captain! My Captain!
What should I do?
There must be something.
Anything.
Or had he reached the point where he needed Dr. Snider? Someone to tell him what he already knew?
“What do you want, Mr. James? Because if you don’t want to go out, not on stage, not home, I can offer you refuge here.”
It felt like a blow to the head when Tristan realized he hadn’t lied to Dr. Snider. He thought he did, but in truth, he had only lied to himself and told Dr. Snider the truth.
I want to be on stage.
Fuck …
The realization brought Tristan to his knees.
Slowly, he crouched down and sat in the sand.
It felt like he had lost sight of the most important thing.
He thought it was music, his lyrics, and poems that would bring him back to the land of the living; he had been so sure of it and had tried to put himself first to give the band the feeling they could make it. But that was wrong.
It’s impossible without Leaf.
He was the one who gave him the necessary support and strength to master this life, the drive to keep going, writing new songs, and performing. Leaf was above the band, because without him, Tristan couldn’t show the world that he was back. And Leaf was about to be swallowed by the darkness.
I can’t let that happen.
The tightness in his chest gradually eased, and Tristan breathed in the salty air. It smelled of peace and gave him confidence and strength, recharging his empty batteries and clearing his confused thoughts.
When he returned to the Chevelle, his heart felt lighter.
On the passenger seat was the phone Andrej had given him.
Tristan had only taken it because he was afraid the car might break down somewhere.
Despite financial problems, Milo had always taken good care of the Chevelle; he would never have given it up to pay off any debts, as the car’s value far exceeded any amount of money.
But the old Chevelle had died more than once at some street corner.
Yet it always brought a smile to Tristan’s face when he turned the key and the engine started.
Tristan took the road back to Santa Monica, heading down Highway 10 toward downtown and turning onto 405 North. Driving toward Hollywood, he knew what he still had to take care of today.
In the late afternoon, he reached Picot Records and parked the car in front of the office building. In the lobby he went to reception and let Carol know he was there.
“She’s expecting you, Mr. James. You can go right in,” the receptionist said.
Tristan hadn’t expected anything different as he strolled to the elevator and took the elevator up to the fifth floor. Carol probably considered it a miracle that he showed up unannounced. When the doors opened, he was greeted by Grace, Carol’s assistant.
“Mr. James,” she said, visibly taken aback, gesturing him toward Carol’s office. “How are you?”
“Hm,” he grumbled before striding ahead.
Grace followed closely behind him. Carol was still on the phone but signaled to him with a raised hand that she would be with him shortly.
“Would you like something to drink, Mr. James? Water? Or a soda?”
“Soda sounds good,” he replied, suppressing his amusement at her nervousness as he settled into the chair in front of Carol’s imposing desk.
Grace placed an empty glass and a can of Canada Dry in front of him, smiling at him like a lovestruck fangirl, then left the room.
Tristan’s gaze wandered to the wall adorned with gold and platinum records and countless photos of the stars who had come and gone at this label over the past fifty years. Big names that had made music history.
“Okay,” Carol said. “The email has arrived. I’ll go through it with him right away. Yes. He’s sitting in front of me. Okay. Thanks. Talk to you soon.” Carol hung up the phone and leaned back in her chair—visibly relieved to see Tristan, but somehow also suspicious. “Tristan, how are you?”
“Would you believe me if I said I’m fine?”
“No.”
“Let’s just skip it.” Tristan cracked open the can, pouring the ginger ale into the glass and took a few sips. He was thirsty, having not had anything to drink since leaving home. “Was that the lawyer?”
“Yes. Dexter Evans. He’s already left for the weekend, but he just sent me the documents for the Frank Chelsea case. I assume that’s why you’re here.”
“Hm …” Tristan found it difficult to admit that he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
Carol’s eyes were glued to the screen as she clicked the mouse and scrolled through a document. “Here it is. Chelsea is suing you for assault and battery and is seeking … $50,000 in damages.”
Tristan paused. “Do I even have that much?”
“Oh, Tristan, that’s the wrong question. After the tour, you’ll have much more than a measly $50,000.”
“Then he should get his money.”
“Wha-what did you just say?” Carol tore her gaze from the screen and stared at him with wide eyes and an open mouth. She then swallowed hard and composed herself. “That, my dear, is definitely the wrong attitude. I don’t even need to be a lawyer to know that. What’s wrong with you?”
Tristan shifted in his chair and nervously twisted his fingers together. Even though he could barely remember that day, not everything was lost in a dense fog. “There’s nothing wrong with me. The guy provoked me.”
Carol raised her eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like you at all.”
Tristan sighed and shook his head. “This guy was wasted and kept bumping into me, so I asked him to chill out. And once he realized who I was, he started mouthing off. Called me an arrogant rock star. He acted like he knew me inside out, even though he hates our music. Started dissing my background too.”
“Oh no.” Carol probably guessed where this was going.
“He was drunk, and so was I. José had wanted to change bars ages ago, but then the guy called me a fucking Indian and said the one who killed my brother should get a medal. That triggered something in me.” Tristan shrugged, avoiding eye contact with Carol.
He had always been somewhat conflict-averse, so he surprised himself with how quickly he had lost his temper.
“You were under tremendous stress,” Carol said gently.
“Maybe. But I did attack him. There’s no denying that.”
“You weren’t yourself.”
“He should get his money.”
“Let me … read the rest briefly. There are a few more pages, and Evans sent another email.” Turning back to the screen, Carol clicked her mouse and scrolled further.
“Ah, so … Chelsea has now lowered it to $30,000. That was yesterday. Oh, he must have heard the news about your parents and now wants to show some goodwill.”
“Then give him the $30,000,” Tristan said indifferently.
“No. As I said, you were under tremendous stress. And those aren’t even my words—they come from Evans. Sure, Frank Chelsea spent a night in the hospital. You’ll probably have to cover those costs, but with the psychological report from Dr. Snider …”
“The what?” At the same moment, he remembered that Dr. Snider had informed him about it. “Oh yeah …”
“You weren’t in a good state,” Carol continued. “I didn’t even realize it, or I would have canceled the release concert—trust me. But it was too last-minute. Evans is now determining who is accountable for the damages from canceling the concert, especially now that we have this medical report.”
“I don’t want such an assessment to—”
“Tris, calm down. Nothing will be made public. And with Dexter Evans, it’s in the best hands, trust me. We only want the best for you. But if you just give Chelsea $30,000 like that, it’s not sending a good signal. Everyone will come afterward and want money from you.”
“I understand,” Tristan muttered. “But what’s wrong with wanting to handle it in a civilized manner?”
“If you want to do good, then donate it if you want. You can do whatever you want with your money. But when it comes to these things, let the lawyers handle it.”
“Okay. I actually thought I came here to sign a settlement or something …”
Carol laughed. “I’m glad you came. You’re also looking better again. On Monday, you were like a ghost on two legs. Are you taking the pills?”
Tristan nodded.
“That’s good. I hope they’re helping.”
Tristan shrugged, finding it hard to confirm.
“Do you want to grab something to eat? There’s a new Japanese restaurant around the corner. Or is there something else you’d like to talk to me about?”
“Yes, but we can discuss it over food. I love Japanese.” Tristan finished his soda and got up from his chair.