Chapter Nineteen • Gaslamp • Damien
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Four days without Lillith.
What was supposed to be a daytrip to San Diego with a same-day turnaround has now become a four-day trip full of meetings and collaborations with local punk bands.
I’m pissed, but I’m doing my best not to show it.
Not because I’m embarrassed. It’s a no-brainer that I’d want to spend time with the beautiful woman I’m trying to make my girlfriend, instead of a bunch of sweaty dudes.
I’m trying to hide it because I’m not in the mood to take shit from my friends about my habitual simping. Not when I’m feeling so much doubt over whether or not Lillith even wants me the way I want her.
The fake name thing is still bothering me, and the longer it bothers me, the weirder I feel about bringing it up and asking about it.
When I’m with her, I feel great. I feel like we’re twin stars, orbiting each other as we work our way toward a collision so powerful it could become a black hole. In a good way. In the best way.
I want nothing more than to sink into her and drown in her presence.
Suddenly, every prospective plan takes on the faint lilac hue of my growing infatuation with Lillith.
Every potential business deal and travel plan brings her to mind.
As well as a host of other questions that make me want to throw things.
Will she ever be able to come on tour with me?
Would she move to the PNW to be with me?
Or would she let me move in with her? I’m making enough money now that it’s not totally unfeasible for me to fly or drive back home to Seattle when I need to do a show, but losing out on the ability to write music with Oren in-person, or rehearse with the guys, might feel rotten.
I know she wants to travel. She told me as much as we cuddled on a pile of comforters and home-sewn quilts in front of her hearth in nothing but our underwear.
She looked so sad when she told me, though.
And I’m worried she feels so tied to her family’s legacy that she’ll never leave it in someone else’s hands in favor of being with me.
Then again, it’d be a dick move to even ask her to do that.
“Why the sour face?” Roxie asks, drawing me out of my rumination.
I didn’t realize I’d been showing my emotions so openly. I had hoped staring out of the window and being quiet would have saved me from the scrutiny about to be dumped on me like a bucket of cold water.
No dice, though. Oren speaks next.
“He’s pouting because he had to leave his tour girlfriend at home.” He sounds groggy, probably waking from a doze just to give me shit.
“You should have brought her with us,” Fletcher says. “She doesn’t seem like the type to go all psycho on you.”
“She isn’t,” I say. “But she owns a store, man. It’s not like she can just drop everything and follow me wherever. She’s got customers to take care of.”
“How busy can a crystal shop even be?” Satoshi gripes, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his leather jacket and slapping the bottom of it against his palm a couple times before fishing one out and lighting it.
“Hey, hey, hey! Roll down the window first, you prick,” Roxie complains, doing it for him.
“It’s not just a crystal shop. She makes spells and potions for people, does Tarot readings too,” I tell Satoshi.
“Oh. So she’s a scammer,” he says blandly.
“Careful,” Oren warns lowly.
“Yes, listen to Oren. Or I’ll break your pretty, fuckboy face,” I bark.
“Well, I mean—it’s true isn’t it? She’s selling a fucking placebo effect,” Satoshi says.
Oren sighs. “You do know that most modern medicines we take use naturally occurring chemicals and plant extracts, right? You know that witches used to basically be midwives and medicine women?”
“Yeah, asshole,” I agree.
“Fuck you,” Satoshi says.
“Fuck you,” I say.
“Don’t make me turn this car around,” Roxie says.
I grumble as I lean against the passenger seat window, staring out ahead as the palm trees pass more and more frequently and a thin slice of sea peeks over the horizon. I want to tell Roxie to do just that, to follow through on the threat: to turn around and take me home.
I don’t know exactly when Lillith became home.
But that’s what she is to me. She’s home.
The only person I feel completely at ease with.
And that’s why I don’t want to be this sullen around the guys.
Because for some reason, this time it’s different.
And I don’t want them talking shit about her or acting like she’s just a blip in my life, because if that’s the case, I really will be devastated. I’ll be crushed.
My phone buzzes in my pocket and I fish it out, smiling when I see Lillith’s name. When I open it, it’s a picture of Gloam covered in dried green herbs, looking blissed out as hell.
Guess who forgot the sachet she’s working on has a bunch of catnip in it?
The text message has three facepalm emojis right after it. I laugh, immediately feeling my mood lift. I tap out a quick message back.
What are you working on? What’s the sachet for?
It’s for you, actually. A protection charm.
No shit? I think I need it immediately. You should hand-deliver it to San Diego.
I wish. I miss you.
I miss you too, little bird.
The dots indicating that she’s typing pop up just as Satoshi leans over the shoulder of my seat.
“I miss you too, little chicken,” he says in a mocking voice. “God, you’re so embarrassing.”
“Don’t read my shit over my shoulder, dickhead,” I snap.
“Seriously, Toshi, you’re being super unfun right now,” Roxie says. “Don’t be a douchebag. Lillith’s cool.”
“How would you fucking know? You barely spoke to her,” Satoshi says.
“It’s a vibe. You probably don’t pick up on it because you’re like... constantly vibrating at a low frequency, dude. And even if I didn’t know, your friend is clearly into her. It’s free to be kind.”
“It’s also free to be honest,” he counters.
“You mean it’s free to be a little bitch?” I say.
Fletcher lets out a resigned sigh and lies down in the back row of the van, draping a flannel shirt over his eyes. “I’m taking a nap,” he lilts. “I’m not interested in being privy to this argument. Again.”
The van gets awkward and tense after that, everyone quieting down. Maybe Satoshi heard it in my tone that I’m not fucking around anymore. Not about Lillith. This isn’t just some stupid crush or a hyperfixation. It’s deeper than that.
When I met Oren as a kid, I felt a similar way.
Like there was a shift in the way the fabric of the universe spooled out from the bolt.
This is like that, but it’s even more intense.
I can’t stop thinking about her when I’m away from her.
And when I’m with her, I don’t want to think about anything else.
I wonder if this is what it feels like to be bewitched. Maybe she’s cast a spell on me.
If she has, I don’t want out. Hell, she could lay me down as a blood sacrifice on her altar and I would thank her for carving my heart out and eating it.
My phone buzzes and it’s Lillith again. This time it’s a selfie with Gloam held in her hooked arm. Gloam’s tongue is sticking out and her eyes are focused in different directions, but Lillith is smiling with closed eyes and blushed cheeks and mauve lips. She’s fucking beautiful.
I save the photo and make it my lockscreen so I can see it every time I open my phone. After feeling my heart swell about three times its normal size, I text her.
Be my girlfriend.
Careful with texts like that. I’m going to think you mean it.
I do mean it. I can’t stop thinking about you. I don’t think I’ll ever look at another woman again after meeting you. Be my girlfriend.
The dots bounce on my phone. Then vanish. Then start bouncing again. My heart sinks and I want to throw myself out of the moving car.
God, Damien, you fucking imbecile. Way to be stupid and impulsive and put all your cards on the table. Who asks someone to be their girlfriend via text? Stupid teenagers, that’s who.
I’m about to fully descend into dark self-loathing when a text finally comes through.
I’m not saying no. But there are some circumstances that make it really hard to say yes right now.
What are the circumstances?
I can’t tell you.
Is this what Wren said I’d find out about?
Yes.
Lillith. Just tell me. Please. I can promise you whatever it is I’m not going anywhere.
The dots appear on the screen again and then they vanish.
I watch the screen for the rest of the half hour we drive into San Diego.
They don’t come back.
???? ?????
“Another?”
The Gaslamp District is great, and it kind of reminds me of the vibes near Lillith’s shop. Only there’s more alcohol and existential dread here.
Then again, I guess I brought the existential dread with me.
“Yup,” I say, really leaning into the ‘P’. He sets yet another whiskey and coke in front of me, and I drink about half of it in the time it takes him to clear the empty glass away.
I’ve lost track of how many of these I’ve had. Enough to lose the guys, for sure. I don’t know where the fuck they went, but they probably sensed I’m in Devastation mode. Frankly? I don’t blame them for bailing on me. I’d bail on me too.
Lillith hasn’t texted back. I keep checking my phone every ten minutes to see if that’s changed.
I’m looking at the screen when someone sits down next to me.
I ignore the interloper who clearly has no situational awareness if they don’t see that I’m giving off a don’t-fuck-with-me aura with a radius of about three miles.
I pointedly stare at the screen, almost obnoxiously ignoring him.
But the guy clearly doesn’t get it because he fucking speaks to me.
“My, my. Did you get left on read?”
He’s got a fucked-up accent, like the guy can’t figure out where he wants to pretend to be from. It’s not quite posh enough to be British, but lacks the bitten-off consonants of Fletch’s Irish accent.
“Do you make a habit of talking to people who clearly don’t want to talk?” I ask, hating that the slight slur in my words shaves the edge off them.
“Afraid so,” he says.
I finally look over at him.