19. Will #2
“Don’t take this the wrong way. But maybe you should consider therapy.” He pulls his head back and winces like I might hurt him, trying to lighten the mood. “Seriously, it’s been really good for Jesse and Ari.”
He’s probably right, but I wouldn’t know where to start. What if I’m too fucked up? What if I say the quiet part out loud and they put me in a padded room?
It’s super concerning that the first thought I have about being locked up is that I’d be somewhere I can’t reach Ari.
Naz springs off the couch and pulls me up by my hoodie strings. “But first, let’s go out and have some fun. It’s Halloween in NYC, baby!”
We throw together whatever random stuff we can find for costumes.
I wear a black suit with a black shirt and tie and the black satin mask from the club that I’m probably imagining still smells like cum.
Naz wears his outfit from the Rolling Stone shoot, which is just a leather chest harness and baggy pants, plus a black mask that looks curiously like a muzzle.
“Where did you even get that?”
“Mind your business about things you don’t want to know about. Like how I haven’t asked even once why you keep smelling your mask. I don’t want to know, so I don’t ask.”
The streets are chaos. We walk in the Village Parade, enjoying the privilege of anonymity, and filter in and out of bars with Scott and Zane not too far behind.
We end up in a dance club, packed wall to wall with bodies.
Every time I look up at a raised platform and see a go-go dancer, male or female, I think about Ari dancing for that bartender.
At some point, I look over and see Naz grinding with someone.
I do a double take and question how much I’ve had to drink when I realize it’s his bodyguard.
Scott is in his usual black t-shirt and dark-wash jeans, and has his fingers woven into Naz’s chest harness, using it to hold Naz against him while he aggressively grinds into Naz’s ass.
A peek over to the nearest table confirms that Zane is seeing the same thing I am.
It seems like Naz is enjoying himself, so I guess that’s happening.
Zane has a similar expression on his face, and I laugh, thinking about all the ways I plan on using this against Naz later.
A while later, we stumble back to the condo, wasted and happy in that hollowed-out way only copious amounts of alcohol can cause. We collapse on the couch with large bottles of water that our babysitters—I mean bodyguards—supplied us with.
Out of nowhere, Naz slurs as he says, “It’s pretty convenient you were in that hotel bar in Dallas.”
I snort. “Yeah. Convenient is a good word for that.”
Naz laughs. “I thought…” He takes a second to collect himself.
“I almost thought you had something to do with it. Because, like, you’re so crazy over his shit.
And you were acting all dodgy.” He laughs and drags out the pronunciation of dodgy a couple more times.
“And, like, what the fuck were you even doing down there, man? Fuckin’ spying on your brother’s hookup? ”
He’s laughing, but I’m not. Eventually, he realizes I’m not laughing, and his laughter dies down. He meets my dead-on stare for several long, drawn-out moments. Realization hits. I watch it happen in real time as he catches on.
Then he bursts out laughing again. “Oh, shit! That’s fucked-up, dude.”
He giggles off and on for a few more minutes, probably remembering the chaos I caused. Even in my drunken state, I don’t think it’s all that funny. Then again, I’m the one replaying Ari’s frightened face in my mind, over and over again.
Naz sighs. “I really hope I remember this shit in the morning. Because I never want to stop giving you shit for being a crazy motherfucker.”
“That’s okay,” I tell him. “I’m hoping I remember to ask what’s going on with you and Scott.”
Naz stops, considers, and then shrugs.
“Dude, are you fucking your bodyguard?”
“Yup,” he says, popping the p. “Are you fucking your brother?”
“No,” I say honestly, and hope my dejected tone doesn’t betray how much that admission blows.
The next morning, Naz is fully dressed and ready to go by the time I shuffle out for caffeine.
“How are you functional right now?” I croak, squinting in the late morning light filtering in all the windows.
“Lots of water. And protein.” He winks, and I do, in fact, remember our conversation about Naz and his bodyguard.
“Don’t ask if I don’t want to know, right?”
He grins and picks up his duffle bag. “See you in a few days.”
He starts to walk towards the door but pauses and turns back. “Do I need to worry about you committing some kind of, like, murder-suicide thing before the concert next week?”
I scoff. “I’ll try to hold off until after.”
He nods. “Good man.” As he reaches the door, he yells out, “Love ya’, buddy!”
“Love you, too.”
And just like that, I’m alone again. Still exhausted, with a headache, and no closer to knowing what to do with myself. Looking around, I think about Ari in LA instead of here with me, and realize I’ve probably already lost him. But I still don’t feel like I can let go.
Are there rush-order therapists?