CHAPTER 7: His eyes turn to you the very second your right foot steps into the room, and you notice immediately how he, unbelieveably, already looks like crap. Or, well, he looks like he always does - dark hair, hazel eyes, Adam-ish clothes - but he has a stubble that looks unintentional, like he didn't bother shaving, his eyes seem tired and dark, and his hair is just a mess, like he just got out of bed (not unlikely, though, considering it's a little to two in the night). Even as he stares at you, he seems exhausted, and honestly, you're kind of shocked, because he is absolutely nothing like the energetic, confident, slightly cocky man you've seen pictures of in magazines, seen chatting on talkshows, seen performing on live tv. He looks worn out. Just worn out.
You walk to the table he sits by, trying to seem cool and confident, and pull out a chair and sit across from him. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't do anything. He just stares at you. He doesn't even blink until after a few seconds. Then he looks down.
"Sorry I woke you," he apologizes, and you look at him in disbelief.
"Sorry...?!" you blurt out. "You didn't seem particularly sorry when you sent me 15 text messages and called me three times in the middle of the night."
He groans and takes a hand to his forehead, rubs it. "I just had to talk," he says, and you stare at him.
"And you couldn't do that on the phone?"
"You would've hung up on me, and it wouldn't have been the same," he reasons, and you shake your head.
"I wouldn't have hung up on you," you reject, yet he just nods.
"Yeah, you would."
"You're Adam Levine," you point out, and he grins, but there's not a trace of humor in it.
"Exactly," he agrees simply, and then he turns silent. You wait for him to say more, and it takes a long few seconds for him to explain. "You wouldn't be able to take me seriously on the phone cause I'm Adam Levine. And you'd have the paparazzi on the other line. Or you might just think: 'Fuck Adam Levine, I'm going to bed,' and hang up. So I asked you to come here."
"You didn't ask me. You forced me." He chuckles, and you see the briefest glimpse of actual laugher in his eyes as he looks at you. You realize you're smiling, and you wipe it off your face. "Don't tell me you're sorry," you warn him, and it's like he can see how omnious you feel, because he shuts up for a moment.
"I wasn't going to," he says quietly, and you believe that. "I already have, and you obviously don't believe me, but you shouldn't either. I'm fucked up."
"Yes, you are," you nod. "I had to talk," he explains, and you sigh.
"You told me that." "I know I did, but I just..." It's like he's fighting for words.
"Why don't you just say what it is you want to say?" you ask, and he stares at you as if he's completely forgotten about that option. Surprised, hesitant, unsure. Then he looks down.
"I'm not sure what I want to say," he murmurs, and you're speechless for a moment.
"Are you telling me you wake me up at one thirty in the night with no remorse, make me get dressed and then walk here, just to tell me you don't know what to say?!" you almost shout, and Adam looks up at you, but he doesn't speak, so you continue on. "Why don't you just tell me something about what's going on between you and your girlfriend, then? Because she's without a doubt the reason that I'm here." "She's my ex-girlfriend," Adam protests, but you send him an annoyed glance, and he picks up somewhere else. "Anyway, we broke up," he says. "No shit, Sherlock. Why?"
"She fucked with me."
You raise your eyebrows.
"What does that mean?" you ask, and Adam sighs.
"She fucked some other guy in my bed a few weeks ago, but she promised she wouldn't do it again," he explains.
"When I came home last night, she was lying right there with him, and when I came in the door and saw her, she freaked out and acted like I was the one screwing up. She made the guy leave, and then she screamed at me for a couple of minutes before she left, too. I tried to get in touch with her, but she wouldn't pick up until tonight. She just said: 'Adam, this can't work anymore. We gotta split,' and so we split because I am apparently such a horrible boyfriend or person or lover or whatever, that she had to fuck around with some other asshole. She wants me to pay for some moving transport company thing to get her things to wherever she is now, and I guess that's just what I'll do. It's easier than to make a mess of it for no reason. So, basically, I just want to get drunk and have sex and wake up with a hangover and cry myself to sleep in the night, but you're probably just waiting to leave so you can turn in your scoop to the magazine you called earlier tonight, and get paid or laid or whatever, and if I go get drunk and have sex, it won't make it all better. So I'll pull myself together for now and drink some coffee with you, and then I'll go home and delete your number and forget I ever spilled my heart out to you, and you might keep mine, but that won't matter, cause I'll change it, and in the future you'll remember this night as 'the night where I drank coffee with Adam Levine' but you won't remember why, and then we can both go on with our lives and be happy ever after. How does that sound?"
His voice is so dark, so sad, so full of anger and frustration that you really just feel like standing up and hugging him, but you don't. Instead you simply shake your head and look seriously, yet compassionately at him.
"I think it sounds stupid," you say calmly, softly, and he stares at you, obviously surprised. "I think we should drink coffee, and then I think you should keep my number and not think about getting drunk or having sex, but about telling me the best joke you know, and then I think you should laugh and not care about your girlfriend, because even though you're a terrible boyfriend or a terrible person or a terrible lover, cheating is not ok. And then once you've told me your best joke, you should feel a little better and go home and sleep and wake up and see about tomorrow and not worry about her or me or how you poured your heart out or how fucked up you are. That's what I think you should do. But it's up to you, of course." He seems speechless as you finish. He stares at you, without saying a word or moving for a long time, and then he suddenly stands up, and walk to the counter. He comes back a minute later with one cup of coffee, and he looks at you.
"How'd you like your coffee?" he asks, and you shrug.
"Black or however you're having it."
Another minute and you're sitting across from Adam again, sipping your coffee. He's silent for a while, and you let him be. Then he says: "Have you heard the one about the dwarf at the bar?"
