{Please listen to "Me" by your favorite band The 1975, and "Skinny Love" by Bon Iver. Also enjoy this picture of George's crazy hair. I still am recovering from heartbreak as to what Matthew has decided to do to his hair.}
{Claire's POV}
Claire: I'm sorry George.
The letters technically formed an apology via text message, but I still couldn't process them. They weren't good enough; I felt completely awful. The 1975 had played their first big show in my hometown, and I had missed it because I was more concered with how I felt about the two than how they felt about me.
Spring break would be over in two weeks, and I'd be back in London. I didn't exactly know how I felt about that either. George's birthday was in four days, and I had given him nothing so far other than disappointment when I chickened out of going to his concnert.
I wondered what the boys were doing in this very moment. Adam was likely glued to his phone: either having a serious conversation with his manager or an intimiate conversation with Chelsea, all the white half-assedly sight seeing with Ross. Ross was probably doing press-ups and gorging himself on some California health food. Matty was likely moping around his hotel room, taking lines of coke like clockwork, spun out of control. George was probably sleeping, still.
It was the next morning, and I was having coffee with my mother. Dad was gone golfing.
Mom was on her second cup, and I was on my third; my thoughts had caffeinated my brain and body all too well last night. She was already dressed for the day, like she always did. My mother still had the same morning routine she'd had since I could remember.
She'd wake up, immediately shower and do her hair and makeup. If it was a weekday, she'd wear skirts and light jackets, sometimes dress pants and cute tops. If I was the weekend, she'd wear something cute and relatively hip. She was approaching approaching 50, but the wrinkles on her face were minimal and her frequent visits to the gym had kept her body bangin'.
Candace McDaniel was still a drime, most definitely in my father's eyes. Right now she was wearing a cute pair of jeans and floral, spaghetti-strapped top with a denim vest.
My denim vest.
I scrunched my face up in disapproval. "Mother, is that my vest?"
Her lips pursed around her coffee cup. "Is this my house?"
Touche.
I swirled my spoon around in my coffee aimlessly, the white of the creamer blending in tiny dances with the black of the coffee, and then forming the delicious concoction. Mom was standing on the opposte side of the bar, and I was layed out on a stool, my legs shot across another.
"How was the concert last night?" my Mom asked me, her hazel eyes bright.
"Oh," I shrugged. "It was good. Great. I'm so proud of Georgie."
Our house was three stories and had thick walls, my bedroom being on the third floor and essentially my own wing of the home. I was almost certain my mother wouldn't know that I hadn't gone anywhere.
"Were there lots of people?" she asked, finishing up her coffee.
I nodded. "Mmm-hmm. Packed."
I conentrated on my phone, only to find that George still hadn't texted me back.
My mother narrowed her perfectly arched brows. She was the one who had taught me the importance of eyebrow shaping and maintenace.
"That's awfully funny how you went to a concert, since I heard Gilmore Girls playing when I snuck up to your room," she admitted.
Ugh.
"Jesus, Mom. Mind your own," I scolded her.
She leaned over the counter, her mean Mom face on point.
"You are my own, Claire Madeline," her voice was stern but soft. "What's going on?"
My stomach was beginning to churn, even just thinking about explaining the love triangle between myself, Matty, and George, to my mother. Though, I suppose it would be about a millon times easier than explaining it to my Dad, who insisted I get on the pill the first time a boy called my cell phone freshman year. It was Joey Davidson and he wanted to ask me for Chelsea G's number.
"Boy troubles," I admitted to my mother.
"Ah-hah," she mumbled, refreshing her cup of coffee. "When did Matty find out you're sleeping with George?"
Cringe. Cringe. Cringe.
No.
"Mother!!!" I shrieked.
Mom rolled her hazel eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Claire. Don't be so uptight," she turned around to rumble through the refrigerator and get some half-and-half.
I drummed my fingernails on the marble countertop. "I can't talk about this with you."
Mom shrugged. "Suit yourself."
"And whatever you do, do not mention this to Dad," I emphasized.
Candace shook her long dark hair. "Ha! He would either slit George's throat or kiss him on the mouth."
I got up from the barstool and put my coffee mug into the dishwasher,only to be bombarded by my mother's arms wraped around me and her lips glued to my cheek.
"It'll be okay, sweetheart," she rubbed my back. "Do you want to cure your boy-troubles with excessive shopping and margaritas way too early in the day?"
"Absolutely," I answered her.
Mother always knows best.
=
George's POV.
The LA crowd, with their deafening screams, hilariously awkward meet-and-greets and perverted posters, kept my mind off of Claire for a while. Her face was still in my brain, her laughter in my ears, the feeling of her body still keeping me warm.
Matty, on the other hand, was at my immediate focus. He was at both his best and worst last night. The passion in his voice as it rapsed and broke into the microphone. He was drunk and high before we even took the stage, and Adam and Ross continuously shot each other knowling, worried glances.
He continued drinking on stage, his words slurring a little as he played the crowd. They ate it up, screaming with delight every time he'd take a swig of the bottle. I'd never understand it.
Security was on high when Matty sat at the edge of the stage, his hair everywhere, sweat moistening his thin floral shirt. Girls were knocking each other over, trying to grab his legs and feet. I don't know if he didn't care, or if he didn't notice. He was so in the zone, so willingly out of it.
Part of me thought Matty lost himself in a world of drugs and alcohol to forget the pain he'd experienced in himself; the pain he had created in others. The other part of me thought that Matty was a special kind of tortured soul who embraced every ounce of hurt.
I was drumming to the slow sounds of "Me", my eyes on Matty as he sat cross-legged at the edge of the stage, his voice a soft, dark tune as he sang "Don't you mind, don't you mind." When the saxophone player came in with the jazzy melody, Matty shamelessly wiped the tear from his eye.
I knew that he knew about Claire and I. He had made that crystal clear; and at the worst moment possible. I was so embarrassed during that interview, and completely lost focus. People had commented how high I was during the interview, but the truth is that the only thing I was high on was Claire, and I was coming down hard with Matty's disappontment.
"Me" was our last song of the night, and Matty certainly made it the performance to remember. He was crying, but he had nothing on the fans in the audience. It was amazing how our fans picked up his pain, felt every bit of it right along with him.
The moment we finished the song, Hann's blue eyes caught mine. He was just as distraught about all of this as I was. I think he'd gathered what had happened between Claire and I, though none of us had discussed it, especially not Matty and I. At least not directly.
I had slung Matty's arm over my shoulder, and the four of us immediately went into the Range Rover, feeling guilty we'd neglected to see our fans afterward. The long car ride back to the hotel was dreadfully silence, Matty's heavy breathing filling the sleek of the interior.
Ross and Hann were looking at each other, and Ross shook his head in worry. Adam gave him a simple nod. Matty's tornado hair was spun out across my shoulder, the weight of his head pressing against my bones.
Sometimes his eyes were closed, and his face was relaxed. Others, his eyes were open, delighted in a memory, horrified by the present.
He passed out immediately when we'd put him in bed.
"We have to do something about him, mates," Ross said, pacing around the hotel room.
All of us were still so sweaty from the concert, growing more exhausted by the minute.
"He's spiraling out of control," Ross continued.
Adam watched his friend sleeping in his drug-induced state. He was thinking carefully, the thoughts playing around in his brain as his face remained serious.
"Did you sleep with Claire, George?" Ross asked me in a huff.
I nodded simply, not even bothering to look at him. I took Matty's shoes off and draped the blanket over him.
"Fuck," Ross sighed.
Ross rubbed his eyes and rummaged through his bag to get supplies for rolling a spliff. He mumbled a few disapproving comments to himself as he rolled it to perfection, then stepped out onto the patio, closing the door behind him to enjoy his smoke.
"What do we do, Hann?" I asked my friend.
Matty was our frontman, but Hann was our leader in absolutely every other way.
"We don't let him leave our sight for the rest of the tour. It's only two more weeks. We'll manage, George," he said, sitting down on the sofa and crossing one leg over the other.
"When we get back to London, his ass is going to rehab, the minute we get off the damn plane," Hann nodded to himself.
I supposed it was the best of our options. None of us had the heart to cancel the rest of the tour. But none of us had the heart to passively watch Matty destroy himself either.
Hann stood, stepping towards the patio exit door to join Ross.
"George?" he turned around and asked me.
"Hmm?" I mumbled, still focused on Matty to make sure he was breathing.
"That's really low, mate, for you to sleep with his girl," Adam said.
His tone wasn't rude, but I was immediately defensive.
"His girl? She hasn't been his girl for months, Hann!" I excalimed.
Hann pressed his fingers to his temple and rubbed. The lights from the stage gave him headaches sometimes.
"She's the only girl he's ever called 'his girl'," Hann reminded me.
I shook my head at him, fumbling around the room for my cigarettes.
"Fuck of, Hann. What about when Matty knew how I felt about her, and hunted her down lke prey anyways? Hmm? Why do I have to be good guy George?" I spay at him.
Hann took his fingers from his temple and opened his crystal blue eyes.
"Because you know better, George."
=
Claire had texted me that next morning, and I wanted to reply, but had no idea what to say. I wasn't ready to tell her about Matty, although she would find out soon enough that he knew. It wasn't until her mother had called me to invite me to dinner that I realized I'd have to face her sooner or later.
I didn't necessarily blame her for not going to the concert. If I wasn't part of the band, I doubt I'd go either.
George: It's fine. I get it. I'll see you tonight.
Claire: Tonight?? Wdym?
George: Your mum invited me to dinner. Yikes.
Claire's house was the same it had always been: a three-story Spanish colonial, gorgeous and well-preserved by her mother and father. They had an outdoor kitchen and her father was grilling, chicken, shrimp, tilapia, veggies. Her mother had made the side dishes and placed them on the burned copper colored outdoor table. She was making margaritas a blender, not adding enough tequila for my taste, but I managed. Claire's Dad was chatting me up about my success, telling me about a thousand times how proud he was of me.
Sometimes I think I looked up to Claire's father more than my own. He was a kind man, successfull but not snooty. He had high standards for his daughter. So did I.
My Claire, my best friend, my girl was doing her best. She was giggling at her Dad's corny jokes, her Mom's endless recollection of memories of us when we were kids. I played along, too, pretending she and I both weren't struggling at this, at the decisions we'd made.
Clare helped her mother do dishes while her Dad and I sipped on margaritas outside, sharing a cigar. He told me he was glad I was there for his little girl in London; that he knew he could trust that I'd take care of her.
I didn't have the same confidence in myself.
When the night had fallen and I was hours away from the boys back at the hotel, Claire and I had went into her bedroom, the both of us not joking around like we used to.
Her room was the same as it had been the last I'd seen it six years ago. Ballet-slipper pink walls, white-and-gold tapestry hung above her bed. Her posters, one of Joni Mitchell, one of Patt Smith, amongst countless magazine cut-outs of the boys she loved: Julian Casablancas, Jack White, the Gallagher brothers, Prince. Her bed was huge, covered in a downy white comforter amidst an intricate ivory princess headboard.
She flopped down on the bed, kicking her strappy sandals off, her little floral dress riding up and exposing her gorgeous thighs.
"Matty knows," she breathed out.
I laid down next to her, sinking into the downy bed.
"I know."
I gazed around her room for a while, letting her process her thoughts.
"I feel so bad, Georgie," she said in a whisper, though we were alone on the third floor of her room.
"He's in bad shape," I explained to her, though she already knew. "We're going to make him go to rehab when the tour ends."
She nodded her head as a tiny tears began to fall onto her heart-shaped cheeks. I rolled over, stroking the tears away from her beautiful face with my thumb.
"Should we be doing this? Is this wrong?" she asked me, and herself.
I didn't have the right answer.
"Dunno," I breathed out as I wrapped my arms around her, pulling her close to me. She felt perfect against me, her curvy botting resting against mine in all the right places. "I want to kiss you just as much as I want to be there for Matty."
Claire's pretty, watery eyes met mine, and her soft little hand stroked my face.
"I understand the feeling completely."
And before I knew it, her lips were at my jaw, and my hands were sliding up her dress.
Our mouths were all over each other, in hunger, in ache. I made love to her carefully, lovingly, like she would break if I gave it to her too hard. Our lips were at each others nearly the entire time, her tongue toying with mine, our eyes closed, hands grasping onto each other desperately.
She moaned and it filled my soul. She kissed me and there was nothing else in the world. Her body trembled beneath mine, and I knew that this, that she, was all I would ever want.
When we had finished, both panting and holding each other, her head buried in my chest, the smell of her hair filling my nostrils, the words leapt from my throat before I could stop them.
"I love you, Claire."
Her soft lips met my jawbone, and her hand went to mine.
"I know, Georgie."