OH MAN YOU GUYS. Totally in the feels after writing this. LOVE YOU ALL. Getting closer and closer to the end and it's breaking my little heart. This picture of Matty (AND HIS NEW TATTOO) is making me feel a lot better, though.
{Play "I Wanna Be Adored" by The Stone Roses, "Do You Want It All" by Two Door Cinema Club, and "Hearts Like Ours" by The Naked and Famous}
THREE MONTHS LATER
{Matty's POV}
His name was Gabriel Hall, and he was dark-skinned, built, classically handsome. His voice was earnest, slow, and deep. He should have been able to help me; but I suppose I was refusing to let him. Dr. Hall came as a packaged deal with my useless fourteen-day stint in a detox facility. His therapy sessions were the icing on the cake.
Hann and Ross had talked me up, or, rather, talked me down, saying I was going to kill myself and they couldn't watch it anymore. George stood next to them, sad and silently nodding. I had told them to fuck off, but went anyways to satisfy their need to fix something that was inherently broken.
The treatment facility was a joke. The interior was nicer than most hotels I had been to, and it was fully-equipped to appease every celebrity or wealthy person's needs: excessively large bathrooms, bedrooms out of furniture ads, a full gym, an idoor and outdoor pool, fridge stocked with food way, way too healthy.
My roommate was an actor in his 50s, still reliving the fame from a TV show he was on in the 80's. I had forgotten what the show was called, but his name was Thom, and he had brought in cocaine via his girlfriend, who was young enough to be his daughter. We we stayed high nearly the entire time. It was one of those rehabs not intended for treatment, but more for the illusion of treatment. They didn't even do randoms. The house helpers were more about picking up after us and asking us if we needed anything than checking our rooms or strip-searching us.
I supposed, though, Dr. Hall was not a joke. We had shared daily, one-hour therapy sessions over my stint and the rehab and I was continuing to see him every Thursday. He had scared the shit out of me more than once, though his tone was low and his body language friendly.
He would ask me questions like, "How was today, Matty?" or "How are you getting along with your housemates?" and I'd answer with "Oh, pretty good" and "Just fine." Then he'd throw me for an absolute loop and throw in questions like "Is cocaine the only thing you believe you're addicted to?" and "Tell me a little more about the girl you always mention. Claire?"
I liked the room; it's just that I hated being in it. The room was a muted beige, Dr. Hall's degrees hung like prizes he'd won, straight and centered amongst nice photographs of London's buildings downtown. His desk was tidy, orderly, military-like. There was a miniature modern-art scupture at one corner, a slim Macbook in the center, and a framed photograph of his wife, and his gorgeous children. The boy looked like him.
"I won't ask how you're obtaining the cocaine, Matty," Dr. Hall began, his crisp grey slacks crossed over the other at he knee. "That's not entirely too hard to figure out."
I shrugged, not seeing the sense in lying to him, but also not seeing the sense in trying to defend myself either.
"Would you like help? Are you ready to recover, Matthew?" he asked me.
I twiddled with my hair tie, testing out the elasticity as I seriously contemplated this.
"No, not really," I admitted.
Dr. Hall nodded once, his head resting at his hand, thumb and index finger making the shape of an "L" at his jaw and ear, respectively.
"Why not?" he asked me.
"I can't do this shit sober, Doc," I said, taking my tea mug into my hands. "Any of it."
Every single time I would shut my eyes, there she would be, her big eyes fluttering and face gorgeous as she tried not to smile at me. I missed her. My heart was so broken, and the only thing that made me want to get out of bed was the rush of life that happened when I did cocaine. It only lasted for a couple hours, tops, but I felt alive in those brief moments. I would write like a madman, profusely, hands shaking and handwriting awful, abbreviated, the letters too large.
I felt alive when I was on drugs. At least a little.
Harper had been visiting a lot, telling me I needed to go out, to try to forget about Claire. The boys all believed that the shit rehab placed had cured me of my woes, my demons. But Harper saw right through it. The little firey-haired demon had lectured me as she forced me to eat. "Matty, you gotta stop doing this shit, you twat," or "Stop feeling so sorry for yourself."
When I had cursed at her for not bringing me any coke, she slapped me across my face so hard my bottom lip had opened at the corner.
She didn't ever pity me. She knew I was doing it to myself. She knew that this, this horror, this endless, mindless trip of drugs and thoughts clashing against each other like swords and cigarettes at 4 am in the rain: this is what I wanted, what I felt I deserved.
"Have you had any closure with Claire? With George?" Dr. Hall asked me.
George and I had barely discussed it at all. He and Claire had previously agreed to some absurd friends-with-benefts arrangment that neither one of them had to stomach to digest. She had fallen in love with him, I'm almost certain. But she hadn't fallen out of love with me, either.
Not kissing her those months ago was the only moment in a very, very long time I had felt proud of myself, like I had done the right thing. I had swallowed how bad I needed her in a hard, dry gulp. Though did need her desperately. I needed her legs parted and me between them, any which way she'd have me. I needed to hear her moan, to say my name, to wince in delight as she made gashes in the flesh of my back. I needed her to fall asleep in my arms, to wake up to her pacing around the room. I was so in love with how in love with life she was.
I wondered how well George had fucked her; which side he had seen of her. Was she a bad girl for him? Did she talk dirty and make him lose his mind with the way she could move her tongue? Was she a sweet, trembling angel, trying to keep quiet as he slowly moved in and out of her?
I knew, without a doubt, that I flooded her thoughts while George flooded her body; that while he touched her, she remembered me, like a forgotten window left open in the rain.
No matter how far she strayed, she would always be my girl. Quite some time ago, I had realized that I did not change Claire McDaniel throughout our relationship; she had just discovered herself. She had discovered the depths of what she could endure, of what she could give and receieve. She would never feel as safe in any other man's arms; she would never come so hard beneath another man; never be so swollen with love as she was with me.
Though I suppose none of that mattered now, because she wasn't speaking to me. She wasn't speaking to George, either, I know, because he had been moping around, listening to "Know Yourself" by Drake over and over, a different girl leaving his apartment every morning.
"No, not exactly," I answred Dr. Hall. "George is distant. He refuses to admit any guilt, and I don't blame him. He's not used to doing bad things so he doesn't know how to accept his resposibility in all of this."
George was not like me, who did bad things all of the time. It was in my nature.
I sipped from my mug and wet my palate. "I used to pretend to sleep sometimes, when Claire and I were dating, just to hear the things she'd say."
Dr. Hall's dark, handsome face seemed vaguely interested. "Why would you do that?"
My lips formed a smile, but I was maps away from happiness. "Because her voice was even sweeter when she thought I was sleeping."
Claire would lie there, my head in her lap, or her body enclosed by mine, and whisper to me as I slept. She would say cute things sometimes, commenting on how cute the mole was on my cheek or how soft my features were. Other times, she would just say she loved me, over and over.
The tea mug landed in a soft clank on the coffee table in front of me as I continued talking to the psychiatrist. "I did it again that night at the hotel, when my head was resting in her lap. She was whispering to me, saying she missed me, how much she hurt. She said, 'I can't love you Matty, but I do.'"
Dr. Hall clicked his pen a few times, though he didn't write anyhing down. Our sessions were always recorded on the laptop, then transcribed by his secretary.
"How did that make you feel, Matthew?" he said, stereotypically of a psychiatrist.
"Like shit," I answered immediately. "She wants to love me. But she won't do it."
{Claire's POV}
It had been three months since I had seen Matty; since the night at the hotel where he surprised me as I was in the midst of surprising George. I had sent him a few texts, all vaguely asking him if he was okay, with him vaguely responding that he was. He knew that I knew he was far from okay. I also knew I could do nothing about it.
George was not entirely convinced either. A weight of guilt had been lifted off of his big, broad shoulders when Matty checked into rehab. After Matty had "completed" his treatment and was discharged, though, George began to see the same patterns in his friend, whom he barely spoke to anymore. Up all night, up all day, writing dozens of songs, not eating, isolating himself from anyone who wasn't just as spun-out as he was.
My best friend and I were getting coffee now, seated in an outdoor area, the gentle spring breeze calming my skin. George, like usual, looked good. He was wearing a white Smiths t-shirt and a pair of jeans, his Timberlands resting up on top of the table shamelessly. His hair was a little longer in the center, but cut closer at the sides, the blonde ends brought up in a little pony tail at the back of his head.
"Your hair looks cute," I said, slurping my second iced chai.
George rubbed his nose and smiled at me. "Thanks, yours looks like shit," he winked, ruffling my waves.
"You really know how to work your way into a girl's heart, Danes," I rolled my eyes.
I said this saracastically, but in truth, George Daniel was a master-navigator of the female heart strings. He could play them like Adam Hann could play his guitar. I loved George, so dearly, and I couldn't lie and act like I wasn't hurt when he never showed up at the hotel that night. There was no element of surprise, though. He was gorgeous and talented and famous, now. Plus, I was too preoccupied with Matty that night for it to really hit me at the time.
It had been nearly a year since I had moved to England to study abroad, and I had probably changed more in those ten months than I had in the last 23 years of my life. I had made great friends; carefeully tip-toed against the boundaries of other friendships. School was going great and my internship was almost over, so I had to look for an actual job soon. A real one.
I had written so much about Matty and George, all using pseudonyms of course, and Nick was nudging me every so often to look into publishing it. I always shook the notion off, though. The diary/random ramblings/memories/snip-shots of sex were way too personal for me to share. At least at this point in time.
My boys were famous now, and they had grown into comfortablitity with this much more quickly than I had. Like for in this instance, when two younger, cute hipster girls were walking by and starting gasping, whispering erratically when they saw George.
They were approaching us and I groaned.
"You have some admirers, George," I cocked my head toward the approaching fans.
They were both blonde, but one a much lighter shade, and the other a darker golden blonde. The two girls stepped toward us carefully, looking around to see if they were hallucinating I supposed.
"Omigod," the darker blonde spoke. "Are you George Daniel?"
She couldn't have been more than seventeen or so, and her friend the same.
George took his gigantic boots from the table and sat up a little. "Mmm-hmm," he said. "Hello."
The friends looked at each other and shared a silent conversation, one that ended with their tremblings hands going through their purses and grabbing their cell phones.
"Can you take a picture?!" they shrieked at me at the same time.
I put my chair down. "Uh, sure."
George stood and smiled, wrapping his long, tattooed arms around both of the girls as they beamed from ear to ear. I took the picture and handed the darker blonde her phone back.
"Thankyousomuch," she said to me, her voice unnecessarily nervous.
The blonde one was now just staring at George, her big eyes starting to swell with tears.
Jesus Christ.
"C-can I have a hug, George?" she asked.
George chuckled at her and nodded his head, welcoming the girl into his arms. She put her head on his chest as he embraced her in a friendly hug, and she wiped the tears from her eyes.
"I'm sorry," she apologized over and over. "It's just...we really love your band. And we love you. Oh my God, you're so tall. And you smell so good," she stumbled over her words, her arms still wrapped around him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Thank you. Can I have your autograph? Thank you."
I shook my head at George as he totally made the situation worse by wiping the girl's tears away and patting her on her back, telling her "It's alright,darling." Her friend literally squealed aloud, and people were starting to stare.
Crying Girl was visibly shaking now, her friend rummaging through her purse for a pen and handing it to George.
"What would you like me to sign? What's your name?" he asked her.
I was getting a headache.
"Emily," she said. "And uhm, just sign my top. Please."
George quirked up a brow. "Are you sure you'd like me to sign your top?"
"Yes," the girl looked at him, like she was more certain of her answer than anything else in her life. She stepped toward him and leaned in as he took the cap off the pen with his teeth.
"Where?" he asked her.
"Here," she gestured at her right breast.
Oh, God.
George bit his bottom lip. "Eh, alright then," he said, and quickly scribbled his autograph across the top of her boob.
"Thank you," she sighed, and stared at him for a moment before her friend took her hand.
"Bye-bye, thank you," George said and flopped down in her chair.
The girls shuffled off, mumbling something to each other about how they were going to frame the pen cap that had been between George's lips and how she was never taking that shirt off.
I waited a moment for the fans to be at a safe distance before I comment on the bizarrre situation we had just experienced. George didn't seem to be at all bothered by it, things like this happened to him all the time. As a girl who had known him since he had a lisp, though, it was hysterical to me.
"George," I scolded him. "You can't go around signing teenage girls' boobs."
George's face twisted up in confusion. "Do you think she was a teenager, really?"
I nodded at him, puzzled by how he didn't come to the same conclusion.
"Are your fans always that hysterical?" I asked him.
His big shoes went back onto the table. "Almost always. That situation was pretty tame, actually. You should see them around Matty."
I could imagine.
"He has twice the security we do at meet and greets. One time a girl grabbed him and wouldn't let go. He just stood there, carefully trying to twist away from her."
"Poor Matty," I mumbled.
George rolled his eyes. "He loves the attention."
Matty. Our dear, troubled, precious mutual friend.
"How is he?" I asked George.
George sighed, and squinted his eyes in the light of the sun, pulling his sunglasses back down to cover them. "He's about the same. He doesn't seem so far out as he was, but maybe that's just because I'm not around him as much. We're supposed to start recording in a couple months."
"I see," I replied, twiddling with my fingers a little.
"I don't really wanna talk about it, kid," George folded his tattooed arms across his chest. "It just makes me sad."
I couldn't argue with him, but it made me even more sad to not talk about it. Perhaps I should reach out to Matty, actually visit the apartment he lived in now that I had never stepped foot in, but dozens of girls probably had.
"Harper's over there a lot," George said.
My heart sank a little.
The only thing worse than me not being with Matty was Matty being with Harper.
"Oh," I said.
George finished his coffee. "She brings him groceries and things. It's bizarre."
Surely Matty hadn't told George about Harper, though. They didn't speak about anything that wasn't directly music relatied. George was merely privvy to this fact because they lived in the same building. George said that he'd seen her in the elevator a few times, arms full of brown paper grocery bags, headed to Matty's. He'd seen her leaving at that witching hour, somewhere between late at night and early in the morning.
"Are they...dating?" I asked, knowing I was overstepping.
George tossed a hand in the air, dismissing the notion. "Not any more than we are, I suppose. Matty doesn't really date," he said, then swallowed hard. "Not usually, I mean."
Except for the time Matty dated me.
George and I hadn't touched each other romantically in about a month. Things had gotten too blurry, way too fast. We had decided to take a break from our friends-with-benefits relationship. I hadn't seen anyone else, but from the random panties and phone chargers "accidentally" left at George's apartment, I knew he rarely spent a night alone.
I accepted it though. George was so perfect and giving in every other way that I couldn't expect him to wait for me, to sit there and twiddle his thumbs as I decided on a choice I knew I could never really make. The idea was so romanticized: two men in love with you, lusting after you, fighting for you. The reality of it, though, was that everyone was left unsatisfied, heart-shattered, alone.
There was no other end to this story other than me going about my life without either of them, at least romantically.
Even "hanging out" with George was too difficult lately. We tried to watch The Breakfast Club together, and George was huffing and puffing the whole time because I was wearing leggings and he was all "Claire, why would you even wear leggings around me when you said we shouldn't sleep together anymore" and I was all "George, fuck you, you have on a muscle tank and snapback so don't think I don't know what you're trying to do."
We didn't hang out nearly as much as we used to, both because of this and because he was so busy with the band, but all time spent together was typically in public and twice for brunch at his parents' house. Today, though, would be an interesting event. I was beyond excited for Tinsley's baby shower and even more excited for the twins to be born soon.
"We should leave soon, I don't want to be late for Tinnie's shower," I said.
George nodded, the heels of his boots making a noise as he slid them off the table.
"Is Matty coming?" I asked George.
"I think so," George answered me.
=
Tinsley Hann (soon to be Tinsley Hann-MacDonald) was the most beautiful pregnant person I had never seen. Even more beautiful was the way that Ross looked at her, in awe of everything she did, her belly growing bigger and bigger by the day, it seemed.
Their home was something straight out of a fairy tale, a cottage-like exterior with a homey-yet-modern interior. It already looked like a family home, and my heart was melting. I was so, so happy for her as she sat in her ivory chair, a mountain of gifts in front of her. She was wearing a cute maternity dress, navy and white striped that showed off her adorable bump.
Their large yet cozy living room was decorated in celebraton of their soon-to-arrive girls, Maisie Estelle and Millicent Elise, whom they would call Millie. White streamers were draped gracefully around the room, wrapped in lace white ribbons, dotted with cotton-candy pink and mint blue balloons. I was glad I had something to look at other than Matty, because he was definitely distracting me.
We had said the usual, exboyfriend/exgirlfriend kind of things when George and I had arrived. Matty was, shockingly, not late to the baby shower and had gotten there before we did. It was a strange mixture of emotions, me feeling so elated for Tinsley and feeling so sorry for Matty, like I wanted to have a ten-hour long conversation with him. He and I would never have closure.
Tinsley's hands carefully unwrapped my gifts: an assortment of adorable clothes, baby high-heels and hair accessories that I had spent an entire month's salary on, and wouldn't ever regret.
"Oh! So cute!" Tinsley said as I stood to wrap my arms around her.
Ross shook his head, but smiled at the baby high-heels.
"Mine next," George said, scooting a box toward our twinning friend.
Tinsley's big green eyes lit up as she opened the box. "Oh, George!" she said, holding up two baby Versace bathrobes. "These are the softest things I've ever felt!"
George giggled at her and wrapped her petite frame in his arms. Matty was in the doorway, smiling, though he looked exhausted. His head was resting on the doorframe, curls pretty and full. His eyes met mine and I almost lost myself before I came to my senses and focused on Tinsley once more.
Tinsley continued her unwrapping of gifts from the partygoers, receiving a box of monogrammed cloth diapers, baby monitors with cameras, two baby bathtubs, clothes after clothes, a breast-pump, and some other necessities.
"Oh my God, Matty!" Tinsley squealed as she opened a matching set of Chanel-printed baby bedding: crib sheets, bedskirt, blankets, the works. Only Matty would think of getting something like that for a baby, and only Tinsley would appreciate it so much.
Matty put his hand on Tinsley's belly and kissed her forehead. "You're welcome, love."
She put her hand on his cheek and kissed him on the opposite side of his face. "You're so sweet."
His sad eyes lit up a little. He always had a soft spot for Tinsley, and she for him. Matty returned to his position in the doorframe, again resting his head against it and continuing to watch his friend enjoy her party.
Chelsea then went to her friend and semi-sister-in-law and put her hands over her eyes.
"It was too big to wrap," Adam said as he wheeled out a beautiful old-style black pram with two seats.
Chelsea moved her hands and yelled "surprise!". Tinsley clapped her hands in delight, and tried to get up to stand but her short figure and round belly made it difficult. Her fiance scooped her up carefully and she waddled toward the stroller, her hands running across the material.
"This is perfect!" she said, Ross's hand placed at her waist and the other on her belly.
A sudden, nauseating feeling hit me. Though I was tearing up with joy at the sight of one of my closest friends celebrating the babies she was carrying, I was overwhelmed by my own selfishness, and felt the sour twinge of guilt at the back of my throat.
I excused myself to the bathroom, and there were so many friends and family members there that no one actually noticed me dabbing the corners of my eyes with a napkin.
Throughout my time in England, I had discovered many things besides the muck I had learned in university.
1. Learning to drive on the opposite side of the road and in the opposite side of the car was really, really difficult, and I just shouldn't bother.
2. I was shitting myself if I thought that I was a good person. I was selfish, needy, and impatient.
3. George Daniel was the kindest, funniest, person I had ever met, and I loved him in ways that were immeasurable.
4. Matty Healy was the rarest creature I had ever met, and there would be no mad ever to make me feel the way he did, physically or emotionally. Ever.
5. I had witnessed the most epic of love conquers all stories, but it didn't star me. It was Tinsley and Ross. Not Claire and George. Not Claire and Matty.
Tinsley had exceptional taste in hand towels, and I thanked God for the thick, sound-proof material that I was sobbing into now, doubled over on the bathroom floor. I was so pathetic, self-pitying, too curvy, too demanding, needed too much. This only made me cry even more.
But in that bathroom, I vowed to myself the ultimate truth. I would let no boy define me, until firstly I could define myself. I would need to learn to be happy alone, rather than only wrapped in George's arms or moaning with passion underneath Matty.
Never would I sit in George's lap again. Never would I watch Matty sleep again. I had to let them go, or they were going to fucking sink me, and I would sink them.
The bathroom door twisted open suddenly, and I prayed to all the gods old and new that it wasn't George, who would nearly cry if I was crying, or Matty, who would make me cry even more.
I didn't even want to lift my head up.
"Get up, sweetie," Chelsea's voice broke through my sobs as she crouched down to me and wrapped her slender, toned and tanned arms around me.
"I can't, Chels," I said, my sobs making the short sentence take forever to get out clearly.
I wanted to be home. Not home here, I wanted to be home in California. Far, far away from these boys whom I had voluntarily let destroy me, though they never intended to.
Chelsea pecked me on the temple and rocked my body in hers, her slender arms draped over me, squeezing me tightly. She was my true other half. She let me cry for a minute until my sobs turned into random sniffles and cries, and then she got up, yanked about ten tissues from the box and handed them to me.
"Here, honey," she said.
I took the tissues and blotted my tear-soaked face, though I knew it was useless. My makeup was everywhere, and there was no way I was going to be able to face that crowd in there. I didn't want to ruin Tinsley's party by sobbing around like an attention-seeking idiot.
"I can't go out there," I said, still sitting on the floor, my heels kicked off.
Chelsea's face was sympathetic, but firm.
"Claire," she said, "You get up off that damn floor. You don't let those boys break you. You fix your makeup, and you remember who you are."
She rummaged through her purse and handed me her makeup bag, then ran the water on the tap and gave me a washcloth from the linen closet.
I nodded at her as I let a few more tears fall.
"I'll be right outside this door, okay?" she eyed me, her pretty head nodding.
"Okay," I whimpered.
She gave me another reassuring look and smoothed my hair out of my face before she strutted out of the room, her blonde hair whipping around.
My trembling hands found the courage to wipe the smeared makeup from my face, and when my eyes stopped producing tears, I reapplied a little mascara and liner, then dabbed on some pressed powder. The clean, cool air of the bathroom filled my lungs as I inhaled, slow breath after slow breath, until I knew I could leave the room.
"Fifteen minutes, not bad," Chelsea said, nudging me a little with her shoulder as I was rummaging through my bag for my cigarettes.
"Do you wanna smoke with me?" I asked her.
"I don't smoke," she narrowed her eyes, knowing i knew this.
"I know you don't. Just stand there and pretend," I asked her.
Her pretty face smirked and she pulled me into a hug once more.
"Love you, boo," she said to me.
My true love. "I love you more."