Chapter 6 - A Little Bit Closer
Before I even have a chance to wonder where Vic went, his phone rings—I guess he didn’t take it with him. The name “Tony” shows up on the screen. After a brief moment of contemplation, I answer the call: “Hello? This is Kellin.”
"Kellin?" Tony repeats. "Where’s Vic?"
"I don’t know," I admit. "I woke up and he was just…gone. Why are you calling him at two in the morning anyway?"
Tony sighs. “Because I was afraid something like this would happen.”
I narrow my eyes. “Something like what?”
"Vic goes out in the middle of the night a lot. He, uh…well, has he ever smoked in front of you?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Well, that’s not his only bad habit."
I sit down on my bed. “What are you saying, exactly?”
"What I’m saying is that Vic is probably out getting drunk somewhere, or maybe high. What I’m saying is that when it comes to those things, he doesn’t really know where to stop."
His words send my heart racing. What if something bad happens to him?
"It’s scary sometimes, when he does this," Tony continues. "He’s wild, in both good and bad ways, and sometimes he can get uncontrollable. He’s like a fucking hurricane."
"A hurricane," I repeat softly. Somehow, I can picture it: Vic Fuentes, who runs rampant with excitement and intensity and reckless abandon. Vic Fuentes, a hurricane.
"I just hope he comes back," Tony says. "He probably will, because things have been pretty good lately. But…yeah. Now you know."
"Okay," I say slowly, trying to stay calm. "I’ll try to keep an eye on him, okay?"
Suddenly, I realize what Vic means when he says he gets treated like a head case. And now I have a better understanding as to why.
"Okay," Tony says. "Well, uh, it was good talking to you. Hope you find Vic."
"Yeah, me too. Bye."
I hang up, and only seconds after I set the phone down on the side table, the door to the hotel room opens. Vic stumbles through and closes it behind him.
"Kellin," he says, swaying on his feet. "What are you doing up?" His words slur.
"Looking for you," I reply. "Where were you?"
"Out." He makes his way to his bed, nearly tripping over his own two feet, and falls right into it.
"Vic," I say. "Are you okay?" I don’t know why I expect him to answer me. After all, I never answer him.
"I’m fine, Kellin," he says, smiling blissfully, as if he’s in his own little world.
Cautiously, I ask, “How many drinks did you have?”
He shrugs, closing his eyes. “I don’t know. Stopped counting after, like, five.” His hair falls in disheveled clumps over his face, and when I reach out to brush them away, he smacks my hand lightly. “Leave me alone, Kellin,” he whines.
"How did you even drive back here?" I whisper, staring at him in awe. He’s breathing sort of fast, his face is flushed and sweaty, and from what I can tell, coordination is not on his side tonight. He’s anything but sober.
"I don’t know," he repeats, his voice getting softer. "Wasn’t too far away. I was fine…"
And then he’s out.
I don’t know if he’s sleeping or unconscious. Either way, I can’t help but pull his shoes off and attempt to rest the covers on top of him. I lightly touch his face, immediately feeling the warmth radiating from it, before turning off the lights and climbing back into my own bed.
As I lie awake, I realize that I have not seen every side of Vic Fuentes. I’ve seen the happiness, the friendliness, the enthusiasm—but that’s not all there is to him. I can see another part, one that’s been hiding from me since I met him.
I don’t know all that much about alcohol, but I do know that people who are as drunk as Vic don’t get that drunk from simply having a few shots for the fun of it. This level of drunk is for people with a darker side that they want to get rid of. This level of drunk is for people who are trying to destroy themselves.
—
"I feel like shit," Vic says in the morning. He buries his face in his pillow and groans. "What the hell happened last night?"
"You got wasted," I tell him.
"Are you serious?" He pulls himself to his feet, unsteady, then makes a break for the bathroom. A few seconds later, I can hear him emptying the contents of his stomach.
Well, now we’re even, I think. He’s seen me a wreck after a nightmare (twice), and now I’ve seen him both drunk and hungover.
Vic soon emerges from the bathroom, still in a bit of a daze and wiping sweat off his forehead. “Whoa. Let me get my shit together first. Then we can go to wherever we’re going.”
"Okay," I say, before adding, "Tony called you last night."
Vic falls back into his bed. “Why?”
"He, uh…he wanted to make sure you weren’t out getting drunk or high somewhere."
Vic grimaces. “He knows me too well.”
I want to ask him why he felt the need to do it last night. I want to know more about these other parts of him. But I’m not going to ask him to open up to me when I can’t even open up to him, so instead I stay silent and let him pull himself together.
Eventually, he does, and then he seems to brush it off. It’s kind of concerning, actually, that he’s so casual about what happened. It’s like he’s used to it, and I hate thinking that what I saw is normal for him.
"So, the Colorado Springs Fine Arts Center," he says. "I’m assuming that’s where we’re headed?"
"Yeah," I reply, trying to match his now generally upbeat mood. "To find ‘the guy with the hat’. Whatever that means."
"I guess we’ll find out."
It doesn’t take long for us to get there. The Fine Arts Center, huge and professional-looking, is just north of downtown Colorado Springs (if Vic and a GPS are to be trusted), and right out front is a guy wearing a large hat. As we get closer and park the car, I realize that this hat has a specific shape to it.
"Hey, Vic," I say, pointing as we hop out and make our way toward the building. "Is that hat shaped like a dick?"
Vic starts laughing, because I can see it clearly now. “Oh my God,” he says. “It is.” He waves his hand. “Hey! Guy with the hat!”
The guy turns to us, and I think I can see recognition cross his face. “When you’re ready, come and get it!” he sings, to the tune of the Selena Gomez song, before flipping us off and running around the side of the building.
"Hey!" Vic and I yell in unison. We exchange a what-the-fuck look before chasing after the guy.
Most of the people here are inside, but there are a few walking past us that look at us like we’re insane. I don’t blame them—a guy wearing a hat shaped like a sex organ isn’t exactly something you see every day.
We don’t get very far before we start gaining on him. He glances over his shoulder and slows down before finally just turning around and saying, “One of you is Kellin Quinn, right? You’re not just chasing me to say you like my hat?”
Vic and I skid to a stop. “Yeah, I’m Kellin,” I say.
The guy laughs a little, holding out a piece of paper. “I feel so bad for you. Bree’s kind of an evil genius.”
"We noticed," I reply, taking the clue.
"That is a pretty nice hat, by the way," Vic adds, smiling a little in amusement.
"Thanks. I got it on eBay. You can buy everything there." Then he walks away, still wearing the hat as if what just happened is the most normal thing in the world.
"Do I even want to know what that says?" Vic asks, pointing to the paper in my hands.
I shrug and open it up. “Let’s find out.”
Find a club, any club. Perform karaoke there—it must be a Fall Out Boy song—and take a video of it. Call it “Kellin Sings Fall Out Boy in Colorado Springs” and post it to YouTube. I will find it and comment with your next clue.
"Well, that’s a pretty well-thought-out one," Vic says. He claps his hands together. "I guess we’ve gotta find a club."
—
After a little bit of research (Vic’s laptop is a lifesaver—he’s like Sam from Supernatural), we find a club that sounds pretty good, but it doesn’t have karaoke until tomorrow. Tonight is going to be a night in, which is fine by me. I don’t really feel like performing right now anyway, and I can tell that Vic doesn’t, either.
"I’m gonna get something from the car," he says as we’re hanging out in the hotel room. "I’ll be right back."
A few minutes later, he returns with a guitar case and pulls out an acoustic guitar, the same one he was playing the day I met him. Without even seeming to think about it, he starts strumming random chords.
"Whoa," I say as I watch him. "How did I not know you brought that?"
He shrugs. “Guess you didn’t see me put it in the trunk. I kept it in there until now, just in case I ever felt the need to get it out.”
"Oh," I say, and then his phone rings.
He sighs and sets the guitar down. “I think I know who that is.” He grabs the phone. “Yep.” Then he heads out to the room’s balcony and answers the call, but even through the screen door, I can clearly hear what he’s saying.
"Tony, I know, and I’m sorry." Pause. "Look, I didn’t mean to…you know. I’m getting better, I swear." Pause. "I won’t. I promise." Pause. "Don’t remind me. I know, okay?" Pause. "Okay, later."
He hangs up and sighs, sitting down on one of the chairs on the balcony. Then he pulls a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket and starts to smoke.
After a short moment of just watching him, admiring the way the balcony light illuminates his figure, I open the screen door and sit down on the chair next to him.
"I decided to join you," I say, "if that’s okay."
He nods, blowing out a puff of smoke away from me. “Yeah, that’s fine.”
For a few minutes, we just sit there and stare out at the view of the city and the mountains. It’s dark out, the sun having set a while ago, so the city, not the stars, seems to light up the whole sky.
When his cigarette is done, he tosses it in the ashtray in the corner of the balcony. “So, I was wondering,” he says. “You don’t have to answer this, but…who’s Jordan?”
I narrow my eyes. “How do you know about him?”
"Well, you were saying his name in your sleep. Both times."
I don’t have to ask him what he means by “both times”.
I bite my lip. I want to open up to him, to trust him, but at the same time I don’t. The warning voice is back, whispering, Don’t get close. Don’t get close.
"He was my boyfriend," I blurt.
You’re a fucking idiot, Kellin.
Vic nods in understanding. “Did he hurt you?”
The question is so general, general and all-encompassing: Did he hurt you? Did he cause you pain of any sort?
"Yes," I say, looking away and letting my hair fall into my face.
After a short pause, he says, “Well, I’d tell you I know what that feels like, but that doesn’t really help you.”
I laugh a little, but there’s sadness behind it. A few more moments of silence pass, and when I finally look back at Vic, he’s staring at me. There’s some sort of emotion written on his face, I think, but I can’t tell what it is.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I sigh. “Do you want to know more about Jordan?”
He nods slightly. “But only if you want to tell me about him.”
"I do," I reply, and I mean it. Suddenly, I want to get it out, and as much as my conscience warns me that I shouldn’t, I trust Vic.
"I met him about two years ago," I begin. "Our love story was pretty normal, though obviously it was special to us. Jordan was sort of hyper, but he was really fun to be around. He cared a lot about other people, and he was always telling me how much he cared about me. And I felt the same way." My voice cracks, because this is where the good parts end.
"But then he started acting weird," I continue. "Both physically and emotionally. He had a bunch of symptoms and he never said what they were from. And he just kept acting like he was hiding something. And then one day he said that he was tired of having to keep a secret from me…and he told me that he was sick."
Vic’s eyes widen slightly. He knows where this is going.
"He didn’t last long after that," I say. "Apparently it was bad, and there was nothing the doctors could do except, well…wait. Wait and watch." I take a shaky breath. "It’s been about six months now, since…well, since the end."
Vic stares at me in silence. He’s been watching me intently the entire time I’ve been talking, and he looks like he’s really listening to everything I say. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “Really, I am.” Then he stands up, walks the few steps over to my chair, and hugs me.
Not long ago, I would’ve flinched at his touch, especially since it’s voluntary. This isn’t for any stupid clue like the kiss was. But instead of flinching or backing away, I stand up and rest my head on his shoulder.
"Thanks," I whisper, stepping out of his arms after a few seconds. Not too close, my conscience reminds me, but this time, it’s not as much of a command. Now it’s just a desperate attempt at controlling me.