Chapter 8

—Holly Wainright—

Dinner was spent in silence, the atmosphere filled merely with the sound of silverware clanging against plates as we filled our quiet mouths with linguine Alfredo. Dimitri filled the empty space at the table that Tom had left—in the corner of my eye, I could have believed that he was Tom, but in plain sight there was no hiding the square face and buff chest that Tom could only dream of having. Bill's seat was completely empty, the occupier having moved to the living room couch to watch bittersweet memories on DVD. Christie, being her talkative self, was the one to speak up. "Is Bill going to be okay?"

Georg sighed. "We don't know, Christie. He's been like this for months now, long before this tour began. Ever since he first got the message, he's become a different person completely. He yells at people all the time, breaks down randomly and has crying fits, and spends hours a day shut away from everyone else." The brunette bassist turned toward the living room doorway. "I'm surprised he's made it this far; he seems to return to normal during a concert, but only for the course of the time he's onstage. After that, he's just…lost."

Christie's eyes were locked on the living room entrance, tears of sympathy rolling down her face. I snaked my arm around her waist and pulled her close for comfort, and she looked at me like every dream she'd ever had was crushed. I looked around and realized that Gustav was on the verge of tears, removing his glasses in preparation, and Dimitri had his head in his hands. I could have sworn Georg's eyes were sparkly with tears, but he turned his head away too quickly for me to be sure.

"Well, it seems like Bill isn't the only one suffering here," I pointed out. "And I'm going to make sure that Tokio Hotel gets back on its feet."

Our grief was cut short by the sound of the tour bus's door opening, and we all whirled around to see Tobi entering the vehicle. Following the bodyguard was a man with a build similar to Dimitri's: broad shoulders, square jaw, sunken cheeks and bulging cheekbones. He held a clipboard in one arm and had a pencil wedged behind his ear and blanketed by his thin brown hair. Tobi gestured to him to look in the living room, and the man's eyes narrowed in concern.

"Who's that?" Christie asked.

"That's our manager David," Gustav replied.

"Why have I never seen him before?" I wondered aloud.

Georg shrugged. "Maybe because he didn't come in to check on us as often last time you were here. He's been coming in a lot lately, especially because of Bill."

"Alright guys…" David started toward the kitchen table, but stopped dead in his tracks and looked at me dead on, his sharp eyes piercing my core and giving me a chill. His head lifted toward the G's. "Who are these girls?"

"It's a long story," Georg explained. "I'll tell you later. Now what—"

"How long are they gonna be here?" the manager persisted.

"As long as it takes," Gustav replied.

David gave the blond man a funny look.

"We'll explain later," Dimitri promised. "What did you want to tell us?"

"Uh…" The man glanced around for a few moments, confused, then collected himself. He held out his clipboard and announced: "I cancelled our last show in Milwaukee. I can't stand to see Bill in this state, not even if it's the last show of the tour. We're all headed to the airport tomorrow, and then it's back to Germany." When David looked around and noticed everyone staring at him like deer caught in headlights, he continued: "I know this is sudden; I just think it's for the better. So get some rest, and we'll all be home soon."

When the two men left, everyone looked at one another with unspoken confusion. Finally, Georg broke the ice. "Like I said, he's weird. But he has good intentions; maybe he has an idea on how to help Bill."

I noticed Christie becoming heavily disappointed. "Does this mean we won't be able to help Tokio Hotel after all?"

I stared at my friend in disbelief. "Who ever said that?" I turned to the guys. "We can still help, right? All we have to do is persuade Tobi and David to let us stay."

"It's fine with us," Gustav agreed. His mouth pulled into a smirk. "And I'm sure Bill would love it, too."

My heart fluttered. Bill was such a sweetheart, especially around me. I couldn't blame him, though; he appreciated everything I had done for him in the past, and he was probably relying on me now to help him through the loss of his brother. I looked down at my half-eaten plate and asked: "Speaking of Bill, is he going to eat any dinner?"

"Highly unlikely," Dimitri replied. "His eating schedule has gotten knocked way off since Tom's death. Sometimes he'll go days without eating."

A sudden wave of fear started clawing at me. "WHAT?"

"We've tried to make him eat," Gustav added. "We've even force-fed him, but it usually ends in Bill's vomit all over his clothes and the floor. We've taken him to the hospital, but they couldn't cure him; he is so psychologically unstable that he's beyond help."

"He'll starve himself to death!" I screamed.

Georg grabbed my wrist, his beefy hand rock-hard against my weak arm. "Holly, calm down. As scary as it sounds, he hasn't experienced anything lethal."

"Not yet, anyway," I insisted. "Think about it, Georg. He may seem physically okay now, but this is still a serious matter. We have to find a way to feed him without his stomach rejecting everything."

"How?" Dimitri demanded. "Whenever I offer him something to eat, he screams at me."

I yanked my hand out of the bassist's grasp and thought for a moment. "Perhaps we should try a method other than force. It seems to me that Bill might be too traumatized to eat, and you guys aren't making it any easier for him. Force-feeding is only asking for trouble, and he just doesn't like Dimitri so of course he's going to yell at him and refuse. Maybe if we enticed him to eat, he'd have an easier time."

The men stared first at me and then each other, carefully thinking over what I just said. I realized with a brief pang of worry that they might have never even considered the careful approach, and just went right to shoving food in the singer's mouth.

Without another word, I got up from my seat and walked over to the cabinet, pulling out a fresh plate. I scooped out some linguine Alfredo from the massive bowl in the center of the table—the dangling noodles glistening in the dimly-lit kitchen and dripping with mouthwatering sauce—and plopped it onto the plate. Steam still floated off the pasta, touching my nose and begging to be eaten.

I took the plate full of food into the living room, which was still dark except for the flickering light of the TV screen. "Bill?"

There was no response, and I approached the lump on the couch to the discovery that he was asleep—his eyelids were draped gently over his eyes, and he looked surprisingly peaceful. Setting the plate down on the coffee table, I knelt beside the singer only to be struck with concern. I noticed that his t-shirt, which was usually tight around his tiny torso, looked so baggy that it reminded me of Tom's clothes. Slowly, as to not wake Bill up, I stuck my forefinger under his shirt and pulled it up. I felt a slight adrenaline rush when the singer grunted in his sleep, but thankfully he didn't wake up. When I saw his torso underneath, however, I had to hold back a gasp of shock. I could see every rib in his chest, and his collarbones protruded unnaturally far—he looked like nothing more than a skeleton with a thin layer of skin stretched over. The emaciated man almost looked dead; but after further examination I was relieved to find he was still warm, and when I leaned in close I could feel his gentle breath against my face.

I sighed and whispered: "Please get well, Bill—for me." I stroked his soft black hair once or twice before leaving the room and anticipating a long, sleepless night.