Chapter 17: Elizabeth Castro
Kitty doesn't officially join our group of tired rockers until our last night in New York. It's an awkward and tense night, Mercedes walking straight out of the room to demonstrate solidarity towards Rachel, I think, like I'm not allowed to move on or to look at other women. One throw off comment to Kurt about Kitty being an old friend of his has him paling before I add that the two met, after all, during the last Warblers tour. From what I understood at the time, they even hung out during the break.
Kurt gives me an accusatory look, as if now that I know Dave is clueless about his past, I would just have to drag Kurt's old childhood acquaintance into the mix. I didn't. Kitty just showed up.
The two exchange a cool hello. Guess they didn't become bosom buddies back then.
It's Jeff who ends up taking Kitty home that night. He seems smitten, and Kitty loves the attention. It's no wonder she was such a well-loved groupie back in her day. From what I've heard, she hasn't been around much lately. Someone said she just kind of vanished, like maybe she decided to go home at last. Home. Do groupies really have homes?
One of the crew members traveling with us hops on the bus to Chicago that night because a lady such as Kitty should have a seat on the plane. Chivalry isn't dead – it's just stupid.
But I don't object because Kitty makes things brighter. She chats to everyone, but not mindlessly like Brittany does. Not at all. Kitty's got a strong, feminine, sexual aura. That hasn't gone anywhere. Roderick stares at her in awe during our flight while Dave asks Kitty to tell him Warblers stories. She does, talking about Nick and Seb and Puck, making us sound like heroes in our own right. She probably knows that neither Kurt nor I will step in with an "actually, that's not how it happened..." She even makes me sound like a nice guy. "Anyway," she concludes, "I merely made a cameo on that tour. Spent the rest of the summer with Bowie and Uriah Heep."
"Really? So who were you –"
"I don't kiss and tell," she smirks. Dave looks all the more intrigued.
Once we get to Chicago, Sam and Mercedes go their own way as they're staying with Mercedes's parents. Sam's having a hard time trying to remain neutral in the Kitty versus Rachel's ghost conflict and seems happy to be going with Mercedes for now. I don't take it personally. I've seen Sam and Kurt hanging out more and more, and all the while Sam is not telling Mercedes what actually happened between Rachel and me. It can't be easy for him either.
The rest of us get taken to the hotel for a quick rest with nothing to look forward to except interviews, interviews, radio station and then the arena.
Kitty and I end up lying on our stomachs on my hotel bed, watching Happy Days and smoking cigarettes. She's good company because she expects nothing of me, not even commenting when I throw three pills down my throat.
"So," she says after we've settled, quirking an eyebrow at me. "Do you kiss and tell?"
I frown. Is she expecting sex?
She adds, "Because I've been trying to figure out who it is."
"Who who is?"
"The person who's making you miserable." Ah. I see. Is my misery that plain to see? "I thought it was that dancer girl first, but you haven't said a thing about her. Then Roderick mentioned last night how you were caught cheating. I'd forgotten about that, so then I suspected your manager. God knows she hates my guts," she laughs, which is true. Lauren has been PMSing ever since Kitty first walked in. "But you're not even looking her way. I'm baffled, Blaine Anderson. I am very much..." She blows out smoke. "Baffled."
"Guess you'll never know," I say, wondering how well she realizes that I'm using her to distract myself. She knows, though. That's what all groupies are: distractions with a side of comfort.
"You know there are..." she starts, her teasing and playful tone now gone. She brushes her pink hair that's dark at the roots.
"Yeah?"
"There are rumors about you."
"I'm sorry?"
She looks slightly uncomfortable but then shrugs. "Elitist rumors, I'd say. Not common knowledge ones by any means." She rushes it out before I get the wrong impression. "Within certain circles, it just has been said that you... Well, a few times you've been seen leaving bars and parties with men. And not. Women. Leaving together is hardly evidence, but – There are rumors." She silences, and I watch Fonzie prancing on the screen. Silence lands on us as she waits for me to say something. I can't think of anything to say, the icy sensation in my guts chilling me to the bone. "Well," she says at last. "I expected you to make a case for yourself or throw me out, but you're doing neither."
"So?"
She shrugs. "So nothing. I mean, look at Elton John – everyone knows he's gay but as long as it remains hearsay, then that's all it'll ever be. Though, come on. Look at what he wears."
"But I'm not gay," I say firmly and suck on my cigarette. My hand trembles ever so slightly. I'm not gay. I never have been. "I'm just... not fully straight. Sometimes." Which isn't the same as full gay all the time. Rumors about my sexuality shouldn't surprise me – how unlikely is it that I've never been recognized when Jeff and I used to go searching for quick fucks in gay clubs? Or that no one's ever seen me with a pretty brown haired boy, going back to his place? There was this one guy who said 'Blaine' when he climaxed, although I'd told him my name was Henry. I knew there must be rumors, but this is the first time those rumors have gotten back to me. Their circulation, if elitist, is still wider than acceptable. They still can't prove any of it, she's right. Not unless I get caught fucking a man or come out and say it, and neither of those things is happening.
Still. Rumors. Fuck, that'd be a stupid way to ruin my career. I wonder if Lauren knows the gossip that floats around. She'd strangle me for sure.
"Not fully straight," she repeats thoughtfully, no accusation in her tone. Well. I suppose she can hardly judge me based on who I sleep with. "See, that broadens the possibilities for me in this guessing game, so..." She laughs. "So as silly as it is, I think I'll hazard a guess: Kurt. Although why you- why you'd be in love with that little oddball from down the street is beyond me."
She stares at me expectantly. I feel nauseous.
It's beyond me too these days. I could write essays on why him and not anyone else, why it was him specifically, but right now I couldn't say. I must be an idiot running after someone who thinks it's nonsense, that my feelings are not to be taken seriously. Who so clearly feels nothing back but I can't bring myself to admit it. I keep telling myself that he does feel something. I know he did, I could feel it in the way we moved, in the way he kissed me. Saying that he missed me. He fucking cheated on Dave for me. It all counts for something but adds up to nothing.
"How do you know?"
"Honey, it's my job to figure out who's fucking who," she smirks. When I don't indicate that I'm amused, she gently says, "Because you two keep looking at each other when the other one isn't looking."
"Does he really?" I ask quietly, and she nods. She might be saying it out of pity, my pathetic longing obvious to her. She knows Kurt's seeing someone else, and here I am, hibernating in a hotel room like a wounded animal.
"You were asking all these questions about him that summer. Were you two...?" She makes a vague hand gesture, and I nod. "So it's an old thing."
"Ancient. Feels like it's been going on my entire life. Doesn't matter, though. History. It doesn't matter what you've – seen or felt or been through together if you decide that it doesn't matter. If he decides that it didn't matter." I stub my cigarette into the ashtray we've placed between our elbows on the bed. Instead of giving her some long and elaborate blow-by-blow account, I only give her the end result because that's what sums it all up, shows what a load of nothing we achieved. "He chose Dave."
"Blah, that Dave character," she says with disdain. "He's too nice."
"Trust me, I fucking know. I just want to punch him in the fucking face."
She laughs, and I can't help but laugh too. It feels good to talk to someone about this. Jeff knows I'm a mess, but nothing he's doing is exactly helpful. He doesn't get how deep it runs. Neither does Lauren. I think Sam gets it, but he, on the other hand, doesn't know how big of a mess I am. And I need to be running this show. Give my band confidence. Whereas Kitty, well – she's on the outside. She keeps her mouth shut. She's only here to make the ride more enjoyable, and if she stops performing that function, I wave her off.
"I'm sure Kurt doesn't think that you two don't matter," Kitty says sympathetically.
"He called it nonsense."
"Well, he – he probably meant that... I mean."
Yeah. Exactly.
A knock echoes from the door, and Kitty gets up like she's been saved by the bell. "I'll get it." She steps over my suitcase on her way over, and I sigh and roll onto my back, the world suddenly upside down. She opens the door slightly, exchanging a few words with a male voice. "Fine. Fine, I'll ask. Blaine!" she calls over her shoulder, "Dave wants to know if he can interview you tonight."
"Too busy."
Dave's voice calls out, "We don't have a single exclusive interview with you yet! Blaine, come on. It'd only take two hours, we could do it after the show or –"
"He's too busy," Kitty says. "In fact, he will never have time for your interview." She closes the door in Dave's face. I start laughing, and she grins as she makes her way back over. "That any better?"
"A little bit."
I imagine Dave standing in the hotel corridor, blinking at the door in shock.
It's a momentary comfort.
Sam's father invites the entire crew over to the Evans residence, which I first assumed he'd probably regret come tomorrow. I forgot, however, that Sam's been in bands since he was a teenager, and so his parents are well accustomed to musicians: there's a buffet of cold beer and as many pork ribs and chicken legs as one can humanly consume. It's a nice change from the drug heavy clubs, standing in the Walkers' living room and signing the new LP for Sam's cousins while his grandma chats with Santana in the corner.
But I overdo it. I always overdo these things.
It's just slight nausea at first, but soon it's strong enough for me to find the nearest bathroom. I throw up all I've eaten, colorless lumps of dead animal meat mixed with my saliva, poorly chewed. A cold sweat breaks out, and then a headache, and I sit on the floor shivering and take more codeine pills.
It's what keeps me on the road. Makes me pleasantly numb. Sometimes. It comes with a price I'm willing to pay.
"Blaine, are you alright in there?" Lauren's voice comes from outside. She's constantly breathing down my neck.
"Piss off," I call back tiredly. I hear her huffing. We're arguing more and more, Lauren and I.
I gather my strength, rinse my mouth, and eventually manage to get out of the bathroom.
Kitty's organized a small party in the meantime to go climb over the fence of the private pool two blocks down after Sam made the mistake of telling her they used to do that as kids. "Let's go be naughty," she grins.
"Let me just find my hat," I tell her because I found one of Quinn's old creations back in New York, and Kitty liked it – I wonder if they would have gotten along had they ever been introduced – and I was wearing it when we got here but I put it down somewhere.
"We'll wait outside!" she calls after me, linking arms with Jeff and joining the eager soon-to-be lawbreaking swimmers.
The hat has been stolen by one of Sam's cousins – I think she intended to keep it as proof or a memory or sniffing material for masturbation, but I reclaim it easily enough as she only stutters when she sees me. I steal someone's pack of cigarettes on the way out, waving bye to the ones who are not as adventurous.
I'm halfway down the front steps when a simple "Hey" stops me where I am. I look back onto the porch to see Kurt there, Dave's leather jacket on him, smoking. I put the hat on, nodding. It's not like him to address me or acknowledge my existence.
"You going swimming with Kitty's group of admirers?" he asks and motions over to the lawn where roughly a dozen rebels are waiting.
"Yeah, sounded like fun. Aren't you coming?"
He shakes his head. "I was planning on going for a walk. Sam said there's a park nearby."
"Blaine! Come on!" someone yells, drunken laughter erupting.
"That's my cue. Catch you on the –"
"You wanna come?"
I stare at him. "Sorry?"
"For a walk, I mean. Although I guess Kitty's more vibrant company." He flicks his cigarette casually. They're calling out for me impatiently, Kitty's voice ringing out the loudest. His jaw sets tight. "Well?"
"Blaine!" Kitty yells demandingly, and I look her way and then back at Kurt. He's staring at his shoes. Kitty's staring at us. He seems to have tensed up.
"Yeah. A walk. Sure."
He looks up, a wave of warmth flushing over me when his brown eyes meet mine. "Okay," he says with a small smile. Okay. Great. Fantastic.
I hastily motion for Kitty to go on without me. She looks ticked off, but then stalks off, the group casting looks our way. Yeah, whatever.
Kurt nudges my shoulder as he passes me, and I try to contain the swelling sensation in my chest. I follow, falling into step with him.
A mild breeze smelling of traffic fumes follows us in the June evening. It's a nice middle class suburban neighborhood that's quiet at night because the people who live here have work in the morning and their kids don't have a habit of running wild. He smokes his cigarette as we go the opposite way from the others. Just the two of us.
"Where did you leave your boyfriend?"
"Snoring on Sam's parents' bed," he says, shrugging. "He needs the rest."
He doesn't seem to be missing his boyfriend much. Wandering off into the night with me instead.
The park is just around the corner, deserted at this time of night. Houses surround it on all sides, and a playground sits at the heart of it. We aim for it without meaning to, and he sits on one of the swings to finish off his cigarette. It's hardly even a walk, and I'm left wondering what his motives are. Pity? A random act of kindness, letting me enjoy his exclusive company for a little while?
He notices me staring. "What?"
"Just wondering what you want."
"Nothing," he says, sounding mildly irritated. He pushes backwards, and the swing creeps into motion. I sit on the other one and wait. He'll spit it out after a while. I just need patience. That's what I keep telling myself: I have to be patient with him.
"So the second New York show got rescheduled to August?" he asks, and I nod. "That's too bad. It was a crazy night, right?" I hum in agreement as he beats around the bush. "Stressful, too. Kept worrying about you and Dave when you were stuck in that elevator. It made the papers, don't know if you saw. 'Blaine Anderson stuck in elevator during blackout'."
"Yeah, Lauren informed me." He worried. He just said that he worried.
"It was chaotic, all of it, even at the hotel. I barely even remember what I said to you."
That makes one of us. I remember it word to word. Another rejection. How many can I take? But now, two days later, he's pulled me aside. He takes in a deep, uneven breath. "Are you fucking her?" He looks at me evenly, but he seems tense. "Kitty."
I focus my gaze on a seesaw, forlornly tilted to one side. Never half and half. Never eye to eye. "Why?"
"She's still in touch with someone back home. That's how I heard of my dad's heart attack when it happened a couple years ago. I see her, and I wait for bad news."
"Me doing her would be bad news?" I question.
He kicks the ground to make the almost still swing move again. "It'd just be you saying one thing but doing another." He slowly swings back and forth. "Like you always do."
He's not admitting that he's jealous, but maybe that it bothers him. That it might bother him.
"I'm not fucking her," I say silently and honestly. "And even if I were, it wouldn't mean anything." I get out a cigarette but then feel no desire to light it. "You should know that." He should. I've told him time and time again. He says nothing, however. "You still pissed off about Jeff?"
He blows out smoke and laughs bitterly. "What do you think?" Right. Guess I'm not getting off the hook quite that easily. "I thought we had agreed to keep our mouths shut. Isn't that the basis of any affair?" he questions. I don't like the word 'affair'. It doesn't even begin to describe what we had. "Jeff's not gonna tell Dave, though," he then says. "I know that, but that doesn't make it okay." He scratches his nose quickly. "I mean, I guess I get it. If you wanted somebody to talk to." He looks down to his shoes that are sliding half an inch above ground. "You're lucky."
"Lucky?"
"Yeah. To have at least one person you can be honest with."
So he hasn't told a single soul. All those stolen afternoons and lies and secret meetings, and he's kept it all to himself. It occurs to me that he wishes he had been able to talk to someone. Well, who? Ian who has a crush on me? Mason who hates my guts and loves Dave? Above all, what would he have said to those people? A yearning fills me, a deep-seeded desire to know what those words would have been.
"You can talk to me," I offer.
"About us?" he laughs disbelievingly. Now there's a word I love: us. The way it slips into the conversation and how he doesn't correct himself. Not dead yet. Not dead. "I don't think so." He drops his cigarette and steps on it, his swing coming to a stop. It's not such a crazy idea, for him to talk to me about us. I represent half of the topic, anyway. We just never were the talking kind. Guessing and not saying seemed like more fun. More destructive.
He stands up, the swing swaying on its own accord. At first I think that we're continuing our walk as he takes off, but then he stops. I remain in the swing, fiddling with the unlit cigarette.
He fidgets slightly before saying, "I'm sorry. That I called it nonsense. I know that it pissed you off. I can't know the... the strength of what you feel."
I stare at him, speechless. "How can you not?"
He remains still as clouds shift over the crescent moon, enveloping him in darker shades. Something in his stance, the way he hangs his head, looks vulnerable. Like I see a side of him, a core that I've been fighting to see for months now.
I stand up quickly. "Kurt –"
"I should go now." His voice wavers. "I have a feeling that I should go." He smiles my way uncertainly, backing away. I don't follow. I stay still. He smiles wider. "I'm loving the hat, by the way."
I touch the brim of it as he turns around, heading back to the house where his boyfriend sleeps.
Lauren calls out my name from across the crowded suite. I only lift a half-interested eyebrow, not wanting to interrupt my conversation with Roderick about why the clarinet is an underappreciated instrument. Roderick's got a girl glued to his side, a pretty model like thing he'd never have a chance with in real life. He's soaking in the sudden fame like a sponge, loving it even as he's terrified of it. Something about it all reminds me of Sebastian in the early Warblers days, but I try not to think about that.
Lauren snakes through the chattering crowd, excusing herself as she gets guests out of her way: Chicago musicians, our friends, some journalists, some groupies. Lauren's hair is in a careless bun, a sure sign that she's stressed because her hair is always exactly how she wants it to be. Not this time. "Blaine, I need to have a word," she says. Kitty, who has been talking to everyone, now appears at my side, linking arms with me happily. Lauren stares at her pink emergence like it's blasphemous. "Alone," she stresses.
Kitty smiles. "Well, aren't you a greedy thing, wanting Blaine all to yourself."
"I'm his manager," Lauren states and grabs my arm.
Roderick laughs, eyes smiling at me. "Your destiny in this world is to be fought over by beautiful women, eh?"
"It's true," I smirk, giving Kitty's ass a friendly pat as I go with Lauren reluctantly. She's nowhere near as fun as Kitty. One thing I'll give for Ryder as a manager – he understood the soothing effect of women on a crowd of sex-hungry musicians. Lauren doesn't.
Lauren heads for the bedroom that I'll be sleeping in once the sun starts coming up. It was another good show in Chicago tonight, the performances slowly becoming a part of a routine. Europe next, then a break, and then the big, massive North American tour. This is a teaser, like Lauren herself put it. Will enable us to push the ticket prices up or something. I'll let her worry about the money.
We almost walk into a kissing Brittany and Santana on the way, their perfect love more obnoxious than ever, but I can't bring myself to mind. Lauren huffs and opens the bedroom door. My eyes land on Kurt in the corner, chatting to Sam again, and he happens to look up and meet my gaze. I stop without meaning to. I mouth 'Hey' because I haven't had the chance to speak to him all day, barely even seen him because of the interview load. He breaks into a small smile, warmth in his eyes. Not rejection.
Sam says something. Kurt instantly looks back to his companion, nodding too much and probably speaking too fast. Nervous.
I'd take him away right now if he let me.
"This is important," Lauren says impatiently, and I sigh and follow her to the bedroom unwillingly. She closes the door while I sit down on the bed, waiting to be lectured.
"Let's have it then," I sigh. She looks confused. "Kitty?"
"No, nothing to do with that pink ball of brainlessness," she says. "Although she is leaving soon, I hope. She certainly isn't welcome for all of the tour, and –"
"She's going soon, yeah." I'm confused. "So what's this about?"
She lets out a deep breath, and only then do I notice how stressed out and thrown off she looks. "It's about Kurt."
She instantly has my attention. I keep thinking about last night, in the park. What would have happened if he had stayed? Did he know he'd stop fighting, and that's why he had to go? I see us sitting on our respective swings, leaning out too far to kiss in the park like two teenagers. I wouldn't have minded that. Let Dave sleep forever, until he becomes forgotten. Until I'm all there is.
Lauren has no interest in Kurt, even less now that she knows he and I are no longer involved. "What about Kurt?" I ask because it's not like Lauren to be speechless. Her brows knit together in what seems to be incomprehension. A sudden chill runs down my spine. "Lauren, if you don't tell me right now, I swear to god I'll –"
"I just got off the phone with my secretary back in New York. He had a message from Mark Reynolds, an A&R for Columbia."
"Are we... changing labels?" I inquire, not understanding where she is going with this.
"Blaine, they want Kurt." She looks at me with a dead serious expression on her face.
I frown. "What do you... I mean. What do you mean?"
She begins pacing nervously. "They asked if I was representing him. Am I? I hardly talk to the guy. I don't have the time to represent him! I need to expand my management company, assign someone else to him. I need to do that. You could talk him into that, couldn't you? Christ! I didn't even listen to the demo! I thought it was you just spoiling your boy toy, and now it turns out that – that." She laughs, shaking her head. "That Columbia wants him."
I've remained frozen throughout her sudden rant. Kurt's demo and the distribution of it have hardly crossed my mind since we split up and my album got released. And Kurt hasn't asked about it so – Well no, if I tried to play the knight in shining armor, saying how I'd give his demo to all these big shots but then later wouldn't give Kurt any news, he'd assume that nothing ever came of it. And even if it occurred to him to ask, he wouldn't come to me. He probably thinks it was a failure, his demo rotting on someone's desk under a pile of a hundred better ones.
Columbia doesn't take on just anyone. Definitely not someone completely unknown like Kurt. No, first they expect you to create a buzz and get a following – Kurt has neither. Only talent. I knew that. I knew that, sure I – But that others noticed it too, I...
"What do you mean they want him?" I ask quietly.
Lauren's eyes sparkle. "A record deal! Advertisement! You know they can make anyone into a star if they want to invest in it – look at Bruce Springsteen! Columbia put a shitload of money into him and he's touring the world! Fuck, that could be Kurt." She laughs like she can't believe the next Bruce Springsteen has been under her nose all this time. I don't. I don't know what I'm supposed to feel. Lauren's getting excited now that it's sinking in. I don't think it's sinking in with me.
Kurt's not anything, really, is he? He's been a busboy and a barber and a bartender and a roadie and a venue worker and god knows what else, but never a musician in his own right. He can play as well as me, sure, but he's always been too preoccupied trying to feed himself to fully pursue a career in music. Because it takes arrogance to even think you can support yourself by playing guitar. Fuck, that takes arrogance. Kurt's too good for that. I never was.
So maybe this is his chance to be something. He doesn't know it yet, that he'll become someone.
"Fuck, he's getting a record deal," I breathe out, the bottom of my stomach vanishing. "Well, it... It might not be a success, right? It might flop. He's not necessarily going to become this huge thing."
"Oh, but he's so cute," Lauren enthuses. "I'll clean him up a bit, and he'll be such a heartthrob. A pretty smile, nice lips, a cute butt... We only need to keep his sexuality under wraps. He could be one of those vague Bowie types where you don't know what he fucks. The mystique can be very sexy, you know. That can sell." She's staring into the distance as all of this happens before her eyes. "God, they won't care what kind of music he's playing if we sell it properly." She grins. "Fantastic! This is fantastic! Goddamn, Blaine, I had no idea you had actual scouting skills."
"Yeah." I knew he was good. Of course I knew that. "Can I –" My throat feels oddly dry, and I swallow hard, start again. "Can I tell him? I'd like to be the one to tell him. If that's okay."
"Oh, yes, that's why I told you first. He'll listen to you, and he'll need management now. You have power over him. God, we have to use that angle! We'll advertise him as your discovery! Blaine Anderson's protégé!" She laughs again, in a better mood than I've seen her in months. "God, I need a cigarette and a good fuck, and tonight'll be just about perfect." I dig into my pocket for cigarettes, trying to be helpful. She scrunches her nose. "None of those menthol ones. Disgusting. You will talk to him soon, though, won't you? Tonight?"
"Tomorrow," I say, and I can see that this displeases her. "Tomorrow," I repeat, and she sighs slightly.
"Well. I still need a cigarette. A proper one." She flashes a smile at me and walks out, leaving the door open. The chattering amplifies as she disappears into the crowd. I remain seated on the bed and feel... nothing. I'm happy for him. Surely. Surely I'm happy for him. Fucking happy.
He'll be so happy when I tell him.
I get to be the knight in shining armor after all. He'll know that. And then he'll go off and tour the world.
He won't need me.
I'll lose him.
I toss the cigarette pack across the room but not even angrily. Out of frustration. For no reason.
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
It suddenly feels like the walls are caving in and oxygen is getting sucked out of the room, and the nausea returns. A headache too. Always these goddamned headaches.
I dig out the pill bottle that's always safely in my jacket pocket these days, but it's light, too light, and nothing rattles inside it. Great. Great. Fantastic.
My feet lead me out into the living room and quickly to the door, shaking my head at the people who try to stop me for a chat. Not now. Not right now.
The elevator doesn't come soon enough – and I don't trust those damn things anymore, not at all – and I take the stairs. A hotel security guard standing between the elevator and the door for the stairs recognizes me, his eyes widening, but I leave him to his senseless job of guarding Floor 9 from fan invasions, to make sure no one uninvited comes to harass the famous people. My steps echo as I descend one floor at a time, faster, faster, until there are no more stairs.
The lobby is lavish and grand – they always are in hotels for the wealthy – but deserted at this time of night. A tired looking receptionist is handling a teenage girl as I walk to a cluster of couches in a darkened corner, wanting a few minutes of peace. When I get closer, I realize someone's on my chosen couch already, smoking a cigarette with his shoulders hunched.
I flop down on the couch next to him. "Could I get a cigarette off you, man?" I ask, regretting having abandoned the menthol ones I stole from Sam's parents' house.
The kid – he is a kid, in his late teens – jumps and looks at me. His long, frizzy hair reminds me of Seb, but his is blonder. "Blaine," he says. Breathes out in a breathy way. His eyes widen and he pulls the cigarette out of his mouth. He instantly looks over to the receptionist, and I follow his gaze to the girl. His mouth hangs open like he should yell out to her, but nothing comes out.
"Okay, do you have a Devon Anderson?" the girl is asking.
"No," the receptionist sighs.
"Devon Duval?"
"No."
"Anderson Blaine?"
"No. For god's sake, don't you know the name of your father?"
The exclamation of 'he's here!' seems to have died in the kid's throat. "Ah," I say, leaning into the couch to hide in the shadow a bit better. "Now that's a bit awkward." I hold out my palm, and the kid stares in some kind of shock before he kicks into motion and passes me a cigarette out of the pack he has in his breast pocket. "Do I get a light?" I ask once the cigarette's snugly between my lips.
"YeahofcourseBlainesurething. Sorry. Sorry, that was so rude. Fuck, sorry."
I take his lighter and use it as he keeps apologizing, looking more horrified by the second.
"Don't fret it," I tell him, and he nods and apologizes again before catching himself. He has the sense to laugh embarrassedly.
"I-I've been to b-both of your Chicago shows, and we were in New York, I don't- I don't suppose you recognize me, you signed an album for me once back in -73, I had different hair then, it was more like, like floppy, I guess, but hair spray, that does wonders and god, so many questions I've always wanted to ask you!" He offers his hand, hope shining in his eyes. "I'm Chandler!"
I take it. "Blaine."
"Trust me, I know who you are!" he says, still clearly disbelievingly. "You're a poet. You are. I wanted to- And the new album, it's just so raw. When I first heard you sing, 'We're still in hiding, the only place you'll ever let us know', and the energy, the anger, I just – God, I was speechless. I am speechless. Fuck." He rubs his face quickly.
I forget to smoke my cigarette. "Well, since you know him so well," I say, wanting to add the kid's name but having forgotten it already, "do you think Devon Duval would... sabotage the dream of someone he deeply cared about?"
He blinks. "But why would he – you do that?"
"Out of selfishness."
"No. No, of course not," he hurries out, suddenly worked up.
"Out of fear."
"He doesn't fear anything. He doe – You don't fear anything. Don't you know who you are?" He sounds astonished.
I look toward the girl on the counter, the receptionist now threatening to call security if she doesn't remove herself from the premises. "I'm Elizabeth Castro." I rub my nose quickly. "Thanks for the cigarette, kid."
He stares at me with big eyes as I get up and head out. "Anytime."
"He wants you. He does, trust me."
"Yeah, the way he keeps away from me clearly shows that," I reply tiredly. Kitty's job is to make me feel better, so she'd probably say anything at this point to achieve said effect. We stare at the ceiling as we lie on the hotel bed together, not having really started the day properly yet. A half-eaten croissant is on the nightstand from a failed effort to have breakfast. We're both in our underwear and still mostly sleepy.
"He's jealous," she says, and I snort. "Come on, at Sam's parents' house? He was jealous. Him and I are civil enough because we have blackmail material on each other, but trust me, Kurt is not my fan when he sees us together. I know relationship games. He's playing you."
"Playing me?"
"Juxtaposing you and Dave, making lists of pros and cons. He can't just surrender." She laughs. "No, no, that'd spoil it. He's testing you. You gotta stay still, and that's it. He'll fall into your arms soon enough."
"Fantastic. Do nothing. That's great advice." I sigh heavily. "But then what? He falls into my arms, and then what? Do you know how many good musician friends I've got? None. None because successful musicians are too fucking busy."
She remains quiet for a while, humming. "Well, maybe he could tour with you. Be your support act. Come on, it's a record deal, not a deportation." She tilts her head my way, her hair falling on the pillow. "And you forget that he wants you around as much as you want him. You'd find ways to be together."
"In our little fantasy world that doesn't exist," I say because I need to remain cynical at this point. Pretend I am cynical. How can one smile from him mean so much, fill me with so much hope? He'll love me for getting him a record deal. Sure. Maybe I should see it as a good thing, as yet another thing I've done for him that Dave hasn't. And then what Lauren said about Kurt's sexuality, well, Dave would have to be kept secret. How would that go down? Would that be the last nail on their coffin? Maybe the record deal is a good thing. Maybe it can be a good thing. And then sure, Blaine Anderson and The Pips will whisk him on tour, and it'll be flashing lights and us laughing in the backs of limos as far as the eye can see.
But a little something called life experience tells me that it won't end up that way.
It's an ugly business. He's led an ugly life, so he'll probably be okay. He's not blue-eyed.
And he deserves a break. He does. So Kitty's right. I can turn it into a victory, and someone from Lauren's company will manage him, and we can keep him close and grateful and ours. And he'll smile at me with warmth in his gaze, and I will fight my way through one inch at a time, until there is no contest between me and Dave, until the day comes when I'm the obvious choice.
"Just imagine that big, fat smile on his oversized lips when you tell him," Kitty says. "He's won the goddamned lottery thanks to you, so just remind him of the fact that you're his most powerful friend. He's in eternal gratitude to you now."
"I haven't thought of it like that."
"You should, so smile already." She pokes my bare side, and I swat her hand away, laughing. She grins. "There we go. That's a smile." She cranes her neck to look at the clock on the nightstand. "Got two hours before my bus leaves. Don't want to go, really."
"Then don't."
"I have to. Took off without saying anything. It just got a bit too much, real life, and now I've got one pissed off husband and a needy seven-month-old wondering where the fuck I am." She sighs and burrows into the sheets slightly. I hide my surprise. "But I like this. Pretending. That's what I always liked about this. The clinical smell of hotel sheets and the bright, bright lights of the stage."
I reach out to touch her hair, my fingers slowly carding through the pink locks. I don't ask any questions. We musicians are always selfish that way – only interested in ourselves. She knows that. That was the attraction in the first place, a chance to forget herself.
She props herself on one elbow. She's got mascara stains on her cheeks, little black flecks. She lifts her eyebrows. "You want a blowjob, at least?"
I stop to consider this. "No. No, I'm good."