Afraid of the Dark

My first few days back in L.A. passed in a haze of loneliness and uncertainty. The more time I spent in L.A., the more I was sure that I couldn't stay here--at least not permanently. I hadn't had a real home since I had left my family behind as a teenager, but it had never bothered me before. Now I felt out of place, restless. All I wanted was a place to rest my aching head, but I never felt at home anywhere. I just felt alone.

I used the article as a distraction, channeling all my conflicting emotions into writing the piece instead of dwelling on them and wallowing in self-pity. Day after day and night after night, I slaved over the article. It was easier to take everything that had happened over the past week and write it down, organizing it into a logical account, than it was to overanalyze it, picking apart every word and phrase and loaded look the way I knew I would if I allowed myself to. But I was afraid to remember those days too much, so I didn't think, I didn't feel--I just wrote.

But I couldn't purge all emotion from the piece; Pete had changed my life in ways that no one else ever had before, and I couldn't forget that. I couldn't write the article honestly without all the underlying tones of hurt and loss and regret and love and adoration and longing showing through. I couldn't hide all my biases completely.

And sometimes, writing the piece was downright painful. The first time I tried to tell the story to my computer screen, I couldn't type his last name tacked onto hers. I ended up putting parantheses around it, which was tolerable, but still stung. At least I could separate the parantheses from the rest of her name--separate him from her, in some small measure that no one else would ever have to know about. One less bulls-eye over my heart.

Unfortunately, I didn’t think to go back and edit out the parantheses later, before I turned the rough draft in to my editor. So when my boss, Chris, called me into his office the day before the final draft of the article was due, I found him sitting at his desk with a snide look on his face, the hard copy of my article in his hands.

"My dear Sarah," he half-sneered at me, "what the hell did they do to you up there in New York?"

I stiffened in my seat--an uncomfortable straight-backed chair I had dragged across the room to sit right in front of his desk--and swallowed hard. I hadn't slept properly in days, devoting my nights to the article instead, editing and re-editing all the little details I feared might give me away. Apparently all my efforts had been in vain.

He quirked one eyebrow at me. I replied silently with a look that said, You don't want to know.

"Sarah," he sighed, shaking his great bald head. "You have such potential--such talent. Your last few pieces have been our most popular. The issue featuring your last full-length was our highest-selling in years! But this--this is just--" He dropped the hard copy of my article onto his desk with a cruel slap, and I flinched. "It's just..."

"What?" I said finally, when he never finished. "What is it?"

"It's just..." He scratched at his five o'clock shadow, avoiding my eyes. "...Not up to your usual standards."

"What's wrong with it?" I snapped.

"I don't know, Sarah, it's just... I mean, what is this?"

He shoved the papers in front of my face, pointing out a paragraph halfway down the first page with one stubby finger. And of course it had to be that paragraph.

"...until Wentz returns to his L.A. mansion, which he shares with wife, Ashlee Simpson (Wentz) and their son, Bronx..."

"It's Ashlee Simpson-Wentz, with a hyphen!" said Chris. "Not Ashlee Simpson...Wentz, as an afterthought, with little parantheses around it! You know that!"

"So?" I said defensively. My voice shook. "It was just a typo. What's the big deal?"

"A typo?" he snorted. "Since when do you make typos, ever? You, the Adolf Hitler of all grammar Nazis--"

"It was just one little mistake, okay?!"

My voice was too loud, too hysterical for this conversation, and I knew as soon as the words flew out of my mouth that I had made a mistake. He saw that something had changed in me, and now he wouldn't rest until he knew exactly what.

"Sarah?" he whispered. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

I looked down at the carpet, at the gleaming black noses of his shoes peeking out from under his desk. "No."

He sighed again. "It's not just the typo, Sarah. The whole piece is just...off."

"Well, what's so off about it?"

"It's just...not what we're looking for."

"And what are you looking for, exactly, Chris?"

I glared at him across the desk. I knew what he meant. I wanted to hear him say it--out loud.

"I think you're looking for me to tell everyone what a sell out Fall Out Boy is...what a douchebag Pete is. I think you're looking for me to vindicate all your asshole readers by telling them that they're right to hate this band, that it means they listen to good music, and not just whatever we tell them to listen to. I think you just want me to lie to them."

"Well, you know what I think?" said Chris. "I think you seem to know Pete pretty well. A little too well, if you know what I mean."

"I don't," I said coldly.

"I think you do," he insisted. "But that's not important. You're a nice girl, he seems to be a nice guy, he's got a kid and a wife and all--I don't want to stir up a scandal here. We're not the fucking National Enquirer, for God's sake."

"Then what do you want to do, Chris?" I asked through gritted teeth.

"I want you to write me a pretty little article that will sell me copies, like you always do. I want you to do your job."

I folded my arms across my chest in defiance and stared him down. "Oh, so now it's my job to lie to everyone and destroy someone's reputation just to make more money for a bunch of suits?" I snarled.

"Honey," said Chris, "in this business there's road kill and then there are vultures. Which would you rather be?" When I gave no reply, he smiled sweetly at me and handed me the hard copy of my article. "Hate to break it to you, sweetheart, but you're the vulture. Welcome to showbiz."

I snatched the stack of papers out of his hand and turned for the door, slamming my chair against the wall as I got to my feet. "Yeah, well, fuck you, Chris," I choked out. I was so angry I could barely speak.

"Make me proud!" he yelled after me as I pulled the door closed behind me. "I know you'll do the right thing, Sarah."



The thing about L.A. is it’s too wide open. Sure, it’s a big city, but not like New York – not condensed, with a million people all living on top of each other and constantly bustling around here and there. You could find some empty space to yourself in L.A. if you wanted to. And I didn’t need empty space. I didn’t need time alone, time to think. I needed a distraction.

I walked around the city for a while as I tried to decide what my next move would be. Maybe I was a journalist, but I was no vulture – despite all of Pete’s jokes, I had integrity. In the beginning of all this mess, I had set out to paint a clear picture of the Fall Out Boy phenomenon, and now that I had done just that, my job was in jeopardy. I wanted to keep my job…but was it worth keeping when my boss was forcing my hand?

The whole point was to defy the vicious cycle, but now I was getting caught up in it myself. I was doomed to either bash Fall Out Boy just like all the other magazines always had, or to get fired. Either way, the article I slaved over for weeks, the article that actually gave the band credit where credit was due, would never go to print. I had failed.

I could either accept my failure, cut my losses, and write the article Chris wanted, or I could defy him and go down with the ship with my head held high. I told myself to be strong, not to give in to the media machine. But it was too late. I was already a cog.

By midnight I found myself hunched over my laptop with a big cup of coffee. And I just started writing. I stopped thinking. I stopped feeling. I stopped remembering. I just started telling a story – not a true story, but a fictional one, where the bad guy got what he deserved. And in this story Pete was the bad guy.

I knew it was wrong, but it comforted me somehow. None of it was his fault, but I was hurting, and I guess it felt better to be able to blame someone for the pain. To convince myself I wasn’t missing out on anything when I let him go.

Whatever the reason, I slept better that night than I had in weeks.



“Excellent, Sarah,” said Chris, grinning from ear to ear as the straightened the edges of the rough draft of the new article, smoothing the stack of papers out lovingly against his desk. “Much better.”

I shrugged and tried not to look as uncomfortable as I felt. “Thank you.”

“I guess you just needed a little time to clear your head, huh?”

As he stared me down, waiting for me to agree with him, I felt like a traitor, giving up all my secrets to the enemy, becoming one of them. “I guess so,” and my voice cracked.

“Well, I’m glad to see you back to your form. You may be young, but you’re one of our most valued writers here at the magazine.”

I just kept nodding along, not listening to the words he was saying. Suddenly, all I could hear was Pete’s voice: “I love you. I do…. You changed everything for me.”

“I was thinking… We have that big Coldplay article for next month, and I was going to give it to Lowe…but I think you would be better for the job. What do you think?”

I realized Chris was staring at me, expecting some kind of answer from me. But I didn’t know the question.

“Excuse me?”

“The Coldplay article. Do you want it?”

All at once, I couldn’t remember how to form coherent speech. “Um…yes. Of course. Sure.”

“Wonderful. I’ll send you all the details soon.”

He dismissed me from his office and I stumbled up out of my chair and over to the door. I fidgeted with the handle, and once I was outside in the hallway, I could hardly find the elevator. I completely forgot about my 2 pm meeting and just went home, ignoring the secretary calling my name as the elevator doors slid shut between us.

I felt like a stranger in my own body – inhuman somehow. After all, I wasn’t human anymore. I was a vulture.



Two weeks passed and the article went to print. I made up new routines for myself (going to Starbucks, bookstores, bars, reading the papers, keeping up with TV shows) to keep busy as I prepared for my next assignment – Coldplay. Reading up on the band, I came across an interview with Chris Martin in which he discussed family life with his wife and two kids. Without thinking, I said out loud to myself, “Stay away from him, Sarah, you whore! Learn your lesson.” All alone in the silence of my apartment, I laughed so hard I cried.

These days, I was a wreck. I felt like I had lost something, like something had gone missing, but my life was the same as it always had been. Sure, I had lost Pete, but I didn’t really want him after all. Not really. I knew it was never meant to be.

Still, I felt so lonely. I couldn’t understand why, couldn’t wrap my head around it. It kept my up nights and eventually I began to self-medicate myself with cough syrup and Benadryl.

By the time the next issue of the magazine was about to go to print, I was stuck in a rut. I had begun to resent Chris and everyone else at work for what they had forced me to become; I blamed them for the shell of a person I was. I knew I had to make a change, but I wasn’t sure what to do or how to go about it.

That’s when Pete came to my rescue.

I had been avoiding him at all costs, of course. I used to flip through all the magazines while in line at the grocery (yes, even the really trashy ones), just because I write for a magazine and therefore find them endlessly interesting, but since I had come back from New York, I steered clear of the tabloids section, turning a blind eye to them when I was in the check-out line. Any time Entertainment Tonight or Access Hollywood came on by accident after another show I had been watching, I panicked and turned the TV off entirely. I was even afraid to read the music magazines I subscribed to for fear that his name might pop up in there somewhere.

But of course he found me anyway. It was such a Pete thing to do.

At work, I have it set up so that all reader mail regarding my articles is automatically forwarded to me via email, just because I like to know what people are saying about my work. It’s also sort of necessary in case I made a mistake that needs correcting or in case I would like to defend myself if a reader’s comment is posted in the mail section of the next issue. One morning I was going through the reader mail when I came across one that stood out.

Sarah,

I thought you were a little hard on Fall Out Boy. Sure, they’re no Beatles, but they mean well. They never meant to hurt you. They miss you a lot, too. They have a lot of things to say to you, but maybe the magazine won’t give out your personal contact info, maybe Fall Out Boy doesn’t know how else to contact you, and maybe they can’t say it all through magazine fan mail. They love you and they’re sorry, and those are the most important things. They hope you are happy.

Anyway, no hard feelings. I know how you damn reporters—I mean, journalists are. The circle of life and all that. Fall Out Boy is the antelope and you are the lion. They were never supposed to fall in love.

I’m sorry about this letter. I won’t ever bother you again. Promise.

But I have an idea for next time. Next time, you promise you’ll be nicer in the article and I promise I won’t fall in love with you. Deal?

Regards,
Declan MacManus

I had never loved him more.