Status: Updating while working on rewriting the earlier chapters (and deleting some stuff).
Infinite
Twenty-six
“It’s not working, Aubrey.”
I’m on the Warped Tour, and our two-week stay has been extended into five. Derek pulled a few strings. Gerard is in London, I think, but I’ve had so much to do I haven’t been able to keep track of where they are at the moment. In fact, we haven’t talked properly for several days.
“What’s not working?”
“This. Us.”
Somewhere deep inside, something shatters and spreads like wildfire through my veins.
“It was never going to work, Aubrey. I love you, but… You know. I feel like a fucking perv sometimes, you’re eighteen years old and I’m…”
If he does love me, what the hell is he talking about?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Gerard sighs.
“I’m talking about an age difference of twelve years, A.”
"That doesn’t mean anything. You know it doesn’t."
We’ve talked about this. We’ve agreed that this wasn’t going to affect us. It wouldn’t matter to our relationship what the fans thought, and they aren’t even talking about us that much anymore – it was always going to blow over.
Gerard is silent for a few seconds.
"I don’t think you get it", he says at last, sounding pained. "I don’t think… Can you see yourself in ten years? Or in five? Because I can see myself. It’s like I have this… I can see myself starting a family. Do you get that?"
Breathe. You can talk him through this.
You want to give him all of that.
"I want that too. You know I do."
But it’s like he doesn’t believe me.
"Aubrey, you’re eighteen." I hate it when he says it like that – like I don’t have a clue about life. "I don’t want to be the reason you gave up living your life. I don’t want to be the one to take these years away from you, when you’re supposed to be a… God, you’re a teenager. When I was eighteen…"
There’s a tightness in my chest. Like the anger is working so hard to keep control of my tears that it’s stretched out over my entire body. I hate it that he can tell that I’m already crying when I say:
"So you’re mad at me for being eighteen? Well, I’m sorry."
"A…"
"Don’t you fucking dare. ’I’m game if you are'. That’s what you said. You know that, right? You were so sure about this. You said you were. You said you didn’t think it was weird."
He is silent for a moment, and I don’t try to fight the tears from running down my face anymore. I can hear from the way he draws for breath that he’s crying too, even through the static of the phone. He’s so far away.
"I’m sorry. I can’t do this."
The beep when he hangs up is worse than any of the things he’s said. And later, I won’t remember that my phone shatters as I hurl it against the wall, nor will I remember what Karl and Noel say to me when they find me curled up on the floor against the kitchen counter.
I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Frank comes to visit in late September, when I’ve been on sick leave for a week. Gerard broke up in late August and it took me three weeks to crack completely. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to shut it out. One day, I just couldn’t get on stage. The rest of our prolonged time on Warped was cancelled, and the guys didn’t say a word about it. Karl got me home to our new sublet flat in Brooklyn, and made sure I got three meals a day those first few weeks.
Frank casts one glance at my long-sleeved shirt and knows. Frank and I were always like that – too alike to hide anything from each other. We discovered that during those two weeks.
And I don’t want to see him.
“Leave, Frank. Please,” I say to him as he stands in the doorway, with new tattoos and longer hair.
“Too busy slitting your wrists?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Fuck you, Frank.”
The door slams in his face and I know that it shouldn’t be like this, we’re supposed to be friends.
And he might tell me something about Gerard. Anything about Gerard would light up my day, as well as shatter whatever self-control I’ve managed to scrape up. When I open the door, he’s still standing there, and he lets himself in.
I’m on the Warped Tour, and our two-week stay has been extended into five. Derek pulled a few strings. Gerard is in London, I think, but I’ve had so much to do I haven’t been able to keep track of where they are at the moment. In fact, we haven’t talked properly for several days.
“What’s not working?”
“This. Us.”
Somewhere deep inside, something shatters and spreads like wildfire through my veins.
“It was never going to work, Aubrey. I love you, but… You know. I feel like a fucking perv sometimes, you’re eighteen years old and I’m…”
If he does love me, what the hell is he talking about?
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Gerard sighs.
“I’m talking about an age difference of twelve years, A.”
"That doesn’t mean anything. You know it doesn’t."
We’ve talked about this. We’ve agreed that this wasn’t going to affect us. It wouldn’t matter to our relationship what the fans thought, and they aren’t even talking about us that much anymore – it was always going to blow over.
Gerard is silent for a few seconds.
"I don’t think you get it", he says at last, sounding pained. "I don’t think… Can you see yourself in ten years? Or in five? Because I can see myself. It’s like I have this… I can see myself starting a family. Do you get that?"
Breathe. You can talk him through this.
You want to give him all of that.
"I want that too. You know I do."
But it’s like he doesn’t believe me.
"Aubrey, you’re eighteen." I hate it when he says it like that – like I don’t have a clue about life. "I don’t want to be the reason you gave up living your life. I don’t want to be the one to take these years away from you, when you’re supposed to be a… God, you’re a teenager. When I was eighteen…"
There’s a tightness in my chest. Like the anger is working so hard to keep control of my tears that it’s stretched out over my entire body. I hate it that he can tell that I’m already crying when I say:
"So you’re mad at me for being eighteen? Well, I’m sorry."
"A…"
"Don’t you fucking dare. ’I’m game if you are'. That’s what you said. You know that, right? You were so sure about this. You said you were. You said you didn’t think it was weird."
He is silent for a moment, and I don’t try to fight the tears from running down my face anymore. I can hear from the way he draws for breath that he’s crying too, even through the static of the phone. He’s so far away.
"I’m sorry. I can’t do this."
The beep when he hangs up is worse than any of the things he’s said. And later, I won’t remember that my phone shatters as I hurl it against the wall, nor will I remember what Karl and Noel say to me when they find me curled up on the floor against the kitchen counter.
I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you.
Frank comes to visit in late September, when I’ve been on sick leave for a week. Gerard broke up in late August and it took me three weeks to crack completely. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to shut it out. One day, I just couldn’t get on stage. The rest of our prolonged time on Warped was cancelled, and the guys didn’t say a word about it. Karl got me home to our new sublet flat in Brooklyn, and made sure I got three meals a day those first few weeks.
Frank casts one glance at my long-sleeved shirt and knows. Frank and I were always like that – too alike to hide anything from each other. We discovered that during those two weeks.
And I don’t want to see him.
“Leave, Frank. Please,” I say to him as he stands in the doorway, with new tattoos and longer hair.
“Too busy slitting your wrists?” he asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“Fuck you, Frank.”
The door slams in his face and I know that it shouldn’t be like this, we’re supposed to be friends.
And he might tell me something about Gerard. Anything about Gerard would light up my day, as well as shatter whatever self-control I’ve managed to scrape up. When I open the door, he’s still standing there, and he lets himself in.