Well, folks, it's been a while, but here we go again. Not sure what else to say, really, other than that I hope that those of you who have been waiting for me to get back around to Nate and Brian will like where the story goes this time around. My thanks to everyone who managed to stick with 'Brian & Me' and who have been waiting patiently for what's to come.
I have some of it written already, but certainly not all of it, so I can't say how long the story will be, or whether or not there will be a regular schedule for posting. I'm going to try for once a week, but we all know how life likes to get in the way of plans. Nate comes to me as he will, so if he stops speaking for a while, we'll all just have to deal with it.
Huge thanks need to go out to Karen and Scotty T for reading over what is to come and letting me know where I messed things up. I'm sure it's tried your patience at times, though I'm also sure at least one of you enjoys getting to point it out when I screw up. I'll leave it to you to decide which one it is. :)
Thanks also to Drewbie, for waiting to read this until now, even though I offered several times to let you see it ahead of time. You're an entertaining little bugger, and I'm very happy you're in my life, even if I don't get to see you as often as I used to or want to.
Finally, no list of thanks could be complete without giving a massive thank you to Matt. Editor, partner, friend, sounding board, confidant and cheerleader all in one. I'm not sure what I did to deserve to be so lucky, but I hope I keep doing it for a long, long time. SHMILY, boo.
Disclaimer is the same as it ever was. Nothing contained in this story is meant to in any way represent or depict real life. Well, except for the fact that apple butter and bacon sandwiches are the perfect breakfast food. That part is true, but that's it. The rest is all fiction. It is, however, fiction that has a decidedly adult slant to it. If you're not of age or shouldn't be reading this for some reason, please stop reading now. Otherwise, enjoy!
THE SUN FROM BOTH SIDES
Part 1
I've said it before: A lot can happen in a year. This time, though, it was a bit longer than that. Fifteen months, give or take. Sometimes -- and certainly in my case -- that change comes in the form of a decrease in activity rather than a drastic increase.
It was that decrease that Andrea was complaining about -- again -- as I poured myself another drink. Sighing, I set the bottle back and tried to come up with some way to get her to just shut up.
"Oh, that's just what you need, Nate," she said, frowning as she watched me collapse into my chair again. "Why don't you just drink it from the bottle?"
"Andy, just back off," I groaned, rubbing my temples. "We've been over this, and you know that it's just going to wind up in a yelling match. I thought you wanted to talk. If you don't want to do that, you might as well leave."
"Fine, let's talk," Andrea said, sitting down opposite me. Her voice dropped into an exaggerated conversational tone, but her expression remained harsh. "What do you want to talk about? How about why you haven't started another book yet? How about why I'm the only one who you talk to anymore? How about where all your other friends have gone? How about why you just sit there all day and call it living?"
"How about why you're being such a bitch lately?" I added sourly, slumping in my seat. "Why don't you butt out?"
"Jesus!" she shouted, slamming her hand down on the arm of the chair. "Wake up, Nate! I'm about all you have left!"
"Fuck that!" I barked back. "I think you've got a pretty inflated opinion of yourself."
"Oh if that's not the pot calling the kettle black," she said with a small laugh. There was little humour in the laugh, and her voice dropped to a dry, icy whisper. "Who else comes over anymore, Nate?"
"I have --"
"When was the last time that you were to visit someone else?"
"I don't --"
"When was the last time that someone other than me returned your phone calls?"
"Would you let me talk, dammit?" I said, sitting forward. Her quiet voice had always been able to get to me more than shouting, and I wished she'd raise it again. I could handle her yelling. Instead, she quieted and motioned for me to go ahead. "I have lots of friends, Andy. You may have been the best, but you weren't the only one."
"No, Nate," she said with a sigh. It wasn't a sigh of defeat, though. I knew her well enough to know that. "You're right. You have lots of friends, but none of them want you around anymore. You've managed to push them until they don't want to spend time with you. You're miserable, and you seem to feel the need to make everyone else miserable."
"You don't know what you're talking about." I wanted it to sound harsh, almost derisive. Instead, the words came out small and powerless, and I knew it would have been better if I hadn't said anything at all than to sound that way. Hearing my own voice sounding like that made me angry, which was the only benefit of my words. They hadn't bitten Andy as I'd wanted them to, but at least they'd given me something to center on and focus back at her. Hopefully, it would be enough to get her to go away for a while.
"Like hell I don't," she argued, frowning and obviously angry at having her knowledge of me questioned. "The only reason you haven't gotten rid of me yet is that you're family, and I don't give up so easily."
"Quite frankly, I wish you would," I told her, frowning and taking another drink. "You're giving me a headache."
"It's not me," she said, pointing to my hand, still using that quiet tone. "It's probably just the remnants of the hangover that you haven't killed yet."
"Don't start with me," I warned, much more rattled than I wanted her to know about. She'd come by too early in the day for me to be able to withstand much from her. Something I was quite sure she knew.
"Someone's got to. You're falling apart, bit by bit, and pretty soon there's not going to be anyone left to help you put the pieces together."
"I didn't ask for your help."
"You can't ask for my help. You never could, you stubborn son of a bitch," she countered, standing up again. She started to pace back and forth.
"What the hell is your problem?" I asked, draining my glass. It was a stupid question, of course. One I already knew the answer to. But I needed a little bit of time to pull myself together. Better to ask something stupid and frustrate her a little bit more and give myself some time.
There was a certain familiar detachment that was growing in my perceptions of the situation and I welcomed it. Something like that would have alarmed me once, considering how much I prided myself on paying attention to things, but now it was like a breath of fresh air. I'd resisted it, of course, but eventually it had won over. Now, it was like opening the door on an old friend -- one that wasn't about to judge my actions, but support them whole-heartedly.
I could actually almost hear it in my head, prodding me on and advising me. I knew it was just what was left of the narrator in me, giving voice to what I wanted to hear, but that didn't mean I was above listening to it. All I needed to do was keep dismissing whatever Andy said. It was really just a matter of waiting for her to get winded and go away like the others. I could do that; I'd done it before.
When she turned back to me, she had tears in her eyes. Not long before, that would have broken my heart. Now it just pissed me off in an off-handed way. Nothing serious, just let it slide. "Your problems are my problem!" she spat out as the tears began to fall. "You're so bound and determined to be miserable!"
I sighed and stood up. "I'm fine," I said, for what felt like the millionth time that day. "The only problem I have is that my friends don't seem to be able to mind their own business."
"Seems to me that all of your friends are minding their own business. So much so that they've given up on yours."
"Then why the hell can't you?" I asked, avoiding the urge to turn and face her. "Just leave me alone."
"Because I love you," she half-moaned. It sounded like her last-ditch effort, and part of me cried out in triumph. I was vaguely ashamed of that, but only vaguely. I had bigger fish to fry at the moment. "We all do, but everyone else is just so sick of dealing with you like this." She was still crying, but neither one of us showed any sign of recognising it. "Do you have any idea what it's like to watch your best friend disintigrate in front of your eyes?"
"I'm not disintigrating," I sighed. "I've just been a little down lately."
"For over a year? You've been going downhill ever since --"
"Don't you say it," I warned, pointing at her and feeling that comforting disinterest vanish. It was like when you're swimming, and encounter a sudden pocket of water several degrees colder than the rest. In an instant, I was wide-open and vulnerable again.
"Why not? You're fine, right?" she said sarcastically, knowing she'd found the chink in what armour I had been able to muster.
"Just don't," I said, surprising myself with the steadyness in my voice. "I won't tell you again."
Andrea shook her head in dismay. She looked determined again. She'd seen the weakness, and she was going to drive at it and see if she couldn't manage to open the door for it a little bit further. "You've got to pull yourself together, Nate. Everything that you worked for is slipping through your fingers and you don't seem to care."
"Stop being so dramatic. Nothing's slipping through my fingers." At least, not the things she was talking about. My composure, such as it was, was an entirely different story.
"Then what's the new book about?"
I gaped at her and tried to come up with an answer. "You know I don't talk about my writing," I said, hating the crack in my voice. In truth, there was no new book, and she knew it.
"Come on. You've never been able to lie to me. You haven't written anything in months, have you?"
"So what?" I asked, throwing my hands in the air. "What business is it of yours if I haven't? 'Time's Garden' hasn't even hit the shelves yet. There's no hurry."
"Do you even have any ideas for the next one?" she continued, as though she hadn't heard me.
"Of course I do," I sulked, taking the bottle out of the fridge again.
"Then why haven't you talked to Carrie about them?"
I spun around, still holding the bottle. "How do you know I haven't?"
"Because Kevin called me and told me how worried Carrie was about you. He said that you won't return his calls anymore, and you've stopped talking to Carrie and Celia too. Is there anyone that you talk to anymore?"
"She shouldn't have told him," I sad, frowning and ignoring her question. "And he shouldn't have told you."
"Nate," Andrea said softly, grabbing my attention. "Is there anyone else that you talk to?"
"Of course there is." The answer came a little too fast, and if I heard it, I knew Andy had.
"Who? I know you won't talk to Carrie or Celia, and Kevin hasn't heard from you. Mom and Dad never talk to you unless they call, and then they usually wind up wishing that they hadn't. Erron, Jeff and Cindy haven't heard from you in months. Who's left?"
"What do you mean Mom and Dad wind up wishing that they hadn't called?" I asked quietly, looking up at her.
"Mom says that everytime they call you're drunk and you won't talk about anything. She says she gets more out of talking to herself than talking to you anymore." Andy slumped back onto the couch. "They're both really worried about you."
"I'm fine," I said again, turning back to the cabinet. It was much easier when I didn't have to look at her. "Tell them that I'm fine."
"I'm not lying to my parents, Nate."
"I'm fine," I repeated.
"So then who else do you talk to?"
"I talk to Nick," I offered, knowing it was probably a mistake, but also knowing that I had to give her an answer.
"Only in emails."
"So what? What's your problem with that?"
"Why don't you call him anymore, Nate? Afraid you might slur your words a little too much to pass off as being tired? Afraid he might just get suspicious that you're not as fine as you keep telling everyone you are?"
"So we talk in email," I said, ignoring most of what she said. That kind of thing hit a little too close to home for comfort even at the best of times anymore. "At least we still talk."
"And talk about him, no doubt."
"Of course we talk about him," I said, exasperated.
"And only him," she pressed.
"Drop it Andy," I said, feeling the tears threatening and my detachment loosening even more. "I don't think I want to talk about this right now." I was still facing away from her.
"You never want to talk about it," she argued, her anger rising again. "That's the problem."
"You only want to talk about it," I countered, pouring the last of the vodka into my glass. "That's the problem."
"I'm worried about you!"
"Why do you have to push so hard?" I asked her plaintively, resting my forehead against the wall. "Why can't you just leave me alone? So I'm not writing anything right now. So I don't talk to as many people as I used to. So what? Maybe I do drink a bit too much, but why do you care so much?"
"Because I love you!" she said again, standing back up. I heard the couch move backward slightly with the force of her movement. "Can't you see that? I don't want to see you do this to yourself. Brian wouldn't like it either."
I had been coming back into the living room from the kitchen when she said it, and the part of me that I'd been trying to keep her from reaching shattered. Turning slightly, I threw the empty bottle across the room. It hit the brick wall behind Andy and shattered, spraying glass across the chair in the corner. "Get out!" I screamed at her.
"Nate--"
"Get out! I don't care where you go. You can fly back to LA for all I care, just get the fuck out!"
It was obvious that she hadn't meant to mention Brian. It was also obvious that I had frightened her when I threw the bottle. Truth be told, I had frightened myself. Badly enough that I was shaking.
"Just get out," I told her coldly, using the anger in my voice to mask the fear. "I don't want to look at you right now."
"I didn't mean to say that," she said, grabbing her jacket. Whatever fight was left in her wasn't showing itself now, and I suppressed an urge to smile in relief.
"Go, Andy." I took my glass and headed down the hall, away from her and toward my bedroom. "Don't let the door hit your ass on the way."
"Nate--" Her words were cut off as I slammed the door behind me.
Setting my drink on the nightstand next to the other glasses that were sitting there, I fell back onto the bed and put my head in my hands, finally letting the tears come. There was no way I could ever have explained the herculean effort it had taken just to keep them at bay for this long. It seemed that I was crying entirely too much lately, but I couldn't manage to stop.
Sitting up, I reached out and grabbed my glass again, taking a gulp. "Maybe I do drink too much," I reasoned with myself quietly, barely forming the words. "But when you find something that works, you stick with it." It was something I'd learned from my father.
After I had returned to Toronto, I had thrown myself into the book. That had helped to take my mind off of what I had done, and kept me focused on looking ahead. Aside from a quick trip to Memphis to visit Matt -- something I hadn't been expecting to do and certainly wished I hadn't -- I had rarely been seen outside my apartment.
I had finished the manuscript in record time, though it had been sorely in need of editing. The book had become my life, and what would normally have taken me a year had been done in a much shorter time, even if much of it was substandard work. I had sent the final draft to Carrie months before, and hadn't so much as written a shopping list since.
Feeling sorry for myself, I drained the glass and set it aside again. As I did so, my eyes caught on the picture on the table beside the bed. It was the picture that Andrea had given me. The one of Brian and I kissing in the hall of their LA hotel. Reaching for it, I was determined to finally put it away. But, as usual, I just wound up touching the glass front, running my fingers over our images.
I couldn't count the number of times I had tried to remove the photo and put it out of sight, but it was the one thing that I couldn't bring myself to do, no matter how drunk I was. I always wound up sitting, caressing the picture and crying.
The tears continued to fall as I sat there with the frame cradled in my hands, rocking gently back and forth. My ghostly reflection stared back and offered no help out of the hole I had dug myself into.
Email is the same as it's always been: dls_stories@hotmail.com