We lived about forty minutes apart, and after just six months together, he wanted to move in together, citing that it would let us see each other so much more often, because driving in L.A. really was a bitch.
I put him off, explaining how important it was for me not to rush into things.
He respected that, of course. It was a talent of his, to know just how much to push, and when to back off completely.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I didn’t necessarily want to see him every single day.
I knew I should have felt bad about that. I felt bad about not feeling bad. The man adored me.
The first time we made love, I locked myself in the bathroom afterward and sobbed like a baby for three hours, the first time I’d cried in years. I tried not to dwell on the why of it.
He was even understanding about that. He let me have my space and cry it out on my own.
Tristan would have broken down the door, my traitorous mind told me. He would have made it better.
Tristan was too self-involved to ever see your pain, my sensible side told me.
This was the side of myself that had gotten me out of that relationship intact.
Well, intact enough. It was hard to pretend I was okay when the very idea of ha**ng s*x with my boyfriend again made me hysterical.
Andrew was very understanding. I hadn’t told him much, but he knew that I’d suffered through some trauma in my life and assured me that he had no problem waiting however long it took for me to be ready.
He really was the nicest man. I tried to show him how much I appreciated him.
I cooked him involved and extravagant dinners. He considered himself a foodie.
I bought him thoughtful gifts, because he was a thoughtful man.
I always had my eye out for new music he’d like. He was a bit of a hipster, always looking for something obscure.
I did everything I could with my free time to show him I cared about him, everything that didn’t involve sleeping with him again and tried not to focus on the fact that my boyfriend was far more a friend to me than he’d ever be a lover.
It was in the early fall that Bev went in for a routine exam, and her doctor discovered a hard knot in the side of her left breast.
After a short series of tests, she was diagnosed with malignant breast carcinoma.
Within days, she was forced to undergo a double mastectomy.
The cancer was aggressive, and it was treated aggressively. After a short respite where she recovered from the mastectomy, she began six grueling rounds of chemotherapy, to be followed by five weeks of radiation.
I made it to every single treatment. I drove, flew, worked in the airport, and in the clinic lobby. Whatever it took, I was by her side, keeping her company, showing my support.
I thought I was strong, but Bev showed me what strength was as she fought for her very life.
She clutched my hand with her weakened one, her bald head completely smooth, her body emaciated, but her smile as bright as it’d ever been.
A fresh wave of toxic chemicals coursed through her bloodstream, making her sick, but God willing, saving her life.
All of this, and she was the one that comforted me.
“You think this cancer is a match for me?” she asked me archly. “Come on now, Danika. You know me better than that. You have to know I’m too stubborn to die before Jerry. Would never happen.”
I laughed, and then I cried, because I was so worried about her that it made me weak.
“I should be the one crying,” Bev told me. “I miss my f**king tits.”
I wiped my eyes. “You should buy some new ones when all of this is over.”
“Um yeah. That’s the first thing I’m doing. Not obnoxious ones, but you can be damn sure they’ll be perky.”
We both laughed long and hard, and that time none of it ended in tears.
Andrew was beyond supportive through it all, sometimes taking the drive with me, or even the flight. Bev liked him; Bev approved. She was comforted by my finally moving on from Tristan.
Less than one year after the cancer was discovered, she was cancer free.
I felt like we’d all been given a new lease on life after that and impulsively, agreed to move in with Andrew.
I knew within a month that it was a mistake. I needed more space.
Good on paper was so suffocating in real life.
TRISTAN
There were only two nights a week where I didn’t have a show, so the guys came to me in Vegas to work on the new album.
There would be no touring. I set that boundary up right away. I enjoyed working with them, and some occasional live shows would be fine, but I’d never go on the road again. Too many triggers for me there.
I made sure they all knew that it had to be a drug free studio, but something, perhaps having two out of five of the original members dying young due to drugs, had gotten us all sober. Kenny and Cory would have the occasional beer, but other than that, we were making a comeback as four sober grownups.
It was bizarre, but good, because if this whole band thing had turned into a trigger for me, I would have had to drop it like a bad habit.
I found, now that I wasn’t getting high while Kenny did the writing that I enjoyed being involved with the entire process, and I began to write lyrics to some of the songs.
I was shit at composing music, but I was as surprised as anybody to find that I had a way with words.
Adair and Dahlia were still going strong, and she and Jack came to listen to us record more often than not.