Page 67 of Rescue

We stand there in silence for a minute, and I stare into those blue eyes of Van Gogh’s. So very different from Lennon’s dark eyes. What does he see there? Is that pain in the artist’s eyes? Does Lennon find it familiar? I remember that first day we met back in LA, how my very first thought about Lennon Ransome was that he looked broken.

“Strange to think about him being so depressed,” Lennon says softly. “When he made such beautiful paintings.”

“Did he ever get better?” In the moment’s silence that follows, I regret asking. I know what he’s going to say before he opens his mouth.

“No. He killed himself.”

The air suddenly feels very cold.Those broken eyes, I think. His brothers’ protectiveness. The accident this summer.

“Lennon.” I barely recognize my own voice. How is it so calm? “Is that something you have experience with?”

He blows out a gust of air while I hold my breath. “Yes,” he finally whispers.

“Your accident?”

“It wasn’t an accident.”

I want to throw up, and I want to grab him and hug him, and I want to force away the pain and shame I hear in his voice. But instead I reach over and take his hand in mine.

“You crashed on purpose?”

He nods.

“You wanted to kill yourself.” The very thought of Lennon giving up like that makes my throat close up.Don’t cry, I order myself, swallowing desperately. That’s the last thing he needs.

It wasn’t really a question and I wasn’t expecting an answer, so when he breathes out ayes, I start. “And I’ve never admitted that to anyone. I’ve never even said that to myself.”

“Your brothers don’t know?” I cry, before slapping a hand over my mouth, the sound echoing in the silent museum. “How is that possible?”

“They know it wasn’t an accident.” He sighs and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. Then he laughs, a short, depressing sound. “I’m so fucked up, Haylee.”

I don’t consciously decide to tell him. It just feels like the most natural thing to do in that moment. “Remember that party, before the tour started? We talked about my… experience with that stalker?”

“Yeah?” His eyes snap to my face, sharp and focused. If he thinks it’s strange that I’m interrupting his confession with a random conversation point, he doesn’t mention it.

“So that guy, Randy. He was a fan. Someone who followed us from day one. He came to all our shows when we were within driving distance of Detroit. We thought it was cool, you know? That we had a real fan. Sometimes we let him come out with us after the gig. Bought him a beer. Stuff like that.”

I take a deep breath. “When we started touring, we would see him in other cities. That’s when it started to seem a little weird. Like he was following us, you know? And then he started to focus in on me.” I swallow, trying not to remember how scared I started to get when I would see him in the crowd. “Well. He started to do the normal stalking stuff, I guess. Sent me letters. Followed me around. Called all the time. Waited outside venues. We reported it, got a restraining order. I was scared, but I told myself he couldn’t hurt me, that he was just a little off. But then he managed to get into my house one day.”Don’t think about it.“I guess you know the rest.”

“I’m so sorry that happened to you. I can’t imagine.”

“He didn’t hurt me,” I say quickly. “Didn’t even touch me. But he had a gun, and he threatened me, and it was… well, it was terrifying.”

“Of course it was.”

“I haven’t done the best job healing from that. I have a lot of nightmares, and I barely ever sleep and… I drink way too much so I don’t have to think about it. And sometimes…” I sigh. “You saw what happened in Glasgow. I freak out. I remember seeing him in the crowd, before everything got so bad, when he was just a normal fan, and I freak. I panic and I can’t deal. I ruined our last tour, nearly ruined the band. The label is giving us one last chance, so we’re pretty much on our last legs here. And it’s all because I’m fucked up, and I can’t seem to get better.”

We’re both still facing the painting, not looking at each other, but Lennon squeezes my hand, and I feel like I can picture exactly what his face would look like right now. Calm and still, those eyes of his understanding and unflinching, holding my gaze. “I’m not saying I understand what you went through,” I continue, my voice stronger. “Or what you’re going through now. But I do understand feeling fucked up. Like you’re broken and you can’t figure out how to just get over it. I get that. So you don’t ever have to be ashamed of that, okay? Not around me.”

He releases a huge breath, and it’s my turn to squeeze his hand. “I’ve done things to, uh, hurt myself,” he mutters, and despite what I said, the shame is palpable in his voice. “Over the years, a few times. I just get… really overwhelmed by certain things, by this shit in my brain and I…” He swallows a few times. “I want to turn it off. That’s the best way I can describe it. And I told my brothers this accident was the same way. That I wasn’t consciously trying to do anything except to turn that shit off.”

“It was more than that though,” I guess.

From the corner of my eye, I see him nod. “This time I wanted everything to stop.Iwanted to stop.”

“But you didn’t.”Thank God, I think.

“Because I got lucky.”