Page 106 of I Dreamt That You Loved Me

Everyone gave me a dubious look. It was warranted. Those months after my surgery were mostly a blur so it was hard to say what kind of man Cleo wanted or needed.

But even then, I knew that Cleo was irreplaceable and that the old Gabriel had been lucky as hell to find a love like that.

I remember how she put her life on hold and worked tirelessly, trying to heal me, and how guilty I felt for giving her nothing in return.

I remember how I knew, somewhere deep in my subconscious, that I loved her madly and how much it killed me that I was hurting her.

I remember how she risked her life to rescue me from the roof that day and how she told me I was free to go. And I did. I took that freedom, and I ran.

To the West Coast where the sky kissed the wild Pacific Ocean.

To an adobe house in a small desert town in New Mexico. There were a lot of free thinkers and creatives in that town, which was all well and good, but there were a lot of drugs too. Having no clear sense of purpose and willingly courting a path of self-destruction were a recipe for disaster.

Big surprise that a steady diet of psychedelics hadn’t helped me find myself.

When I returned to New York, broken down and tired of wandering, I was searching for an oasis. But Cleo was gone. Bali. Paris. London. She was chasing her dreams and making a name for herself in the art world. Who was I to get in her way? I didn’t want to drag her down so off I went again. This time to a weathered beach shack in Montauk.

Now, I finally had something to offer her and I refused to believe it was too late.

“So what’s your plan?” Eddie asked.

“I’m going to ask her to spend the rest of the summer with me.”

“I believe in you, dude,” Devin said.

“Does Maya know about this?” Eddie asked.

Sean lifted his head from his Buddha Bowl and narrowed his eyes on me. “Who the fuck is Maya?”

“Just a friend.”

When we left the restaurant, Sean pulled me aside and levelled me with a look. “I’m only going to say this once. Cleo islike a daughter to me, and you know how I feel about you. You both mean a lot to me. I know that none of this is your fault. You didn’t ask for any of this. But it happened. And you put her through hell. Cleo is not as tough as she pretends to be. So if you’re not serious about making this work, leave her alone. She’s been through enough.”

He clapped me on the shoulder and pulled me into a guy hug, giving me a few hearty thumps on the back for good measure. It was slightly aggressive but in a caring way as if to say,I’ve got your back.

He treated me like a father would treat a son. A good father. The kind of father I could only imagine.

“Having said that, I hope it all works out,” he said, pulling back and clearing his throat like that display of affection had been too much for him. “But right now we need to focus on your comeback. I know you don’t want to hear this, but you signed that contract, and now they’re breathing down my neck. So I need you to get back to work and finish that album.” With another clap on the shoulder, he turned on his heel and strode away.

Mycomeback. For me, this wouldn’t be a comeback at all. It would be a brand-new start. No one seemed to understand that though.

Especially not the record label that had given me a grace period, which had apparently expired along with their limited patience.

“When’s the album coming? You’re working on something, right? We need to get you into the studio.”

I’d love to speak with the asshole who signed that contract and ask him what the hell he’d been thinking. Becausethisasshole owed them three albums.

According to Sean, I left my old label because of some beef with the management and signed with a new label three and ahalf years ago. The contract specified that I was to release an album within a year of signing.

So far, I’d given them nothing.

They were threatening to release the music I recorded before my surgery. I was forced to listen to it last year and as far as I was concerned, it was total shit. Not something I’d ever release or revisit.

The PR machine was working overtime, hyping up my “comeback.” I got requests from journalists asking for exclusive interviews all the time. Radio stations and TV shows clamoring to get me on as a special guest. I got stacks of fan mail forwarded to my house from the suits’ administrative assistant.

Two years ago, I was named one ofPeoplemagazine’s “50 Most Beautiful People.” How fucking embarrassing was that?

Why they thought I needed orwantedto see every clipping from newspapers, magazines, and tabloids mentioning me was anyone’s guess.