Complete (Incomplete)(2)

By: Lindy Zart

GL: You said it right there: control. The thought of being out of control scares me. And I’ve seen what drugs can do to people and I don’t want anything, other than me, to have that kind of power over my life.

AR: You seem to have a lot of wisdom for one so young. How old are you now?

GL: Just turned twenty-one last week.

AR: Well, congratulations and Happy Birthday.

GL: Thank you.

AR: I know you’re busy, so I won’t keep you much longer. Is there anything you’d like to say to your fans before we wrap the interview up?

GL: I have fans?

AR: Loads of them, Grayson.

GL: Well then, supposing I have fans, and I’m not too sure that I really do, I’ll tell them what someone told me once. Be free. Be happy. Be you.

AR: Thank you for meeting with me, Grayson. I’ve enjoyed talking with you.

GL: Same here. Thanks, Ariel.

That was about thirty minutes of paradise and it was much too short. If you’re reading this, then you most likely have seen and heard Thrush perform, or you just saw the hot guy on the cover of this magazine and decided to learn more about him. Whatever got you here, I know you won’t regret it. There is something about Grayson Lee that makes you love him. I think, for me, it's his honesty. He makes no excuses and there is a humbleness to him that you don't see in many performers. He also writes and sings beautiful music.

His voice is like unpolished euphoria and his face is one you dream of kissing. And I’m not ashamed to admit this—he is my celebrity crush. I should be ashamed. He is more than five years younger than me, but less than ten, and we’ll just leave it at that.

This is Ariel Rodgers leaving you with this: If you haven’t checked out Thrush yet, you are clearly, and sadly, Incomplete.

My fingers are trembling as I unsuccessfully try to close the magazine. After the third attempt with uncooperative hands, I make a sound of frustration and my fingers clench to crumple it up, but then I see his eyes. Those eyes seem to look back at me, soulful and sad. Shoulders slumping, I smooth the pages against the wooden table top and stare. In the interview picture he is wearing a black v-neck shirt, but the front of it is torn so that part of a dark blue lily tattoo on his toned chest is peaking out. His long-fingered hands rest on the ripped fabric, pulling it down more.

He hasn’t changed much. Grayson’s blue eyes are still so expressive, and his hair is the same shade and length I remember. With bangs in his eyes and locks of it waving over the tops of his ears and up the nape of his neck, his style is now artful instead of just messy. His glasses are new, slightly smaller than I remember, but square and black like his old ones. And his full lips are quirking on one side like they used to when he was teasing me.

There is maturity to his face that wasn’t there two years ago and more definition to his features. Grayson is a man now instead of a teenager on the brink of manhood. The swooping in my stomach happens every time I see his image—like butterflies vomiting—and I should probably be used to it since his face is everywhere these days, but I am not. I look at this man I used to know and it is painful.

“Mooning over ex-lover boy again, are you?” Scott opens a bottle of juice and begins to chug.

I elbow him in the gut and apple juice spews from his mouth, coating me and the table in a layer of sticky wetness. “Shut up, Scott.”

“Seriously, Lily!” He swipes an arm across his mouth.

Yanking the bottle from his fingers, I recap it and put it away. “You know, other people drink out of that. Why are you getting your gross germs all over it?”

“It’s not like it’s your juice. You don’t even live here anymore.” Scott wets a dishrag and scrubs himself down.

“Neither do you.”

He pauses with the rag on his neck, brown eyes narrowed on me. “Why are you here?”

“Why are you here?”

“I asked you first.”

“And I care this much.” I hold two fingers together in front of his face.

Scott tosses the rag at me, leaving a wet splat where it lands on the chest of my red scrub top.

“Thanks a lot. Jerk,” I mutter. I chuck the rag at the sink and it makes a thwacking sound as contact is made.

“I don’t understand you,” he says, ignoring me. His finger taps Grayson’s head and I want to snatch the magazine away. “It’s been two years. You dated for a summer. That’s like a minute of time in a life span. Why do you care about him at all anymore?”

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