This Is How I Disappear

“Okay,” I break the agonizing silence after a full hour of driving. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Gerard barely glances at me. “I was thinking we could go to California. For a while. We’d need to wear disguises, but it should work. Swear to god I won’t make you be an old lady again.” He attempts a smile, but it’s obviously forced.
I let out a huge sigh. ‘Cause I just can’t keep my fucking mouth shut.
My brain is mentally slapping me, having finally recovered from its state of shock. You idiot! Why did you say that? Are you trying to push him away? You don’t tell that to someone you’ve known for only a few days right after your first kiss! What the fuck was that?
I don’t defend myself, because it’s all miserably true. Gerard clears his throat awkwardly. “Look, Frank…” he starts uncomfortably.
I decide to spare him the apology. “No, Gee, I’m sorry,” I lie uneasily, “I was just, uh, caught up in the moment. I didn’t mean it.”
Gerard hesitates briefly. “No, yeah, of course,” he blurts. “I mean, me too. I didn’t mean what I said—no one’s perfect. You’re, you know, normal. Almost.” He bites the inside of his cheek to stop talking.
Great, I comment to my brain. That is what I want on my tombstone: ‘Frank Iero Jr., 1986-2003; died of stupidity; almost normal.’
That would be a brutally honest and accurate epitaph, my brain replies unsympathetically.
I grump something obscene about where my brain should stuff its opinions, and then we both shut up.
The silence in the car now is worse than before.
Ugh, why are relationships so hard? I inquire of my brain, but it doesn’t deign to respond.
“What, uh, disguises do you have in mind?” I ask lightly, trying to relieve the tension.
“Mikey added some stuff,” Gerard tells me clinically. “He got us more fake ID’s. Check them out. If you want.”
I reach into the backseat and grab the bag. After rifling through it a bit, I locate several passports and ID’s in a bundle. When I look through the images, I can’t help but laugh.
Gerard looks over curiously. “What?”
“Have you seen these?” I ask, grinning.
Gerard pauses. “No…why?”
“My god,” I report, trying to stop giggling. “Apparently Mikey wants you to dress as a woman.”
“What?” Gerard demands incredulously.
Wow, I think that’s the first time I’ve surprised him, I remark to my brain.
Very refreshing, my brain replies. Surprises are nicer when you’re the one doing the surprising, don’t you think?
Definitely, I agree. “You’re a hot blonde chick here—very large breasts, Gerard—and in this one, you’re a brunette with…is that photoshopped?”
“Is what photoshopped?” Gerard wonders anxiously, trying to see the picture as he drives.
I tilt the image away from his eyes. “Wait a second….” I squint. “Make, uh, make your lips as big as possible.”
Gerard glances at me warily, but puffs his lips out.
I guffaw, “Oh, no, it’s not photoshopped!”
“What are you laughing at?” he roars, like he can scare me into saying something different.
“You’re so funny,” I giggle.
“Am I?” he challenges in a low voice.
I can’t stop laughing. “Especially when you’re trying to be menacing.”
He glares.
“Emphasis,” I add, “on trying.”
Gerard huffs. “Why do I have to be a girl? You’re girlier.”
“Girlier?” I nitpick. “That’s not a word.”
“Is now,” he proclaims, and that’s the law. If it’s not already there, write into your dictionary, between girlie and girlish:
Girlier: [GUR-lee-er] variant of girly. usually followed by than. def.: adj. one who encompasses girlish qualities to a greater extant than another person. ex.: Frank Iero is girlier than Gerard Way, according to the latter.
“Well, Mikey actually made me pretty cool,” I say smugly. “I look like a bouncer—oh. How do I fake muscles?”
Gerard snorts. “We’ll stuff paper towels in your jacket sleeves.”
I smile cherubically back at him. “And in your shirt?” I pull an item of clothing from the pack. “Oh, not to worry, Gerard! Mikey has provided you with a bra.”
Gerard looks sideways at me and the garment, then elbows me in the side.
“Ow!” I complain, not that it actually hurt. I hold up the next ID. “Hey, in the other one, I look kinda like John Lennon.”
Gerard shakes his head. “Mikey, you are….” He doesn’t finish the sentence but he’s grinning.
I bite my lip as I watch his reaction. “You’ll…be able to see him again, right? You know, someday?”
Gerard’s smile fades. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course.”
Neither of us is convinced, but we both try very hard to be. I wish I hadn’t asked.
It would have come up eventually, my brain attempts to soothe me. Whether or not you asked.
But there could’ve been a few more hours of peace, I reply sadly.
Peace is an illusion, my brain tells me.
Yes, I agree, and that’s why we should entertain the idea.
“Yeah,” Gerard repeats. “Yeah, we’ll see him again. We’ll find a way.” He reaches over and squeezes my hand, but retreats just as quickly.
I hope the damage I caused to our relationship isn’t irreparable.
One can hope, or one can take control of one’s fate, my brain opines.
What are you, Dr. Phil? I scoff.
I take offense to that, my brain sniffs. Now take his hand.
No, I decide. I have to give him time.
The brain is adamant. Uh, not to be corny, but he took your heart. The least you can demand in return is his hand.
Oh, shut it, Dr. Phil. I lean over and grab his hand off the steering wheel. He relinquishes it without a fight.

Notes