Chapter Text
Camila
It’s been two weeks and Billy still isn’t hers. Not really. Not in the way it counts.
Sure he’s there. He’s trying. But she remembers what it was like when he loved her mind, body, and soul. Mind is there, and body would be too if she let him. But it’s the soul that’s missing.
During the third week, Camila realizes he’s in withdrawal. He’s coming off the biggest addiction of his life, and he quit for her - cold turkey, and he promises he’ll never go back. But is he even Billy without the music? She doesn’t know this man who looks strangled whenever a song comes on the radio, whose guitar collects dust in the garage, who writes song lyrics on yellow pages and crumples them as if they’re shameful, and, worst of all, who pretends as if he doesn’t miss it at all.
There is a knock on the door Saturday morning, and Camila feels the anxious buzzing that comes with it for three days after. It’s only on Sunday, Camila can trace the source of the anxiety that hums in her bones. She wonders, as she polishes the dishes after lunch — if this is what Billy feels with the drugs.
She realizes, that for a split second, when she heard the knock, Camila hadn’t been able to stop the thought that popped into her head. It imagined Daisy Jones on the other side of the door, stretched out, a beautiful mess, her hair wild, eyes full, begging for forgiveness. It’s not that Camila imagined kicking her out, yelling at her for — for what — existing too close to Billy? For orbiting around him and for the unexplainable force between them to magnetize them to the point of betrayal? Camila can’t accuse her of trying to steal her husband, because Camila knows she didn’t even try. And she knows, too, that you can’t steal something that doesn’t want to be stolen. Besides, Camila tells herself, Billy picked her, but why, then, does she feel hollow and scared? Why does she feel like a storm is still coming?
It was Graham, visiting as he had been doing nearly every day since the tour ended. He and Billy sat in the living room. Billy drank tea as Graham went through three beers, his eyes strained, a man with his heart broken, and allowed to show it.
Graham visits again on a Tuesday. Even though she’s expecting him, Camila can’t help but think of the phantom that exists in their marriage again when the doorbell rings. Camila wonders if one day Daisy will show up, ready to take Billy away, not with a smile, but simply by being herself. Sometimes Camila wonders how little she would have to say.
They sit outside in the garden. Billy cradles Julia in his arms as he talks to Graham. It’s easy for Camila to study Billy this way. With someone else around, his guard is down. Camila can watch her husband and see all the parts he’s trying to hide. He finishes his tea and reluctantly releases Julia from his arms, who runs towards the trees, where plywood waits expectantly for Billy’s next project; a tree house. Camila sips her beer, playing over the questions in her mind; is he keeping busy? Is he being a good father, or is he simply distracting himself?
“Karen’s gone back to London,” Graham says in a strangled voice. Camila can see Billy mirrored in Graham’s heartbreak. He might try to hide it, but she knows him well to see the grief that he won’t let himself feel.
“I’m so sorry, Graham,” Camila squeezes his fingers.
“I really thought this was it,” Graham chokes. “I’m gonna go home.”
“What?” Billy asks.
“Yeah. Back to Pittsburgh,” Graham nods.
Camila watches as Billy nods, as he accepts the defeat. He can’t say what about the band— because there is no band. There is no third chance. People rarely get a second shot. They flew too close to the sun, and they all got burned. Except Warren. Somehow, he came out unscathed; tanned and happy.
“Warren’s gonna play drums with another group. He said he could get me in,” Graham shrugs. “When I’m ready. I’m sure he’d love to have you, too.”
Billy laughs as if he can’t imagine anything worse than playing someone else’s songs, relegated to a secondary role, a fourth billed artist whose name no one will remember.
“Maybe,” he says. Camila knows he’d rather never play music again.
Camila waits with bated breath to see if Graham will run through the rest of The Six and provide updates on the rest of the band members. Will he mention Eddie, or does he know the repercussions of doing so? Will he mention Daisy? She waits, wondering how much it would take Billy to break — though he’d never show it — would it be hearing Daisy’s name? He is a man close to the edge, with a singular focus to remember his family. He is nothing else, not anymore.
“When do you leave?” Billy asks.
Graham answers, and somehow the conversation turns to something else. Camila can feel her body relax and she realizes she’s been holding in the worry for half an hour. He did that to her, and she hates him for it, just for a second.
On Tuesday, after Graham leaves, she finally finds the underlying fear that she had been ignoring. No, the thought that came after she heard the knock, that took days to trace, was the fear that if Daisy showed up, how fast would it take for everything to fall apart? And if all it took was her presence, how can Billy possibly promise he belongs to Camila?
It comes out the next morning over eggs and coffee. Julia is playing in the living room, oblivious to her parents’ chatter.
“What is it? Cami I-“ he reaches out and holds her hand, a pained look of apology on his features. She’s seen him too many times, with that shallow guilt in his eyes. She misses his eyes looking at her, brimming with love, overflowing. It’s been so long sometimes she actually wonders if she imagined it.
She pulls her hand out of his.
“What can I do?” He pleads. “I’m here,” he reminds. She smiles sadly.
“Are you?”
“Yes. Yeah.”
“Because, Billy. It feels like any moment I could lose you,” she breathes out.
“No,” he shakes his head. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You’re not you. You don’t even play music.”
“We have to fix this first. I have to fix this. We’re gonna be better than before.” She forces a smile as she watches a shadow of the man she loves apologize. At no point does he say the word love.
She sips a beer and watches as he repairs the light switch, studying the movement of his lean body, wrapped in denim and a loose t shirt she bought him a lifetime ago, like an actor dressing for the part. She asks herself what she wants. What would be enough to reassure her? Professions of love, promises that will never be broken? She realizes she wants him, and she wants the truth.
And that’s not even a fraction of what she deserves.
Eddie had looked at her like she was the most important thing in the world. He’d held her as if he would never get to again, savouring every moment. There was no one else. There was nothing else. She could feel the love (how had she not seen it before?) cascading off of him in waves. She didn’t need to guess in the way he loved her. He didn’t need to show it, there was so much of it he could never hide it.
She visits him on Saturday, and they sit apart on his couch, just talking. Maybe, because for one moment, she wants to remember what it feels like to be loved the way she deserves.
Billy
He’s fucking it up. Somehow. He doesn’t know how, but he is. He’s trying, God, he’s trying so hard. Fighting his mind every day, he’s adamant to win. Because losing means losing Camila and his family. And he’s already lost everything else. His life is a shadow of itself. He knows Camila notices every time he turns off the radio, how she marks his haunted movements, how he’s distracting himself so he won’t think of the fix he desperately craves. He doesn’t let himself stop and think what the fix is, because maybe then he would realize it’s not a substance, it’s not the rush from being on stage, it’s not his music. No, the high he craves comes from her voice, her touch, how he feels when her eyes meet his.
Julia is helping him with building a tree house, bossing him around. He smiles as she tells him about the flourishes of the tree house, trying to imagine her future. Architect? Film maker? Whatever she becomes, it doesn’t matter, she’s already perfect.
“Does Sally want to help?” Billy calls from behind a piece of wood. He hammers in a nail, shaking the wall of the tree house to check if it’s stable. He stands up, feeling the scorching heat on his body, wondering what it would be like to have one sip of a cold beer. A bad idea, he reminds himself. He moves the shirt, creating a spiral of cool wind against his skin. He wipes the sweat off his forehead.
“She’s not Sally!” Julia cries out angrily. The ginger haired doll in her hands has been Sally since Billy bought it for her a lifetime ago.
“No?” Billy asks. When did that change? When did he miss part of his daughter’s life? Surely he should know her favourite doll’s name.
“It’s Daisy,” Julia responds, brushing the long, flowing hair. She holds the doll up so that Billy can see the uneven bangs that were cut with a child’s scissors.
“She sings, loves purple and she’s gonna be famous,” Julia babbles happily.
Billy stops. He can hear his breath catch and feel his body go weak.
Daisy lives in his mind in a locked room he won’t let himself go through. But as it cracks open for a split second, letting in a blinding light that obliterates everything else, he wonders what it would be like if he could. Would it flood his life with gold? Or would the fire burn everything he’s built and then turn on him?
He considers, just for a moment, cramming himself into the small tree house frame, between the plywood boards, and letting himself weep until the grief is a distant memory. For one moment he just wants to let himself break, so fucking tired of holding it in.
He hears the slam of a car door and he runs to the driveway, contorting his body to get there as fast as possible. Camila must have seen him from the kitchen window. She must be leaving him — as he runs towards the front of the house, it’s all he can think about. Fuck, he shouldn’t have let himself think about Daisy. Not for a second. He shouldn’t have slipped.
He reaches the drive way breathless, to find Graham pulling a bag out of the trunk of his car, a confused look on his features.
“What the hell?”
“I thought you were —“ Billy swallows. He was sure it was Camila leaving him. He was sure she’d seen him hear Daisy’s name and try not to break.
“Dude, are you ok?”
Billy shakes his head. The movement is microscopic.
“GRAHAM!” Camila calls jubilantly, stepping out of the front door of the house. She is carrying a laundry basket on her hip like she held Julia when she was young. Her whole face lights up.
“I thought you’d already left.”
“Tomorrow,” Graham responds.
Billy realizes, first with relief, and then with horror, that Camila didn’t see him. She was downstairs, pulling their clothes out of the wash. A moment later she would’ve been on the grass beside him, hanging up the clothes and watching him build the house. He shouldn’t be relieved that she didn’t see it. He shouldn’t have anything to hide. But he learned long ago the taste of guilt just from having a thought.
“I’m gonna take Billy for a drive,” Graham announces.
“Be back for supper, ok? We have to give you a proper sendoff.”
“As if I’d miss that,” Graham replies.
“Is this ok?” Billy asks for permission, as if being away from her could somehow push him back closer to Daisy.
“Of course,” Camila smiles, pulling him into her arms and kissing him. He hopes he’s doing it right, kissing her back — proving how much he loves her. He can’t tell from her expression.
“Where are we going?” Billy asks, as Graham guides the car gently onto the road. Maybe Graham needs help with errands; moving a couch, taking apart a bed, or breaking down furniture. Billy will do anything to keep his hands moving and his mind distracted. He can close his eyes and see Daisy calling to him, her lips a smile as she says his name. He pushes her back into that corner of his mind, locks the door once, then another time with a deadbolt, pictures hurling the keys into a sea, where waves devour any chance of going back to her.
“Oh. I don’t know. I think you just needed to get out of that house.”
“What?” Billy spins to him.
“Billy — you can’t pretend you don’t miss her. Or think about —“
“Stop,” Billy pleads with a shake of his head.
“Don’t you want to know how she’s doing?” Graham asks. Billy says nothing. Plausible deniability if ever asked. He can say Graham just told me. Here he is, Billy Dunne, stadium selling rock star, father, husband, brother, best-selling songwriter, and he’s so fucking weak he lets anything happen to him. He stands in his life like a man in the middle of the ocean, battered by the waves around him, refusing to step forward, onto shore, or to give in, to let himself to sink to the bottom of that deep blue and let it devour him. It’s a good lyric, he thinks, as he remembers Daisy’s eyes, and then he has to remind himself he doesn’t do that anymore. That’s not who he is anymore. He’s not sure who he is, but it’s not someone who can write songs about someone else. And he won’t let himself write songs until she’s out of his system.
“She’s in rehab. Teddy said she’s doing well.” Billy nods in response. “I never asked what happened—“
“— Nothing happened,” Billy interrupts. “Nothing fucking happened.”
“I meant with Nicky,” Graham corrects.
“He uh… left her. She almost… I almost lost—“ his voice breaks as he says the words, because they’re true now, aren’t they? He has lost her. And that’s when Billy breaks down. Graham pulls over so he can let it all out.
On the side of the road, the hazard lights blinking, Graham sits with him in silence. Cars zip by with screaming horns, but Graham refuses to move. Graham waits as the entirety of the world’s oceans seem to pass through Billy. Until Billy is is shivering and cold and he feels tired, so fucking tired. Until he can convince himself, somehow, that someday he’ll be ok. He’ll be able to stop thinking about her. But he knows it’s not today.