expensive Whiskey and that same old aftershave. And for a moment, I’m a five-year-old again, absurdly

happy to be home, because home is where dad is.

Over his shoulder, I can see Whitey grinning and winking at me. “Now if it ain’t Little Grazzo!

How’s life been treating you, kid?”

“Not too bad, can’t complain.”

“Good, good. How’s the old lady?”

“Married, or so she was when last I checked.”

The old clarinet player laughs, his voice like gravel. “Goin’ through them husbands quickly, ain’t

she, Graz?”

My dad pulls back and just shrugs with a grin. “What can I say, I’m hard to replace.”

“Impossible to replace,” a tall, anorexic blonde in a short dress purrs, and steps to Grazzo’s side, her

bony hands all over him. Another model he picked up after a show, no doubt. She’s got to pinch him to

be introduced.

“Danny, this is…” (short hesitation as he tries to recall her name) “…Nadja. - Nadja, my wayward

son, who prefers acting to making use of his real talent, music.” He says it with that grin, but I know

he’s only half-joking. He’ll never stop bugging me about it, but I’d actually be disappointed if he did.

It’s the only time when he feels like a father to me, not just like any old buddy of mine.

“And oh my god, Andie? Geez, is that you?” He’s finally spotted the one childhood friend I have

that he could possibly remember. Andrea’s leaning against the wall beside the door, unused to the chaos

of an aftershow room full of crazy musicians.

“Look at you, all grown up, and what a beauty!”

This is the first time I’ve ever seen Andrea blush. The cold, removed goddess turned into a school

girl - damn, it takes a lot. Grazzo’s giving her his infamous grin, and seeing this, Anorexic Nadja turns

on the spot and runs off slamming the door. Sadly for her, no one even looks up. You know my dad, you

know lady drama.

I can see that Grazzo’s unrivaled charisma is still doing the trick. I know what’s coming next. He’ll

invite us to come along and hit the town. We’re gonna have a blast with the old crew, we’ll drink hard,

we’ll have a laugh, we’ll drag out memories and all the old stories, and everything will be just like way

back then.

And then, eventually, he’ll just disappear. With some chick who’s that much more interesting than

the son he hasn’t seen in years. Might even be Andrea getting lucky tonight. And he’ll be gone just like

that, without a word, without so much as a “see ya”. He always does it. He’s brilliant at completely

leaving you behind.

All of a sudden I’m feeling sick to my stomach. There’s not enough air in this buzzing, crowded

room, as I realize that it’s really me being the clone here, not him. I look at Grazzo, and I see myself, in

twenty-five years. The Boy Who Wouldn’t Grow Up. Still the same, still messing around, always the

same old tricks, never pausing to think, or care. A great buddy, but a horrible friend. And the worst

father. Is this really who I’m bound to be?

Pathetic. But here we go again. Merry fucking Christmas, dad.

* * *

Next stop: Paris, France.

Paris is just as gray and ugly as any city in wintertime, but I don’t mind. We’re out for a walk on the

boulevard along the Seine late at night, having left Grazzo and London behind with only a few minor

scratches. There’s no snow in Paris, and I think it seems more real without it.

“You need to get laid,” Andrea states matter-of-factly, out of the blue, right after a half-hearted

conversation about a new restaurant at the Champs Elysees.

“I do,” I agree, and smile a little when she takes my arm and leads me down the steps to the

riverbank. It’s foggy, and freezing, but I don’t mind the cold, because the scenery’s pretty, and it’s

peaceful. I can just make out the shape of Notre-Dame in the distance, looming over the river like some

dark, ancient creature. And for a moment, I feel like I’m out of time, hovering in the middle of eternity,

and life below is small, and simple, and incredibly easy. For the first time in weeks, I can actually feel

my body.

“You have to try and forget Foley,” she says after a long moment of silence.

“D’uh.” I give her a look. “Why do you think I’m here?”

“Fine, so stop your brooding. It’s getting old.”

“Hey, I don’t brood, okay?” I grin vaguely.

“Alright, Mr. Touchy-Feely. Don’t be offended.”

I look at her for a moment. I’m not offended. I’m nothing, really. I know it’s all I have been lately.

And yes, it’s high time to get over that.

“Andie? How about you shut up, fetch us a cab, and get me drunk quick?”

“Hallelujah!” She laughs with relief. I can tell that she’s been dying for words like these, after

having spent all this time dealing with that strange version of myself that’s so different to who I used to

be.

I grin at her. “I need a nice piece of ass tonight.”

She laughs again. “With a head and a body attached?”

“Either way.”

“You’re such a slut,” she states fondly.

* * *

And there he is, right in the heart of Paris. Clearly the nicest piece of ass this side of the Seine. We’re in

the city’s trendiest club, it’s New Year’s Eve, and he’s perfect. A friend of Nate’s, French Boy whose

name I forget, all dark hair and pouty lips, seriously pretty, and looking like he could be one hell of a

shag. He calls me Daniel in that thick French accent, and it sounds all wrong, but I don’t care enough to

let him know.

“You speak French very good,” he tells me.

“Yeah,” I grin. “And your English sucks.”

He laughs and drags me onto the dance floor, and then I get swept away, and it’s all perfume and

sweat and bodies pressing against mine, and the DJ’s a damn god.

And James is still there, behind my back, somewhere in the crowd, stalking me. All I want is to

forget. I want to have him removed, erased from my memory. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind-me

already. Because by now, I hate the bastard, and I miss him, and I hate him more for missing him. I’m

still not feeling like myself, not like anyone else. I’m drifting, headed nowhere, and right now, I really

just don’t care.

The world can go screw itself. James can go screw himself. He can go cut himself, get some new

scars, slit his wrists, he can bleed to death. I don’t care. One of these days, I really won’t give a shit

anymore.

A couple of Caipirinhas later things get kind of blurry, the laughter gets louder, everyone gets wilder,

talking is no longer necessary, and French Boy who completely abuses my name is all over me.

I’m actually having a good time, and surprisingly I don’t mind being touched, for the first time since

James… or Keller… Shit, man, for the first time in a while. When the hell did my life get so

complicated? But the thought escapes me before I have time to ponder, because now there’s hands,

warm fingertips, gentle like feathers, teasing, tempting, sliding underneath my shirt…

French Boy takes a long drag on his cigarette, leans in and kisses me, giving me a taste of his smoke.

And I find myself not minding at all. The kiss is slow and deep, and sexy, and his breathing accelerates

as he presses up against me. I like the needy little sounds he makes, I like the way he tastes, bitter

alcohol mingled with lime and something sweet, and I think I definitely want more of this.

Then it suddenly hits me, and I realize that I’ve got it all wrong. It won’t make me exactly like

Grazzo just to leave James behind. It’s okay to do it. It’s necessary to do it. There’s no way around it,

really, unless I want to spend the rest of my life in misery. All this time, I was walking away from god