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“Abby, stop cleaning.” Brenda dislodges a used napkin from my hand and leads me to one of the tattered armchairs arranged in a circle for group therapy. She gently pushes me down, dragging over another chair to sit opposite me, our knees almost touching.
Brenda takes one of my hands, clasping it in hers, waiting patiently until I calm down enough for her to speak.
“Feel better?” she asks.
I can’t look at her. The shame of crying in front of my boss washes over me, so I nod. Brenda releases my hand. She dangles a box of tissues in front of my face. I huff out a laugh and grab one, using it to clean up and blow my nose.
“Sorry,” I mutter, staring at the tissue in my hand. I tear at it, worrying it between my fingers.
“Abby.”
Her stern tone has me lifting my gaze to meet concerned eyes.
“Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Everyone has their emotional limits. Clearly, you hit yours.” Brenda sits back in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”
I open my mouth to speak, then press my lips together. What do I tell her? Is this about Nick? Hawke? What is it exactly that’s bothering me?
Once I make my decision, it all comes out in an unstoppable torrent of words. Nick, my family, his illness, my guilt, Hawke’s issues… all of it in one big pile of run-on sentences peppered with raw emotions. By the time I’m done, I feel like a deflated balloon—all of the pressure, the strain, the anxiety, let out to leave me flat.
“Well,” Brenda says. I expect to see pity but only find concern in her kind eyes. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
“What do you mean?”
She cocks her head to one side. “I knew you were struggling with something, I just didn’t know how much. You should have told me sooner, told someone. You don’t have to suffer alone, Abby.”
“I know. I’m a psychology student, remember?” I immediately regret my sarcastic tone.
Brenda laughs. “It’s pretty common, Abby. Physician heal thyself and all that.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Anyway, I’m sure deep down you know your brother’s death isn’t your fault, and you don’t have to atone for it for the rest of your life.”
“I know.” But how do I explain that the guilt still gnaws at me, trying to eat its way through my insides until I’m left with a giant, gaping hole?
“You’re also not responsible for your boyfriend’s behavior. You can’t make him want to change, Abby. He has to do it on his own.”
I nod, already well aware of everything Dr. Eberhart is saying.
“It’s hard to get perspective when you’re so close,” she says. “Tell you what. Go home and write out your situation.” I start to interrupt but she holds up a finger. “Write it down like a case scenario you would see in one of your books. Treat it clinically. What advice would you give someone just like you? Maybe seeing it in another way will give you some perspective.”
I want to argue, but what she’s saying makes sense. “Okay.”
“Great.” Brenda smiles, slapping her hands on her thighs. “Let’s finish cleaning up and get out of here.”
I give her a small smile, feeling a spark of hope for the first time in a long time. But a tiny little voice inside is telling me the answer I already know and don’t want to hear. Hawke will never change. It’s up to me to decide how long I want to sit around to watch.
Am I capable of doing nothing while another loved one self-destructs? I drive home in silence, the ache in my chest growing bigger and bigger with each mile.
I don’t have to write anything down. I already know the answer, and it’s most likely going to wreck me before I’ll ever come close to accepting it.
Hawke
“Fuuuuck!” My fingers clench around the lighter as the skin above it burns. The sharp, acrid smell hits my nostrils right as the excruciating pain creates an explosion of endorphins that course through my veins.
I let go of the tab, cutting off the blue flame. The skin on the back of my calf sings in agony, yet all I feel is the freeing euphoria that rivals any high I’ve ever had. Reveling in the bliss, the moment my mind is completely wiped free, I close my eyes and recline on the bed. With my upper body propped up by my elbows, I let my head fall back in ecstasy.
The rattling of the knob of my bedroom door is followed by loud shouting. “Hawke! Hey man, what the fuck?”
Gavin? He went out after our meeting with executives to celebrate landing the opening act for U2’s US tour and wasn’t supposed to be back until way later.
“Shit.” I scramble to roll down the cuff of my jeans, letting out a hiss when the rough fabric scrapes across the fresh burn.
