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My thoughts turn to the party at Kate’s last weekend, specifically, seeing Hawke for the first time since I had a weak moment and slept with him a few months ago in New Jersey. We’re going to be friends. I snort and take a huge gulp of wine.
Friends.
Why should anything be any different now than it was seven years ago when we dated? We loved each other and still disintegrated into a pile of ashes, leaving nothing in our path unscathed as we went down in flames. The things we said to each other… to this day I still have regrets.
“How’s the tour?”
It takes a lot to keep my voice sounding upbeat and happy after the way Hawke left me sitting naked on my bedroom floor, but somehow I manage to sound quasi-normal.
It’s not that I don’t love Hawke, I do. I just don’t know how much more of this I can take. But the opportunity to tour as the opening act for U2 is huge, and I’m not willing to ruin it by starting an argument with Hawke over the phone.
I’m ecstatic for the guys. Their hard work and years spent playing LA bars is finally paying off. After the way we left things, it’s Hawke’s penchant for self-destructive activities that has my stomach in knots. The last time we fought was when I went home for the weekend to see my family. When I returned, I found my boyfriend bruised and banged up from taking a spur of the moment trip to Colorado to mountain bike some ridiculously difficult trail. He lost control of his bike, skidded off the path, and tumbled down a twenty-foot cliff.
I can feel my blood pressure rising just remembering getting back to LA to find out Hawke was in a hospital in Denver and didn’t bother calling me. He didn’t “want me to worry” was his excuse, saying he didn’t “break anything and it was just a mild concussion.” More recently, his shitty treatment of me when I spotted an open sore on his leg pretty much sealed the deal on me ever asking about another injury again. Plus, that last one was our worst fight to date. Now I’m paranoid he’ll do something dangerous on tour because of it.
“The tour is good. We’re good,” Hawke says, answering my original question. He sounds off. I can tell he’s agitated by the way he speaks—clipped, rushed—as if he’s not really hearing what I’m saying. His mind is in a totally different place.
He’s going to do something risky. Really risky. Panic rises and I can’t help myself. “Are you okay?” I cringe, waiting. I should know better by now. There’s nothing that makes Hawke madder than asking how he’s doing.
“Fuck, Abby. Can we go a single conversation without you nagging the shit out of me? Please?”
I stomp down the urge to hang up. “I’m sorry.”
“Jesus. I have to go,” he snaps.
“Wait!” My heart is racing, pounding hard enough to feel my blood pulsing in my neck.
“What is it?” Hawke hisses.
“I love you,” I tell him. As angry as I am, I can’t let him go without saying it. I’m always afraid it’ll be the last time we speak because of his need for risk-taking. I would do anything for one more chance to tell Nick I love him. I’m not wasting the opportunity with Hawke.
He sighs, his exasperation clear. “I love you too, Bee.”
“Bye.”
“Yeah, bye.” The line disconnects.
I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling. We can’t go on like this. Hawke doesn’t want help, won’t tell me anything about the demons he struggles with. I’m just as bad, refusing to stop
trying to fix him, and at the same time not giving Hawke any insight into my reasons for doing so.
* * *
The next day, Hawke doesn’t call at our usual time and when I try his cell, it goes straight to voice mail. I rationalize that it’s probably his reaction to our little fight last night. He gets like this sometimes. After he stormed out of my apartment before leaving for the tour, we didn’t speak for days.
By late evening, I still haven’t heard from Hawke, which pisses me off. Today is a travel day with no concerts scheduled. That means he’s not on stage or performing tonight, so why isn’t he calling? I feel like being as stubborn as him by not giving in first, but because I worry, I’m compelled to try his phone. It goes straight to voice mail again.
Anxiety creeps up on me. I don’t know why, but I can feel it. Something is off. Kate is out of town for a soccer game, leaving me alone in our apartment to freak out. I try her phone and it goes to voice mail as well.
I stand up, tempted to chuck my phone at the wall. Instead, I toss it onto the couch and head for the kitchen. After rummaging through our meager selection of alcohol, I choose an almost empty container of cherry-flavored vodka and unscrew the cap, chugging straight from the bottle. I need the escape, to not sit up all night making myself sick with worry. It takes a while, but I choke down the remainder of the vodka and vow this is the last time I’m letting Hawke put me through this.
* * *
“Ugh.” My head is throbbing and my throat feels like someone sandblasted it raw. Sunlight pours in through the open blinds, stabbing my skull in half. I check the time—nine a.m. At least I know for future reference, cherry vodka will get me a nice, solid ten hours of dreamless sleep.
I shuffle into the living room and drop onto the sofa, not motivated to do much more than move from one cushioned surface to another. It’s too quiet without Kate here chatting nonstop about anything and everything she could possibly think of. I remember her saying the team has an early flight home today, so she’s probably in the air on her way back to LA right now.
Desperate for some noise, for a distraction from the pounding headache, I turn on the television and flip to a morning news program. The peppy anchors banter on and on about some ridiculous new diet.
