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“Hey.” Jesus, I’m such a fucking asshole. “I’m sorry, Bee.”
Nothing. The silence goes on for so long I check to make sure we’re still connected. “Abby?”
I hear a stifled sob. “Hawke, I can’t…” Abby sniffs and I know she hasn’t been crying, she’s still crying. From the raspiness of her voice, I’d bet she’s been at it for a while.
“Can’t what, Bee?” My ribs are on fire and my head is killing me, but what hurts the most is the knotting, twisting, icy feeling in my gut. Dread churns in my stomach, fiery acid only it’s cold—like frostbite from the inside.
“I’m done, Hawke. We’re done. I can’t do this anymore.”
My empty, blackened heart stops. All of the blood in my body drains from my head; combined with the painkillers they gave me, it leaves me dizzy and unable to respond. The icy sensation in my midsection spreads, replacing the blood in my veins with wintery darkness. A shiver travels down my spine and goose bumps rise all over my body.
“So anyway,” Abby holds back a muffled cry. “Take care of yourself. I love you.”
The call disconnects and I’m left sitting on the bed, clutching the phone, stunned. Abby was probably the last thing on earth keeping me somewhat sane, and now she’s gone. My only tether to reality just snapped, leaving me to drift through life alone.
Life, what a fucking joke. What I do isn’t living, it’s existing. And I can’t even do that right.
85
Abby
“Have you had any mood changes this week, Justin?”
“Nah. I’m okay.” The young man slouches down in his chair. As usual, he begins picking disinterestedly at a loose thread on his jeans.
“All right.” He does look better today. It’s been a few weeks since the day he came in disheveled and not taking his medication properly. Today, he’s well dressed, clean, his eyes and skin are healthy and clear. “What about your medications? Are those working out for you?”
Justin shrugs, staring out the window of my office. Sometimes he gets like this, withdrawn, quiet. It could be nothing, it could be something that happened in his personal life that upset him, or it could be the beginning of a mood shift toward depression. I haven’t seen him since that last visit—his psychiatrist and his parents had him admitted to a hospital for a week or so to straighten out his meds and get him stable before letting him go home.
“I’m fine. Everything’s fine.” His head whips in my direction and his mouth curls in a scowl. “I’m sick of doing this. Sick of talking about this shit. I want to be normal. I want a girlfriend and to be able to finish a fucking semester of college without falling apart and being locked in a mental hospital! I’m done.” Justin springs out of the chair, whirls around, and leaves the office in a cloud of frustration.
“Well that’s just great,” I murmur to myself.
My assistant, Laura, comes into the room, her face a mask of concern. “Is everything okay? Justin just stormed out of here and he looked upset.”
I stand up and move to the chair behind my desk to enter notes into Justin’s file. “He’s having a bad day, Laura. It’s fine.”
Her brows pull together. “Are you sure?”
I wave her off. “I’m sure. Thanks. Just let me know when my next patient is here.”
“No problem, Abby.” I can tell she doesn’t agree with my assessment that everything is fine, but she leaves the office, closing the door behind her.
Justin is a good kid, he’s just tired—tired of doctors, of medication, of being a prisoner of the unpredictable whims of his brain. It’s tough to be treated as though you’re sick when physically, nothing appears to be wrong with you. He’s strong, he’s fit, he’s a handsome young man, yet he’s capable of falling to pieces over something that wouldn’t make most of think twice—a look from a stranger, a bad grade on a test, a fight with a significant other—any of those things can send him spiraling into a free fall that he has absolutely no control over.
It happened to my brother and countless other people with mental health issues. I only hope I’m not losing Justin. That he’s willing to fight for himself alongside me fighting for him.
* * *
I must have been nuts to suggest being friends with Hawke. I’m not sure if my mouth worked faster than my brain or if my brain simply shut down at the sight of his beautiful face and lean tattooed body, but when Hawke appeared in front of me at Dax and Kate’s house, my only reaction was the primal need to grab on tight and never let go.
My mind is definitely confused, no doubt. The professional counselor in me is standing with her arms crossed, tsk-tsking at my obvious lack of concern for my mental well-being, knowing the past will most likely repeat itself. The human being in me sees a man s
he used to know, sees how much damage still lies beneath the hardened facade, and is desperate to be there for him when he needs someone.
The woman in me? She’s the one who scares me. She’s the one who will bring this entire idea of being “friends” with my ex crumbling down at my feet. Because the woman in me is still deeply and hopelessly in love with Henry Walker Evans.
I pull into the underground garage of the address Hawke gave me and stop at a small keypad. The metal gate slowly rises when I punch in the six-digit number he sent in a text message this morning after I asked if he wanted to hang out today.
