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I move over to let the tall, beautiful woman sit next to me on my yoga mat. “Hi, Felice.”
“It’s really quite a view, isn’t it?” She uses her green sports bottle to point to the brilliant turquoise ocean lapping at the base of our mountain retreat, beyond the barrier of the lush green jungle surrounding us.
“It is. I could stare at it all day.” I lean back on my elbows and squint to see my new friend. “This is my first time visiting Hawaii.”
“Me too. I really needed this.”
I nod, not wanting to pry. Every woman here has her reasons for coming to a resort that specializes in mental well-being. Some are very personal and not everyone wants to share with strangers.
“I did too.” I decide to open up, something my therapist has been urging me to do. “My brother, he committed suicide when I was fifteen.” Felice remains quiet, letting me speak at my own pace. “I became a clinical psychologist, thinking that if I fixed other people it would make up for not helping my brother.”
“You were very young, Abby.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here. To help my heart realize what my head already knows. His death was beyond my control. Nothing I did could have changed the outcome. It’s just…” I pause, trying to explain how I feel. “It’s harder to make myself truly believe it eve
n though I know it’s not rational.”
“Who’s to say what’s rational, girl?” Felice pats my hand. “My mom was a cold, unloving bitch. I’ve kept everyone in my life at arm’s length to keep from getting hurt again. Other people aren’t my mother, but I treat them like they are. Doesn’t make sense, but,” she shrugs, “that’s what I do.”
Felice squeezes my hand and smiles. I smile back and take in the gorgeous surroundings again.
This was the best idea I ever had. I’ll do anything to get past Nick’s death, to honor his memory properly.
Anything.
Hawke
The blackness, the thick shadows, both are nonstop to the point I can no longer ignore them or think about anything else. In the two weeks Abby has been gone, I’ve hardly slept, eaten, or done much of anything physical. My mind, however, won’t rest, won’t stop the barrage of images. Images of my family in the wreckage of the car along with the sinking feeling that I’ll never see Abby again. They’ve combined to turn me into a ticking time bomb.
Too agitated to sit and stare at the walls anymore, I pull on some clothes, grab my gear, and head out. When I get to the front door, I hesitate. I shove my hand down in the pocket of my loose cargo pants and curl my fingers around Hannah’s stone. Before I can change my mind, I remove the small rock, putting it in the glass bowl that holds my keys, and leave. She doesn’t deserve to have her memory tainted by me, by my screwed-up recklessness.
Down in the garage, I work quickly. I’ve already done all the research necessary. It’s simply a matter of choosing which of the many activities will bring me the biggest thrill, the highest high, the best adrenaline rush possible in order to wipe my mind free of my crushing guilt. I snap the hooks, locking my mountain bike on the rack on my SUV.
BASE jumping? Hang gliding? Both of those require other people, either as instructors or providing equipment. The demons are so loud, shouting and clawing at my insides to get free, that I know I need to be alone today. I direct the Mercedes to the freeway, but change my mind and turn into a small twenty-four-hour corner store before reaching the on-ramp to Interstate 10. There are a few last minute things I need to grab.
Ugh. Too late to hide my face—I realize I didn’t bring a hat or a hoodie. It’s dark outside, still a couple of hours or so until the sun rises, so I didn’t think about it. Inside the store is a different story. It’s brightly lit from dozens of hideous industrial fluorescents. Not even two steps in the door, the clerk’s eyes go wide when he recognizes me.
Shit.
Now in an even bigger rush to get the fuck out of here, I hurry to grab what I need—water, snacks, bandages, and a cheap LA Dodgers cap—and drop them on the counter in front of the gaping cashier. He rings up my stuff, his eyes continually darting to the left as he scans each item.
What the hell? Curious, I follow his line of sight to a magazine rack next to the cash register. The big yellow headline makes my mouth fall open in shock.
Hollywood’s Good Girl and Rock and Roll’s Bad Boy an Item
There on the front page of a popular national tabloid magazine, in full glorious color, is a photo of Jessica Hamby on a red carpet next to a photo of me at a different red carpet event. They couldn’t find a photo of us together because there aren’t any.
“Fuck me,” I murmur.
The cashier’s eyebrows fly up under his shaggy bangs.
“Sorry.” I hand the cashier a twenty. “Don’t believe everything you read,” I say as I grab the plastic bag and case of water and dart out the door.
Fucking paparazzi! If Abby sees that article… I suck in a breath when it hits me like a punch to the gut. What if Abby left town because I was with Jessica at that party?
No. I shake my head, extinguishing that line of thinking. She wouldn’t do that. Besides, Abby had her own date that night. Plus, if Abby hated me, she wouldn’t have let me hold her while the police interviewed us. She wouldn’t have let me stay to wait for her mother to show up at her house.
Would she? What if it was simply her need to have someone to lean on, not caring who that someone was?
