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But even after that, sea legs and all, I’d kept myself moving.
I ran errands.
I did laundry.
I cleaned my apartment.
I even paid my fucking bills two weeks before they were due.
Basically, I’d worked through to-do lists for the next three years.
But, to my utter disappointment, nothing made me feel better.
And, even though I didn’t want to admit it to myself, I knew why.
Well, thanks to Abby and her meddling, I knew it because she hadn’t stopped talking about it for the past twenty-four hours.
How she’d found out? I didn’t have a fucking clue, nor did I want to engage in the conversation that would give me the answers.
But I knew. I fucking knew.
Tonight was the night. The gig at Monarchy.
As the hours passed and the eight o’clock call time that Leo had put on the books for me neared, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him.
And the more I thought about him, the more I doubted walking away from him.
The more I questioned my reaction to his meddling.
The more I wondered if I’d done the right thing.
And, ultimately, the more confused and emotional I became.
At a little after five, I sat down on my couch with a bowl of instant mac and cheese to watch reruns of Friends, and I’d never felt so fucking pathetic in my life.
Not to mention, instant mac and cheese always tastes like burned cheese with a hint of plastic, and I was in such a sad sack mind-set that even Ross shouting “Pivot! Pivot!” didn’t make me laugh.
Fuck, I felt low.
Probably the lowest I’d ever felt in my life.
But I didn’t know what to do or how to change it.
A part of me wanted to call Leo.
And even a teeny tiny part of me wanted to just show up at the gig.
But the anxiety-ridden, scared as fuck part of me refused to loosen the reins.
Once Ross brought his couch back to the furniture store in two pieces, I tossed my half-eaten bowl of cheesy plastic and grabbed the remote to find something else to watch.
Who knows how long I sat there mindlessly flipping through the channels, but when three knocks resonated from my front door, I blinked out of my daze and glanced over my shoulder and toward the entryway.
Surely, I was hearing things, right?
I mean, I wasn’t expecting any visitors.
And the only visitor I could expect never knocked.
Three more knocks and I slowly got up from the couch and walked to the entryway. When I looked into the peephole and saw Abby standing on the other side, I opened the door and furrowed my brow. “Uh… What is happening right now?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re knocking,” I said, and she stared at me in confusion.
“And that’s a problem because…?”
“You never knock,” I explained. “You mysteriously end up in my apartment, but you never knock.”
“Are you going to let me in?” she asked, ignoring the rest of my plight. Without the energy to stand there and argue, I propped the door open.
She walked inside, and I followed her lead into the living room.
“Jesus Christ, it smells terrible in here,” she said and I shrugged.
“I made mac and cheese.”
“Instant?”
“Yeah.”
“That explains it,” Abby said with a knowing smile.
But to my surprise, she didn’t plop her ass down on my couch.
Instead, she walked into the hallway and straight into my bedroom.
“Uh… What are you doing?” I called toward her.
“Making sure you’re ready to go!”
“Ready to go where?”
She peeked her head out of my bedroom. “You fucking know where.”
“I’m not going to the gig,” I said, but Abby just ignored me and went back to whatever she was doing.
Eventually, I became too curious not to walk into my bedroom.
She stood beside my bed, and I watched in annoyance as she packed up my guitar in its case.
“Stop doing that,” I said, but she ignored me.
“You need to get dressed.”
“I’m not going anywhere, Abby.”
Once she had my guitar packed up, she moved her focus toward my closet and started pulling out clothes and tossing them onto my bed. “Dress? Skirt? Jeans? What are you feeling for tonight, sweet cheeks?”
“Abby,” I said through a tight jaw and started to reverse her efforts by putting stuff back into my closet. “I’m not going to the gig.”
Without the slightest bit of hesitation, she tossed whatever clothes were in her hands on top of my crumpled comforter and then gently shoved me onto my bed until my ass was firmly on the mattress.
“What are you doing?” I shrieked, but she stared down at me, completely unfazed.
“A goddamn intervention.”
I opened my mouth to tell her to shove her intervention up her ass, and she held up a defiant hand. “You’re going to stay quiet for two fucking minutes and listen to what I have to say, and if by the end of it, you still want to be an avoiding biotch, then I’ll leave you to it, okay?”
