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CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The morning after our Los Angeles show, I wake up with a rare ailment—a hangover.
Well, it’s a rare thing for me to have, anyway.
My head feels like a rubber band several sizes too small is wrapped around it, and it takes me several minutes in my cloudy, in-between sleeping and waking state to realize that the room doesn’t smell bad.Ismell bad.
“Fuckinghell,” I groan. I lift my head up a couple of inches and notice I’m on top of the expensive duvet in my loft. I apparently didn’t even take my shoes off last night before collapsing onto the plush mattress. The bright California sun shines down on me and the sparkling hardwoods through the large windows, and I realize the sun is high enough that it must be well into the morning. No wonder I feel like I was stomped on by a whole ass stampede.
I manage to prop myself up a bit on my elbows and wince at the screaming throb in my temples and across my forehead. I muster up the majority of my strength and shove the pillow beside me underneath my head, fluffing it so I can stay propped up.
Thank goodness we have the next few nights off until we head to San Diego.
I feel for my cell phone on the bedside table, and exhale in relief when I grab onto the pop socket secured to my phone case. In the past, I’ve left my phone, wallets, and keys in various places when I got drunk. There was a party several years back at Tre Cool’s place up in Oakland, and my phone somehow ended up in his fish tank by the end of the night, which was something I knew the partygoers still hadn’t forgotten.
After unlocking my phone, I grimace at all the notifications that pop up.
My social media accounts have gotten more attention than usual due to the wedding announcement, and even though I silenced most of the notifications long ago, some still manage to come in. I open my home screen and ignore the red bubbles littering various applications. I have eight text messages—five from Lizzy, which is normal for how often she’s on her phone, a couple from Mike, and…one fromDrew.
Nausea hits me in the gut when I see the unread message. I force a shaky breath and tap on his contact. I don’t remember a lot about my night once we got settled in Trish’s room after the show, but I do remember that Drew wasn’t there, and I was concerned about where he was, even though I knew it wasn’t my place to worry.
Drew: I knew I was done for as we lay on that rooftop, cig dangling from your fingertips. Nothing I could do would make it stop, because you were you, and I kept dreaming of your lips.
My heart somersaults. I stumble into the bathroom and retch over the toilet before I can fully process what he sent me. I squeeze my eyes shut against tears and vomit, riding out the sickness as best I can. By the time I’m no longer gagging, I clutch a hand to my heart and rake at the skin and bone and tissue that keeps me from the beating organ with my fingertips, like maybe I can rip it from my chest with nothing more than my nails and my overwhelming desperation.
I knew I was done for as we lay on that rooftop, cig dangling from your lips.Emma’s rooftop—when they were still dating.
Nothing I could do would make it stop because you were you—Drew. My Drew.And I kept dreaming of your hips.More tears drip down as I remember how badly I’d obsessed over Drew and every single thing about him that made him,himin those months leading up to the day we crossed the line from friendship to lust; lust that quickly evolved into something much deeper.
It was one of the last songs I wrote for our self-titled album back in 2013. My secret love song to Drew.
Once I regained my strength enough to stand, I went back to where I’d been on the bed and carefully laid back down. Breathless and hot, I check the text again and look at the time stamp: 3:07 am. He was up late. I sit there, staring at the words I wrote years ago, mocking me. 2013 Ash wouldn’t even recognize 2022 Ash. What have I done? I want to reply, but I’m at a loss.
I open the texts from Lizette. The photo I have of her in my phone’s contact is from when we’d been dating a little less than a year. We made goofy faces for the camera as we sat together in a movie theater with piss poor lighting, waiting for the previews to start. She didn’t wear any makeup that day, and she looked gorgeous, especially with her crossed eyes and crazy smile.
The worst part of the last couple of years is that I’ve continuously hurt Drew over and over, but I’ve also dragged Lizzy down into it, too. My fist meets my forehead and I lightly pound onto my stupid head a little while more tears spill over onto my rank t-shirt.
The phone buzzes in my hand. A split second of hope that it’s from Drew fades away immediately.
Lizzy: Don’t freak, but California Rocker wants to do an interview with us today at 3…is that ok?? I’m sorry. I went ahead and said yes before I checked in with you.
“Motherfucker—” Another buzz.
Lizzy: I can always cancel. You’re prob too tired?
Through clenched teeth, I agree to do it even though I’m well aware that I’m digging the hole of my grave deeper and deeper each day that I live this lie.
The entire morning,I lay in bed wearing my filthy, vomit-crusted clothes. I watch every single music video we’ve ever released in chronological order. The first one I watched made me sob so hard I thought I would surely throw up again, but the nausea was replaced with a gnawing sense of anguish.
Watching twenty-year-old Drew on the drums was like falling for him all over again. At one point, I knew I was torturing myself, but I couldn’t stop. His hair was a little longer back then, and his complexion was darker from the days he spent working out in the yard. He didn’t have any tattoos yet. He was slimmer, but still cut. Drew.MyDrew. The man who saw a light inside of me and would never do anything to hurt me. Younger Drew wasn’t so different from Drew now. My throat burns and my eyes sting with more tears.
Around one in the afternoon, I haul my worthless ass into the spacious shower and sit on the shower bench as the scalding water beats down on my back and neck. I stay in there until my skin hurts, then I manage to bathe and get out.
I wipe the foggy, oval mirror that rests above the sink, and scold my reflection.
“You’re an idiot,” I tell myself. “Truly useless.”
The shadows underneath my eyes are alarming. Even the color of my eyes seems duller than usual. I look like I’m ten years older than I am. I can only imagine what the tabloids or theCalifornia Rockerwill say about that.
