Wreck: Hawke

by Heather C. Leigh

  “Do you think we can be friends?” I ask, praying she’ll say no, that she wants more. Yet, because I care for her more than anyone else I’ve ever met, I want her to run as far from me as she can because I know I’ll pick right up where we left off and continue to hurt her again and again.

  Abby glances down at our hands, then back up at me. “I honestly don’t know, Hawke. I only know I want you in my life, any way I can get you. I don’t want another five, ten years to go by and regret not having any memories together.”

  Fuck. I’m going to hurt her again. If this doesn’t shred my own heart first. But I’m selfish. I want her. No matter the cost.

  “Okay.” I blow out a breath. “Friends.”

  Abby tilts her head up to meet my gaze. She squints, a tiny line forming between her eyebrows.

  “Where are your glasses?” she asks.

  “Oh.” I pat my shirt and remove them from my pocket. “Sadie got a hold of them.”

  When I move to put them on, Abby steals them away. “Keep them off.” She must see the hesitation on my face, because she elaborates. “Just for the afternoon.” Abby slips them into my shirt pocket and skims a finger down my cheek. “You have such beautiful eyes. You shouldn’t hide them.” She drops her hands and her cheeks blaze red.

  “Okay. Only for today,” I agree. Abby grins, and it’s worth losing my protective armor for a few hours just to see the joy on her face.

  Friends. How can I be friends with Abby? The only person on earth besides Gavin who has ever gotten close to me. The only woman I’ve ever allowed to get under my skin and into my fucked-up heart.

  I guess I’ll find out, because I’ll do everything I can to make her mine.

  Abby

  “So, Justin, tell me how you did this week?” I pull out my pen and notepad and settle into one of the cozy chairs in my office.

  The nineteen-year-old man across from me fidgets, his eyes darting around the room, landing on anything but me.

  “Not so good, but I’m… I’m trying, Dr. Kessler.”

  “I know you are, Justin.”

  I put the pen and paper down on an end table and smooth my hands down my gray pencil skirt. He looks terrible. There are dark circles under his bloodshot eyes. Justin’s once shiny blond hair is dingy and limp, as if he hasn’t washed it in a while. He picks at a thread on the hem of his shirt and chews on his lip nervously.

  “Are you taking your meds?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “I was feeling so good, Dr. Kessler.” Justin fists his hair, squeezing his eyes shut as if in agony. “I hate the way they make me feel, empty inside. I thought… I thought…”

  I watch, my heart filled with sorrow for the pain and confusion that plagues this once vibrant young man.

  “It’s the mania, Justin. It will make you feel invincible, but we’ve discussed this. It’s not real and can be very dangerous. You have to take your meds even when you feel good.”

  His hands slide from his hair and fall slack at his sides. “I know. Yeah, yeah.” He nods, confirming his own words. “I know this, but I can’t stop myself. It’s like I need to clear my head sometimes and the drugs, they mess it all up.”

  God, he sounds just like Nick.

  “I’ll call Dr. Mendel and ask him to discuss your meds. Make sure you schedule an appointment with him.” Dr. Mendel is Justin’s psychiatrist, and a very good one. Justin’s parents are very wealthy and want no expense spared in treating their son.

  I sometimes wonder if things with Nick would have turned out different if he had the same resources as Justin. Just as quickly as the thought invades my mind, I shove it out. Medicines for mental illnesses have come a long way in the last ten years. Imagining the “what ifs” never does any good.

  “Okay, Dr. Kessler.” Justin nods, still worrying his lip with his teeth.

  “Now, relax, close your eyes, and tell me how your week has gone.”

  By the time my day is over and I fight traffic to get home, I’m a frazzled mess. Days like this throw me off balance, sometimes taking me until the following week to recover. Usually, my bad days involve Justin and the haunting memories of Nick.

  I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a large glass. Once I’ve kicked off my heels and changed into jeans and a light blouse, I sink into the soft couch with my drink.

  The ocean is a dark shade of grayish-green today, the waves foamy and the surf rough. There’s not a single person on the long stretch of beach in front of my cottage. Not surprising since it’s cloudy and the sky is ominous, threatening to unleash a rare rainstorm.

  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.

  I lean back on the couch, but something digs into my butt. I lean to one side and pull out my phone. The blood rushes out of my head, making me queasy. Hawke. I never spoke to him yesterday. After a few frustrating fumbles, I unlock the screen and check for missed calls.

  Nothing. No calls. No texts. Nothing.

  Before I can get pissed or begin to worry again, the television catches my attention. The morning anchor begins to discuss the next big story. I think my heart stops in my chest when I look up to see Hawke’s picture on the screen.

  “Yesterday afternoon, authorities were called to a remote location at American Fork Canyon outside Salt Lake City, Utah after Henry ‘Hawke’ Evans, drummer for the band Sphere of Irony, lost control of his off-road motorbike and crashed on one of the trails. According to a witness with another party, Evans was alone when he went over the handlebars at over sixty miles per hour, reportedly landing on his head. The witness said he didn’t recognize the famous drummer, even after removing his helmet, which had a large crack in it.

  “Evans, whose band is currently touring with U2, is in Salt Lake City to perform at a concert scheduled for tonight. He’s being treated at the University of Utah Medical Center, his current condition unknown. The exact details of any injuries sustained in the crash have yet to be released.”

  It takes several tries to get my fingers to stop shaking long enough to pull up Hawke’s number. I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise, recognizing the icy sensation trickling down my spine to my extremities, leaving a gaping chasm where my heart should be. It’s exactly how I felt as my mom hurried us to the hospital to check on Nick, when the elevator opened to the ICU.

  I can’t…

  My breath catches. I’m unable to expand my lungs to take in enough air.

  I need to…

  The room spins around me in a whirling blur.

  No… not again. I can’t do this again.

  I gasp, desperate for oxygen, the edges of my vision going dark. If I had enough air, I would laugh. So this is what a panic attack feels like. I learned about them in class, and here I am experiencing one.

  My brother, now Hawke… I’m not strong enough for this. I’m not strong enough to save Hawke.

  I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. My heart constricts with the knowledge that before I lose myself and everything I am, I’ll have to let him go.

  Hawke

  Seeing Abby again is the sweetest kind of torture. She’s still beautiful, stunning actually, possibly more so than the young, naive girl I met years ago. Still kindhearted—willing to give me yet another chance after failing her not once, but twice after my recent bout of stupidity when I left her in bed in the middle of the night. I shake my head in disbelief, wondering if I would be as forgiving if someone hurt me so many times.

  I bark out a dry laugh. I can’t even forgive myself for what happened to my family over ten years ago. I guess I know the answer to my question. Apparently, I hold grudges. Long ones. Even against myself.

  “C’mon mates, let’s get started.” Adam comes barreling into the outer room of the studio looking perky and excited to be recording. That makes one of us.

  I stand up and follow Adam through the control room and into the sound booth. Gavin and Dax materialize from somewhere in the hall, entering the booth behind me. Not two minutes into warmups, Adam and Dax begin to argue, unable to come to an agreement on how to start one of the new songs.

  That’s my cue to take a nap.

  Those two could be at it for hours before they hash it out. They’re working out the guitar parts, so my presence is irrelevant to the outcome. I wander back into the outer room and collapse on the fancy leather couch, kicking my tattered black boots up onto the armrest. My thoughts immediately turn to Abby and how horrifically our relationship ended all those years ago.

  It’s building up again. The overwhelming darkness. The creeping crawling feeling digging under my skin, making me squirm. It started before I even left for the tour, instigated by Abby asking questions about my sister’s tattoo, then about the burn on my leg. Now, I’m on the verge of a full-on freak out at twenty-five thousand feet.

  I glance around the luxurious private jet chartered specifically for the tour and it closes in around me. The gleaming silver cylinder contracts, squeezing my lungs tighter and tighter until breathing becomes near impossible. Having Lila Griffin unexpectedly tagging along on the tour is a fucking nightmare. I’ve managed to avoid her at our shows, but now she’s here all the time. I can’t be around her without going straight back to that night on the beach, to the mistakes I made leading up to the accident.

  Her high-pitched giggle erupts from a row in front of me. I tense up and my heart stutters. To me, the sound of her voice is the auditory equivalent to being hit in the chest with a Taser.

  “I’ll be right back,” I tell Gavin as I leap out of the comfortable leather recliner to dart down the aisle, past management and other tour personnel.

  The bathroom is huge and luxurious for an airplane. It’s decked out with an actual sink area and more than enough room to turn around without whacking an elbow on something. In my current state of mind, the fancy cubicle may as well be a coffin with a toilet.

  “Fuck.” I dig my fingers into the edge of the counter and stare into the mirror over the vanity. Jesus, I look like shit. The hair at my temples is damp with sweat and there are dark circles under my freaky, mismatched eyes.

  I take off my glasses—my dad’s glasses—and place them on the countertop. My entire life I’ve had people comment on my eyes. With one brown and one blue, they’re unusual to say the least. My mom always used to say they fit my personality perfectly, beautiful and unique. Yeah, if she could on
ly see me now, having a full-on freak-out five miles off the ground in the shitter of an airplane with U2 sitting in the main cabin.

  With a trembling hand, I remove my keychain from my pocket, fingering the small flashlight. When you flick the button on the side, a tiny bottle opener pops out, one of the edges of which is a slender razor blade. I peer into the mirror. The exhausted man staring back is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

  Always thinking ahead, I came prepared. Lighters aren’t allowed on planes, so I have to be creative. I’ve had unexpected anxiety attacks on airplanes before and let’s just say, using my fingernails or whatever sharp object is on hand is messy business. Reaching in another pocket, I dig out gauze, a few bandages, and a roll of medical tape, tossing them into the sink for after.

  With my sleeve rolled up past my elbow, I find a scar I’ve used before. It’s hidden on the underside of my bicep, covered by the large, curling red tail of a dragon. Memories of Abby sitting next to me as I got this particular tattoo, of the way she looked at me when she saw my scars, how she became sick at the sight of them, drives a knife right into my midsection. I gasp, doubling over in agony. Lila, Abby, my guilt, the stress… It nearly knocks me off my feet. Scrambling for something to steady myself, I clutch the doorknob, focusing on breathing steadily in and out so I don’t pass out.

  I laugh to myself, imagining the headlines.

  “Sphere of Irony drummer found unconscious in airplane john, drugs suspected.”

  If they only knew. It’s not drugs I’m addicted to. It’s not the lure of the chemical high or the dark lows in between that make up my demons. No, it’s the knowledge that I destroyed everything I loved—that I still destroy everything I love—that has me crippled with anxiety.

  With a trembling hand, I snatch the blade off the shelf and sit on the closed seat of the commode. A few more calming breaths and my hand is steady enough to press the blade to my bicep. A rush of endorphins hits my system when the metal pierces the thin skin. Blood wells up around the sharp blade as I drag it along the line of the decade-old scar. I hold my arm out over the tile floor, letting the dark drops fall and splatter in a random pattern.