Wreck: Hawke

by Heather C. Leigh

  Teenagers. So lazy.

  I smile to myself and think about my younger brothers, Evan and Jace. They’re both teenagers, Evan almost done with his freshman year at Columbia in New York and Jace in his junior year of high school.

  A lump forms in my throat when my thoughts inevitably turn to Nick. He would be twenty-four years old now. My cheeks and eyes burn and my throat closes up. Almost five years later and emotions I still can’t control haven’t lessened one bit. The familiar stabbing pain of grief in my chest, the rush of nausea that sends a wave of prickly heat from the base of my skull to the bottoms of my feet, the press of tears on the back of my eyes—they’re all so prevalent in my life. I thought it would get better with time.

  It hasn’t. Nothing has.

  “All right, Jazmin. I’ll see you Wednesday, okay?” Brenda puts her hand on a young girl’s shoulder, patting it softly.

  “Okay, Dr. Eberhart. Thanks.” Jazmin ducks her dark head of hair and sinks down into her hooded sweatshirt before darting out of the room.

  “Almost done, Abby?” Brenda gives me one of her kind smiles…and I lose it.

  Days…weeks…years of holding back, of trying to be strong, break free. Once the dam cracks, I’m impotent to stop a few tears from turning into a full-out, snot-inducing, body-wracking breakdown. In the span of a few seconds I go from clearing up trash to sobbing so hard I can’t catch my breath.

  “Abby, stop cleaning.” Brenda dislodges a used napkin from my hand and leads me to one of the tattered armchairs arranged in a circle for group therapy. She gently pushes me down, dragging over another chair to sit opposite me, our knees almost touching.

  Brenda takes one of my hands, clasping it in hers, waiting patiently until I calm down enough for her to speak.

  “Feel better?” she asks.

  I can’t look at her. The shame of crying in front of my boss washes over me, so I nod. Brenda releases my hand. She dangles a box of tissues in front of my face. I huff out a laugh and grab one, using it to clean up and blow my nose.

  “Sorry,” I mutter, staring at the tissue in my hand. I tear at it, worrying it between my fingers.

  “Abby.”

  Her stern tone has me lifting my gaze to meet concerned eyes.

  “Don’t be sorry. There’s nothing to be sorry for. Everyone has their emotional limits. Clearly, you hit yours.” Brenda sits back in her chair, her hands folded neatly in her lap. “Is there anything you want to talk about?”

  I open my mouth to speak, then press my lips together. What do I tell her? Is this about Nick? Hawke? What is it exactly that’s bothering me?

  Once I make my decision, it all comes out in an unstoppable torrent of words. Nick, my family, his illness, my guilt, Hawke’s issues… all of it in one big pile of run-on sentences peppered with raw emotions. By the time I’m done, I feel like a deflated balloon—all of the pressure, the strain, the anxiety, let out to leave me flat.

  “Well,” Brenda says. I expect to see pity but only find concern in her kind eyes. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She cocks her head to one side. “I knew you were struggling with something, I just didn’t know how much. You should have told me sooner, told someone. You don’t have to suffer alone, Abby.”

  “I know. I’m a psychology student, remember?” I immediately regret my sarcastic tone.

  Brenda laughs. “It’s pretty common, Abby. Physician heal thyself and all that.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Anyway, I’m sure deep down you know your brother’s death isn’t your fault, and you don’t have to atone for it for the rest of your life.”

  “I know.” But how do I explain that the guilt still gnaws at me, trying to eat its way through my insides until I’m left with a giant, gaping hole?

  “You’re also not responsible for your boyfriend’s behavior. You can’t make him want to change, Abby. He has to do it on his own.”

  I nod, already well aware of everything Dr. Eberhart is saying.

  “It’s hard to get perspective when you’re so close,” she says. “Tell you what. Go home and write out your situation.” I start to interrupt but she holds up a finger. “Write it down like a case scenario you would see in one of your books. Treat it clinically. What advice would you give someone just like you? Maybe seeing it in another way will give you some perspective.”

  I want to argue, but what she’s saying makes sense. “Okay.”

  “Great.” Brenda smiles, slapping her hands on her thighs. “Let’s finish cleaning up and get out of here.”

  I give her a small smile, feeling a spark of hope for the first time in a long time. But a tiny little voice inside is telling me the answer I already know and don’t want to hear. Hawke will never change. It’s up to me to decide how long I want to sit around to watch.

  Am I capable of doing nothing while another loved one self-destructs? I drive home in silence, the ache in my chest growing bigger and bigger with each mile.

  I don’t have to write anything down. I already know the answer, and it’s most likely going to wreck me before I’ll ever come close to accepting it.

  Hawke

  “Fuuuuck!” My fingers clench around the lighter as the skin above it burns. The sharp, acrid smell hits my nostrils right as the excruciating pain creates an explosion of endorphins that course through my veins.

  I let go of the tab, cutting off the blue flame. The skin on the back of my calf sings in agony, yet all I feel is the freeing euphoria that rivals any high I’ve ever had. Reveling in the bliss, the moment my mind is completely wiped free, I close my eyes and recline on the bed. With my upper body propped up by my elbows, I let my head fall back in ecstasy.

  The rattling of the knob of my bedroom door is followed by loud shouting. “Hawke! Hey man, what the fuck?”

  Gavin? He went out after our meeting with executives to celebrate landing the opening act for U2’s US tour and wasn’t supposed to be back until way later.

  “Shit.” I scramble to roll down the cuff of my jeans, letting out a hiss when the rough fabric scrapes across the fresh burn.

  “Hawke, open the goddamn door! Why is the door locked anyway?” Gavin’s irritated voice comes from the other side of the door as he stands in the hall.

  “Sorry!” I call out, hurrying to right myself. I run my hands through my hair and put my dad’s glasses back on before going to the door.

  The second the lock disengages, Gavin barrels through the door. “What the actual fuck, Hawke? Who are you trying to keep out of here? Me?”

  He is pissed.

  “No. I don’t know, Gav. I just…” I fumble for an excuse, but he doesn’t wait to listen.

  “Fuck you. I knew you left the meeting to do something stupid,” he snarls, spinning around to stab a long finger into my chest. My best friend’s eyes are wide and filled with fear. “Fuck you.” His voice breaks and those haunted blue eyes are now shining with tears.

  How many more people am I going to let down? “Gav—”

  “Were you…?” Gavin swallows, his eyes darting around the room, looking for something. “Were you going to…?”

  Oh shit.

  “No, Gavin. No way. I would never do that.” I shake my head furiously at his assumption. Gavin went through a really bad time a few years back. His dad is a complete dick and would hit and humiliate him, trying to beat the gay out of him. As a result of years of abuse, he tried to kill himself with an overdose of medication.

  Now he thinks I’m trying to kill myself. In our bedroom. The one I share with him, where he would find my body.

  No wonder he’s pissed.

  “You’d never do that?” Gavin steps closer, crowding me back until my legs hit my bed. “You’d never do that?” His voice rises an octave, nearing an alarming volume. “Every time you pull one of your stupid, risky stunts you’re doing exactly that!” Gavin steps away, pacing the room and fisting his hair.

  “I wasn’t, Gav. I promise.” Watchin
g my best friend lose it has me close to panic, which completely erases the high I was riding just minutes ago.

  Gavin drops heavily on his bed, his shoulders sagging, his head down. Once again, I’ve fucked up spectacularly with someone I care about. His chest expands as he takes a deep breath and I wait on pins and needles as he slowly blows the air out. When Gavin finally raises his head and his blue eyes meet mine, I see sad resignation.

  “Fine.”

  That’s all he’s going to say?

  “Fine?” I repeat.

  “Yeah, fine.” Gavin suddenly stands, strips off his shirt and pants, and climbs under the covers. “Turn out the light.”

  I stand, stunned, needing a minute to process what just happened. I snap out of it and click the switch to the overhead lights. The lamp next to my bed emits a soft glow, giving me just enough light to move around the messy room without tripping on something.

  Still confused by Gavin’s quick capitulation, I enter the tiny attached bath and close the door. After shedding my own pants and shirt, I sink to the floor, clutching my head in my hands. The burn on my calf pulses angrily, a throbbing reminder of just how damaged I am.

  As I sit on the cold tiles, I think about Gavin, who’s been my best friend ever since we met at the psychiatric hospital as angry, fucked-up teenagers and we bonded over the fact we both loved music and his last name was the same as my middle name. The look on his face tonight destroyed me. I don’t want Gavin to worry about me all the time.

  That look of utter defeat? The fact that he’s pretty much surrendered himself to living with the knowledge that I’ll eventually kill myself? It guts me like a knife slicing deep across my abdomen.

  And Abby. How much have I fucked up with her? How many times will she be willing to watch me self-destruct before she eventually becomes like my best friend? Numb, cold...detaching from emotions to protect him from my stupidity.

  For the first time in a long time, I curl up in a ball and cry.

  Abby

  “I’m going to miss you so much,” Hawke whispers as he combs his fingers through my hair. My cheek is resting on his bare chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart while we relax in the aftermath of a round of spectacular going-away sex. The band is setting off tonight for a US tour, their big break opening for U2. They’ll be gone for almost two months.

  “Me too.” I press a kiss to his skin, right over a tattoo of a set of angel’s wings with the initials HLE in the center. I’ve tried to examine every single line of ink and mark on his body, but Hawke is very good at evading my touch, my gaze, my questions.

  I drag my finger over the letters, tracing them lightly. Hawke flinches under my hand and his muscles tense up a fraction. He probably doesn’t realize I notice the subtle signs. I’m already well aware how uncomfortable he is with me seeing him so exposed.

  “Whose initials are these?” I regret the question the second it comes out of my mouth. Hawke is out from under me and on his feet before I can register what’s happening. I sit up, watching in shock as he yanks on a pair of boxers and a T-shirt.

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

  Inside, though, I’m not sorry at all. I can have sex with him, date him, call him my boyfriend, but I can’t ask a single question about him or his life before we met? It’s a ridiculous line to walk. Yet, aren’t I doing the same thing by not telling Hawke about Nick? He doesn’t even know I had an older brother, let alone one who committed suicide. He doesn’t know that my parents had to take their son off life support and sit with him as he died.

  If I’m honest with myself, I have no idea what to do right now. All I know is that our relationship is built on nothing more than a bunch of lies and hiding who we are. I’m tired of feeling like crap every time I unintentionally set him off. But the fear of backing off and having Hawke end up like Nick sends a tidal wave of icy fear through me.

  “I’m gonna go. I have stuff to do,” Hawke says, searching the floor for the rest of his clothes.

  I want to jump out of the bed and hold him tight, keep him from leaving, even though it won’t do any good. Hawke is already gone, his mind in a completely different place even though he’s still physically standing in my bedroom.

  I shrink back from his cruel tone and pull the sheet over my naked body, suddenly feeling cold and exposed.

  Don’t cry, Abby.

  Nothing makes Hawke run faster than tears. Especially if he thinks he caused them, which, to be honest, he usually does. I blink back the wetness and watch Hawke shake out his jeans and step into them. My eyes rove down his legs, traveling over each line of ink. My heart leaps into my throat when I reach his calf.

  “What happened?” I shout. My nakedness is no longer a consideration as I fly off the bed to get a closer look at a giant, open wound on Hawke’s leg.

  When I reach out to touch it, Hawke spins around, his face bright red and angrier than I’ve ever seen it. “Jesus fucking Christ, Abby! Stop fucking freaking out over every little thing! You’re not my mother, goddamn it!”

  I literally skitter back, crab walking until my spine is pressed against the side of the mattress. I’ve been afraid for Hawke before, but this is the first time I’ve been afraid of Hawke.

  “Stop asking questions, stop prying, stop analyzing, stop fucking digging and picking and making me feel like shit!” he bellows, zipping up his fly.

  A sob catches in my throat as I bite back the emotional storm churning inside. Hawke shoves his feet into his shoes. My pulse thrums so fast I feel slightly dizzy. Combined with the growing tightness in my chest, it makes it hard to breathe, and I’m unable to say a word.

  All I can do is sit on the floor naked and watch as Hawke storms out. Once he’s gone, I fall to pieces, somehow knowing that was likely the last time I’ll ever see him.

  6

  Abby

  Seven years later

  “We’re out of time, Justin.”

  I close the notebook on my lap and smile at the young man sitting across from me.

  “Thanks, Dr. Kessler.”

  He shoves his hat on and exits my office. After typing up my notes, I lean back in my chair and sigh. Justin reminds me of Nick, young, conflicted, his mood swings so drastic he can’t hold a job or go to school. I push the memories of my brother out of my mind, too tired to start feeling sorry for myself.

  Justin was my last patient of the week. The door cracks open and Laura, the secretary I share with two other psychologists, pokes her head in.

  “I’m leaving, Abby.”

  “Thanks, Laura. See you Monday.”

  She waves and closes the door, but not before giving me a parting shot. “It’s Friday. Try to actually go out and, you know, have fun this weekend.”

  I grin, ready with a witty retort, but Laura is long gone. After a moment, the smile slides off my face. We have a long-standing joke between us, but Laura is right, I don’t have a life outside of work. I rarely go out, and I hardly ever have fun.

  When was the last time I went out with friends? As I gather my things and log off my computer, I realize it’s been months. Since Kate was last in town with her husband, Dax Davies, guitarist for the band Sphere of Irony, while he was doing promotion for a new album and a bunch of horrible stuff went down with Gavin and a demented stalker.

  I hop in my car, immediately putting the convertible top down to let the hot, stagnant air out, and pull directly into bumper-to-bumper Los Angeles traffic.

  Wonderful.

  Resigned to an hour-long drive, I turn up the radio only to catch myself thumping my fingers on the steering wheel. My mind drifts to thoughts of Kate and college and the guys in the band. Specifically drummers. I force my hands to stop, gripping the wheel tight. If my life has come to this, still fixated on a man I met a decade ago, a man with more issues than he has tattoos—and he has ink covering most of his skin—then I really, really need a date.

  Fifty frustrating minutes later, I pull into my small but newly updated beach cott
age in Ocean Park. After toeing off my heels, I pad into the kitchen and grab a glass and a half empty bottle of white wine out of the fridge. The view is the reason I bought this little one-bedroom fixer-upper. It’s steps from the beach; the palm trees rustling in the breeze and the ocean crashing against the shore are the sounds I fall asleep to every night.

  It’s beautiful. But is it enough? Am I happy?

  Being a clinical psychologist with a PhD, one would think I could figure out what’s missing from my life, what causes the hollow ache in my chest when I’m alone, but it’s like my old boss used to say: “Doctor, heal thyself.” We never want to look too closely at the reflection in the mirror. What if we don’t like what we find?

  I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts, looking for someone, anyone, to call for a night of fun. My old coworker, Rena? No, she’s a newlywed and won’t want to leave her husband. Helen, a woman who used to live next door to me in my condo in Malibu? No, she’s always way too descriptive with her sex life, and not in a Sex in the City girl-bonding way. It’s more of a shut up before I have to bleach my brain of the graphic pictures you’re describing kind of way.

  My finger hovers over a number I never erased but haven’t dialed in years. For all I know, he changed it eons ago and I’ll get a dry cleaner’s somewhere downtown. I can’t count the number of hours I’ve stared at the contact information, never gathering the courage to hit send. Instead, I’ve been content to remember the fun times we used to have when we were together. In these memories, I conveniently choose to forget all of his self-destructive behaviors. Ones which, if you believe the gossip magazines, he still has to this day.

  I down the rest of the wine and push the green button before I can talk myself out of it.

  The phone rings once… twice… three times until voice mail picks up.

  “Hey.” My body tenses at the sound of his familiar voice. It vibrates down my spine, where a pool of warmth spreads over my skin. “This is Hawke, leave a message.”