Lucy
It was a little easier saying goodbye to my parents and brothers than it had been Harris. I missed them as soon as they kissed me goodbye and took a cab to the airport while Marcus took me back to the dorm. But it wasn’t the gut-wrenching, can’t-eat-or-sleep kind of missing them like I had when Harris had left on Saturday night.
I tried not to think about the thousands of miles between us as I settled into my room and started getting some reading done before my classes started the next morning. College wasn’t like high school. The teachers expected you to come to class the first day already caught up on the material the professor would be covering from day one. Slackers didn’t make it far in the classes I was taking, and I’d never been a slacker when it came to my education.
During the hours I was in my classes I didn’t have time to think about what Harris was doing, but as soon as I got back to my suite I shared with Marcus, he was the only thing on my mind. I tried to keep my texts to every few hours, not wanting to disturb him too much since I knew how busy he was with work and the shitstorm he’d had to go back to.
The possibility of a lawsuit filed against First Bass by Greg York was making headlines in not just the gossip magazines, but on ESPN and even some of the bigger news stations. I thought Harris was handling it all very well, though. He kept a cool head when he’d done
a press conference addressing the situation and had assured everyone that he was dealing with this incident personally.
We talked on the phone every night after I’d crawled into bed and he stayed on the phone long after I’d fallen asleep. It reminded me of when we had been younger and I’d be unable to sleep, so he’d talk to me and I’d know everything was okay and would fall into a restful sleep knowing that he would always be there for me.
My summer classes were even harder than I thought they would be, but I gratefully welcomed the distraction. By week four, however, I couldn’t have cared less about how I was doing in my classes. The distraction of studying and staying busy with the labs I was also taking weren’t nearly enough to stop the feelings of isolation that were starting to swallow me whole. I missed Harris so damn much. It didn’t matter that I only had two more weeks before I saw him again. I was aching to be with him now.
I would have given anything to just have his arms around me for five seconds. Would have gladly traded a year of my life for one night of Harris holding me. The last few nights when we had talked, I’d had to bite my tongue to keep from begging him to come out for a short visit and I’d avoided his texts and calls that entire day because I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop the tears. I missed him so damn much and it was taking every scrap of willpower I possessed to hold it together.
Marcus was a decent cook and made us dinner that night when we got back to the dorm after my last class on that Friday. The chicken casserole smelled delicious but I couldn’t do more than pick at it. I had no appetite. All the emotions that were crowding my mind were becoming too much and even as I tried to fight the craving to do the one thing I was trying so hard to avoid, I knew I would be spending some extra time in the bathroom once I knew Marcus was asleep.
I excused myself after forcing down a third of the meal, claiming I had studying to do. Not a lie. I had a crapload of studying to do. Every day in every class I had one test or quiz that I had to be prepared for, not to mention the five papers I had to get written by the end of the semester for my English Lit class that was mandatory for my major.
Knowing that Marcus would do the dishes and then head straight for his room to chill while watching some documentary on the History channel, I locked the door to my bedroom and flopped down on my bed. I pulled my books and notes off the nightstand and flipped them all open.
My phone, which had already been on my pillow where I’d tossed it when I’d gotten back, made an angry noise and I glanced at it to see ten missed calls. All of them from Harris. I muted the phone, disabled the vibrate that would still go off if I got any calls or texts, and then forced my attention on the work that needed to get done.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to Harris. I fucking ached to hear his voice. I just didn’t have the strength to not break down tonight. He had too much on his plate to have to deal with me crying and sobbing right then.
Two more weeks, I reminded myself. Two more weeks and then I’d be home and I could see him any time I wanted. I’d have my own apartment and he could spend the night with me any time he wanted.
As I read over my notes, I found my mind wandering back to him over and over again. The distance that separated us felt like it was growing by the second, making the pain in my heart almost unbearable. Repeatedly my gaze kept going to my connecting bathroom and I tightened my fingers around my pencil, trying to fight the need to go in there and do the only thing that helped when things got this intense.
I reread the same page in my biology textbook five times without a single word of it making sense. My fingers tightened around the pencil even more until I heard the small crunch as the wood and lead started to protest and then completely broke in half. The small pain in my hand from the muscle cramp using the force to break the pencil didn’t even begin to distract me.
On autopilot, I got out of bed and walked sightlessly into the bathroom. Locking the door, I moved to the medicine cabinet and opened the mirrored door. With trembling fingers, I pulled out the fresh pack of lady razors that had already been stocked for me when I’d gotten back at the beginning of the semester.
I shouldn’t be doing this. I didn’t need to do this…
No! I didn’t need to do it. There were only two more weeks…
Two more weeks of missing Harris. Two more weeks of having thousands of miles between us. Two more weeks of being unable to focus. Two weeks.
I could handle two more weeks. I didn’t need to do this.
I didn’t.
But I did it anyway.
Taking off the leather bracelet I only took off when I showered, I looked down at the faint lines, some of them still pink and puckered up. The newest one had the indentions around it where I’d had to go to the local Med Express and get stitches because I’d gone too deep. That cut I’d made the first time I’d seen Harris in one of the tabloids with one of his Blonde Bombshells, thinking that he had moved on while I was stuck in some kind of twisted limbo without him.
I’d faked sick so Marcus wouldn’t get suspicious and then made him wait in the waiting room while I’d gone back and told the nurse some bogus story that she’d actually bought. I’d been opening a package with a box cutter, I’d told her. It had slipped and nicked me badly. The doctor hadn’t questioned my story either and had put the six stitches in before advising me to be careful next time. I’d paid with my credit card and then given Aunt Emmie the same story I’d told Marcus when she’d asked about it. Just a bug. Nothing to worry about. I would be better in a few days once the antibiotics took effect. Antibiotics that the doctor had given me to help prevent an infection around my stitches.
Stitches I’d taken out myself.
I’d gotten the leather bracelet to hide the proof of what I’d done. In the past I’d always cut the bottom of my feet to hide my dark secret. I never should have started doing it on a place that could so easily be seen, but the friendship tattoo Harris and I’d gotten had felt like it was mocking me when I’d seen those pictures of him with the blonde. I’d wanted it gone just as much as I’d needed the physical pain—the only release I ever got from the emotional shitstorm that tried to consume me.
Since then I’d been more careful with how deep I went when I cut. Just surface slices that would eventually fade, but it had turned the ink that matched Harris’s into an ugly, grotesque version it was now.
Like they always did when I picked up the little blade, my fingers shook as I fought the craving for the physical pain. I knew it was wrong, knew it didn’t solve anything. Knew that I should get help for this fucked-up addiction I’d come to rely on. Knowing those things, however, didn’t stop me from pressing the blade into my flesh and quickly making a little slash. Blood beaded up and I watched as a few drops spilled over my wrist and splashed onto the white porcelain of the sink.