Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

This is exactly why it’s better for Abby to hate me. I’m a fucked-up, selfish bastard, and always will be.

Abby

The hour-long drive to my parents’ house gives me plenty of time to do nothing but think. Naturally, my mind goes straight to Hawke. The connection I thought I’d felt with him, the magnetic pull, turned out to be one-sided. During the show, my eyes were fixed on Hawke’s beautiful face as he mastered the large set of drums. His body moved so fluidly, so expertly, he didn’t even need to look at his hands as they created the rhythm for the rest of the guys to follow.

I couldn’t wait until the band was done with their set so I could huddle close to Hawke in a private booth, spending the rest of the night talking. In my mind, we’d share gentle touches and heated looks, possibly ending with him driving me home where he’d kiss me goodnight. I could practically feel the small metal stud in his lip rubbing across mine as our mouths came together.

Instead, Kate, who wouldn’t let me beg off or sit for a single second, immediately dragged me to the dance floor. When I finally gave her the slip, some random guy who thought the world revolved around him was all over me, showering me with stories of his all-around awesomeness. After Kate told the guy to take a hike, I was ready to join the guys and get a little face time with Hawke. But while I was waiting at the bar for my drink, he was busy pulling a scantily clad girl to the back of the club.

The picture I built up in my mind since sharing that incredible energy when we touched was shattered the second Hawke’s eyes met mine through the crowd. As much as I know I should, I can’t give up on him, not yet. There’s still something there. There has to be. Otherwise, it means my ability to read people’s emotions is lacking, and that’s one thing I pride myself on, one thing I’m going to rely on when I become a therapist. I know he feels it too. He’s either ignoring it or too afraid to do something about it.

I refocus my attention on the road. Mom and Dad insisted I show up for Jace’s birthday. If I skipped, Mom and Dad would be mad but Jace would understand. Evan, though, he’s home from college in New York and I won’t see him again until Christmas break.

Nervous as always when I go home, my hands are slick on the steering wheel of my little hatchback. At the next red light,

I wipe them off on my skirt, praying I can get myself together before I reach my parents’ house. The last thing I want to do is revisit my past.

I can do this. I can’t let them down. But the less time I spend at home, the harder it is to step back inside.

My heart starts to beat against my ribcage, constricting in my chest, making it near impossible to suck in a full breath. I let my forehead drop to the steering wheel and squeeze my eyes shut so I can calm down before I lose it completely.

I can’t do this.

A loud honk startles me, the light now green. Somehow, I hold myself together the rest of the drive to my parents’ house in San Clemente, a little over an hour south of LA. By the time I pull into the familiar drive, my entire body is trembling and I’m losing the fight against the hot tears stinging my eyes.

Everything comes down to that one night almost five years ago. My entire life was thrown up in the air like a deck of cards, the organized stack fluttering to the ground in a chaotic mess. I choke back a sob and remember how helpless I felt, how I failed my older brother.

“Where are we going, Mom?” I help get my brothers out of bed and dressed. A shiver wracks my body, even though the house is far from being cold.

“The hospital,” she answers.

My head whips around to face my mom. I’d been expecting her to say Nick was picked up by the police again. When he has a really bad day, he tends to do strange things that draw people’s attention, and not in a good way. Like the time he stood in the center of a major intersection, laughing as if it were a game. Or when he took a bus to San Diego and told everyone he met he was campaigning for president. I can’t count the number of times one of my parents has had to go get Nick at a police precinct and explain that he’s bipolar, or the times he’s been involuntarily committed to a mental hospital after one of his escapades.

But the hospital? “A real hospital?” I ask, making sure she doesn’t mean Clairmont, the local psychiatric institution.

“Yes.” Her voice is shaky and her skin is pale. Really pale.

My brothers are whining about getting up, but they know the drill by now. Five minutes later, we’re all in the car, the boys already slumped against each other in the backseat with their eyes closed.

“What’s going on, Mom? Is Nick okay?”

I catch her glancing in the rearview mirror to check on my brothers before answering. “They didn’t tell me. Only that he’s been admitted to the ICU.”

My heart leaps into my throat, silencing any response I might have. ICU. That means he’s hurt. Really hurt.

Neither of us says another word the rest of the drive to the hospital. Inside the lobby, the strong chemical smells burn my nose, making my stomach churn. How can anyone stand to be here every day? My mom is a nurse, but at a doctor’s office, not a hospital.

Mom beelines for the information desk and gives them Nick’s name. The bored-looking woman taps her long fingernails on the keyboard, each clack jarring my nerves until I’m ready to strangle her.

“Third floor ICU, room 303. Elevators are that way.” She extends one of her bright red talons, indicating a bank of elevators by a sad little grouping of worn-out chairs.

“Come on.” Mom grabs Jace’s hand, hurrying him along. Evan and I are right on their heels.

During the ride up, I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise. My midsection burns with nausea. When the doors open, we’re greeted by organized chaos.

Nurses in blue scrubs dart around, white-coated doctors reading large black charts. Machines beep and whir from every direction. It’s pure sensation overload, especially for a family roused in the middle of the night to find out a loved one is in the ICU.

“Excuse me,” Mom says, catching the attention of a harried-looking nurse. “We’re looking for Nicholas Kessler. Room 303.”