He won’t answer any of my calls or texts and I’m too embarrassed to ask Kate how he’s doing. If I asked her, she’d want to know why I don’t just call Hawke myself. Then I’d have to tell her why we aren’t speaking, about the scars I saw when he took off his shirt and his reaction to me seeing them. Worse, I’d have to tell her my reaction to seeing them. Kate might be my closest friend, but it wouldn’t feel right to betray Hawke by discussing him behind his back, especially something he obviously isn’t comfortable with.
Those scars.
The images of the fine white lines crisscrossing his beautiful skin haunt me. They pop into my head randomly throughout the day, and worse, at night. Sometimes, I’ll be in class taking a test, and BAM! My eyes fill with tears, my throat closes up, and my heart shatters in pieces for Hawke. Whatever happened to him was big, huge—it not only scarred his body physically, but his mind as well.
The deeply ingrained instinct to help calls at me to do something for Hawke, to listen to his problems and show him he can heal. It crashes over me like a nauseating tidal wave of fear—fear of the past, of mistakes made, of a future all mapped out specifically so I can atone for my failures with Nick.
“Hey, Abby. Come see me when you’ve put your stuff away.”
The sound of my name snaps me out of my depressing thoughts. When I look around, I’m shocked. Somehow, I managed to drive to work, park my car, and walk in the front door of the inner-city youth counseling center on autopilot, leaving me wondering how I got here without crashing my car.
“Hi, Brenda. Sure, give me a minute.” I greet my boss, Dr. Brenda Eberhart, with a sad little wave and a pathetic fake grin. Brenda’s cheerful smile slips when she gets a good look at my poorly concealed anguish. She is a psychologist, after all. Did I really expect her not to notice my distress?
After putting my purse in the employee break room, I take a moment to gather myself, inhaling and exhaling a few long, calming breaths. “You can do this, Abby.” Ugh, now I’m talking to myself. I have got to get myself together. It won’t do any of the kids at the center any good to meet with an intern who can’t deal with her own problems. They don’t need to worry about me. These kids have problems way, way bigger than mine.
I meet Brenda in her office, where she’s already gathering the files for our first group session of the day—one for sexually abused young teens. Brenda glances at me for a quick second, then continues stacking things on her desk.
“You okay?” she asks, not looking up from her task.
“I’m fine.”
Brenda stops, placing her palms down on the pile of folders. This time, wise brown eyes meet my gaze head on. “Fine? You look like someone kicked your puppy.” The corner of her mouth quirks up.
I can’t help it. I laugh, feeling three days’ worth of stress drain out of me, and shake my head at her amazing ability to defuse any situation. “Thanks, Brenda.” There’s no need to go into detail—she knows exactly what she just did and why I’m thanking her.
“No problem. Now,” Brenda hands half the large stack to me. “Ready to go help some kids?”
I nod, eager to help someone, anyone who needs me, even if for today, it’s not Hawke. “Let’s go.”
* * *
I check the time on my phone for what must be the hundredth time in the last fifteen minutes, cursing Kate for being late. It’s been two weeks since the “tattoo incident,” as I’ve taken to calling it, and every day that passes without any contact from Hawke has me more and more on edge. Not only do I miss him—his smile, his sense of humor, the mischievous glint in his unusual eyes, the casual brushes of his fingers on my skin—but I’m worried to the point of creating a near-constant burning sensation in the pit of my stomach.
Not speaking to Hawke, whether on the phone or in person, has turned every spare minute of my days and nights into pure torture. I’m so distraught when I think about his suffering that my stomach knots with anxiety. I’ve probably lost ten pounds in two weeks fretting over Hawke’s state of mind and what I can do to help.
My fingers thump a pattern on the countertop, over and over. When the movement reminds me of Hawke and his constant drumming on any and every available surface, another wave of nausea hits me and I snatch them back.
Damn Kate! Time spent thinking while waiting for her to grace me with her presence isn’t healthy for my psyche or my digestive system. I’m about to send her a not so nice text when she bursts through the door, hurrying across the second-floor study room at the Student Union, a massive cup of coffee in her hand and her backpack sagging on her shoulder.
“Sorry!” she apologizes, responding to my petulant scowl. “Held up at footy practice. Coach made us do laps for quote ‘not trying hard enough’ even though it’s the off-season. It took forever and then I was so sweaty and gross I had to take an extra-long shower.” She dumps her books on the table and digs through her bag until she finds a pen. Her hair is still damp, pulled up haphazardly into a sloppy bun, her face free of makeup.
I sigh, not able to come up with the energy to argue with Kate. “Whatever. You have your psych notes for the test?” Kate has trouble with her mandatory psychology classes, so I try to help her study when I can. Although, now that she’s past her intro classes it’s a little harder for me to assist. Sports psychology isn’t exactly my forte, but at least the basics are the same.
Kate regards me, her sharp, intelligent gaze making me uncomfortable. “What’s your problem?” she asks, not in an angry way, but concerned. She never pulls any punches.
“Nothing. Let’s just do this, okay?” I fidget in my seat, tapping my fingers on the table again only to pull them back and sit on them to stop reminding myself of Hawke.
“Okaaaay.” Kate rolls her eyes, sifting through her bag to pull open a tattered yellow notebook. “Does this have anything to do with you not hanging out with Hawke at all over the last couple weeks?”
Shocked at her insight, I sit upright in my chair. “I-I don’t know what you mean.” How did she notice that?
“Honestly? That’s the excuse you’re going with? I’m not bloody stupid, Abby. You two are mates, chatting and hanging out, now you’re not. H
e’s been acting strange when I’ve seen him at the guys’ flat, you look like hell… Are you’re telling me both of you turning all sad and mopey at the same time isn’t related?”
The blood drains from my face, making me woozy. Kate is more observant than I thought. I shouldn’t be surprised. She’s absolutely right in saying she’s not stupid. She’s not. Not by a long shot. Knowing Hawke is just as affected by the distance between us makes me feel better, and worse. He has enough issues of his own to deal with without me adding more on top of them.
My silence answers Kate’s question.