“Abby—”
“You…” She suppresses a whimper. “You fell off a cliff?” H
er voice is strangled.
“No,” I shake my head. “Let me sit, okay?”
“But, your foot.” Her face flushes deep scarlet. Moisture appears from nowhere and overflows from her eyes, streaming down her cheeks. In the background, I hear Gavin shuttling everyone out of the room. Silently, I thank god Kate isn’t here tonight. She’d kick my injured ass for making Abby cry.
I collapse onto the beat-up old couch shoved into the corner of the tiny dressing room. “Abby, honestly, it’s nothing. I’m tired and achy and not really in the mood to discuss it.”
I watch, part of me morbidly fascinated, part of me horrified, as sweet, innocent, kind Abby morphs into a complete stranger. Her nostrils flare, her full mouth ticks up in a frightening scowl. Gorgeous, loving blue eyes harden to ice and small, delicate hands curl into fists.
“You’re not in the mood? You’re not in the mood?” she shrieks. “I’m sorry, but fuck you, Hawke.”
My mouth drops open in shock. I’ve never heard Abby curse. Not once. She’s one of the most compassionate people I know, never a bad word to say about anyone. And isn’t it just wonderful that the target of her unprecedented fury is me.
“You shut me out,” she continues. “You push me away. I know almost nothing about you except that you’re in a band, you like drumming, and you could apparently care less if you live or die!” Her chest is heaving, her breath hitching on each inhale as she chokes back sobs.
I sink further into the couch, feeling like a piece of shit because she’s right. I’ve known all along that I was going to ruin her—wreck her with my fucked-up behavior and even more fucked-up head.
“I care about you. I love you,” she says. I startle at her declaration, but I’m too flabbergasted to respond. “I watch you torture yourself every day, struggling with whatever it is you’re dealing with, but it’s killing me, Hawke.” She points at my foot. “This? This compulsion to live dangerously? It’s eventually going to kill you. I’ve seen it! I’ve lived through it. I can’t do it again.”
I swallow thickly, not knowing what to say. I can’t stop doing what I do. I need it too much, the escape, the moments of glorious fucking silence from the guilt. With Abby in the picture, my escape hurts her as much as not escaping hurts me. I’m in a no-win situation. Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
“I’m sorry,” I croak out.
Her anger slips, showing me one of the most heartbreaking expressions I’ve ever seen. “No you’re not,” she whispers. “You’d do it again tomorrow if you could.”
She’s right. I would.
All I can do is hold open my arms, giving her the choice. To stay with me and all my screwed-up, crazy shit, or leave and find someone she deserves. Someone who won’t make her cry, who won’t shit on her feelings by putting his own needs first. I should end this, man up and let her go.
But I’m nothing if not a selfish bastard, and there’s something about Abby Kessler that helps make my dark thoughts seem a little less daunting when she’s around. As much as I should let her go, I won’t. I can’t. Just like the danger and adrenaline, I cling to anything that blurs the pain of the constant mental anguish.
Abby finally sobs, and my heart breaks for her. For the agony I put her though. Without warning, she jumps onto my lap, clinging to me desperately. I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling the beachy, floral scent I associate with Abby.
“I love you too,” I whisper, shocked at my admission as it falls out of my mouth.
Abby cries quietly into my sweat-soaked shirt as I hold her tight, counting down the minutes until she gets sick of me and my shit and leaves me for good.
What will I do when that happens?
Abby
I pack up the files and start cleaning up the refreshment table in the back of the counseling center’s group therapy room. Crumpled paper cups and crumbs litter the surface. I swipe all of it into the industrial-sized garbage can that sits less than a foot from the edge of the table.
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.