Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

I lean back on the couch, but something digs into my butt. I lean to one side and pull out my phone. The blood rushes out of my head, making me queasy. Hawke. I never spoke to him yesterday. After a few frustrating fumbles, I unlock the screen and check for missed calls.

Nothing. No calls. No texts. Nothing.

Before I can get pissed or begin to worry again, the television catches my attention. The morning anchor begins to discuss the next big story. I think my heart stops in my chest when I look up to see Hawke’s picture on the screen.

“Yesterday afternoon, authorities were called to a remote location at American Fork Canyon outside Salt Lake City, Utah after Henry ‘Hawke’ Evans, drummer for the band Sphere of Irony, lost control of his off-road motorbike and crashed on one of the trails. According to a witness with another party, Evans was alone when he went over the handlebars at over sixty miles per hour, reportedly landing on his head. The witness said he didn’t recognize the famous drummer, even after removing his helmet, which had a large crack in it.

“Evans, whose band is currently touring with U2, is in Salt Lake City to perform at a concert scheduled for tonight. He’s being treated at the University of Utah Medical Center, his current condition unknown. The exact details of any injuries sustained in the crash have yet to be released.”

It takes several tries to get my fingers to stop shaking long enough to pull up Hawke’s number. I swallow down the bile that threatens to rise, recognizing the icy sensation trickling down my spine to my extremities, leaving a gaping chasm where my heart should be. It’s exactly how I felt as my mom hurried us to the hospital to check on Nick, when the elevator opened to the ICU.

I can’t…

My breath catches. I’m unable to expand my lungs to take in enough air.

I need to…

The room spins around me in a whirling blur.

No… not again. I can’t do this again.

I gasp, desperate for oxygen, the edges of my vision going dark. If I had enough air, I would laugh. So this is what a panic attack feels like. I learned about them in class, and here I am experiencing one.

My brother, now Hawke… I’m not strong enough for this. I’m not strong enough to save Hawke.

I knew this was coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. My heart constricts with the knowledge that before I lose myself and everything I am, I’ll have to let him go.

Hawke

Seeing Abby again is the sweetest kind of torture. She’s still beautiful, stunning actually, possibly more so than the young, naive girl I met years ago. Still kindhearted—willing to give me yet another chance after failing her not once, but twice after my recent bout of stupidity when I left her in bed in the middle of the night. I shake my head in disbelief, wondering if I would be as forgiving if someone hurt me so many times.

I bark out a dry laugh. I can’t even forgive myself for what happened to my family over ten years ago. I guess I know the answer to my question. Apparently, I hold grudges. Long ones. Even against myself.

“C’mon mates, let’s get started.” Adam comes barreling into the outer room of the studio looking perky and excited to be recording. That makes one of us.

I stand up and follow Adam through the control room and into the sound booth. Gavin and Dax materialize from somewhere in the hall, entering the booth behind me. Not two minutes into warmups, Adam and Dax begin to argue, unable to come to an agreement on how to start one of the new songs.

That’s my cue to take a nap.

Those two could be at it for hours before they hash it out. They’re working out the guitar parts, so my presence is irrelevant to the outcome. I wander back into the outer room and collapse on the fancy leather couch, kicking my tattered black boots up onto the armrest. My thoughts immediately turn to Abby and how horrifically our relationship ended all those years ago.

It’s building up again. The overwhelming darkness. The creeping crawling feeling digging under my skin, making me squirm. It started before I even left for the tour, instigated by Abby asking questions about my sister’s tattoo, then about the burn on my leg. Now, I’m on the verge of a full-on freak out at twenty-five thousand feet.

I glance around the luxurious private jet chartered specifically for the tour and it closes in around me. The gleaming silver cylinder contracts, squeezing my lungs tighter and tighter until breathing becomes near impossible. Having Lila Griffin unexpectedly tagging along on the tour is a fucking nightmare. I’ve managed to avoid her at our shows, but now she’s here all the time. I can’t be around her without going straight back to that night on the beach, to the mistakes I made leading up to the accident.

Her high-pitched giggle erupts from a row in front of me. I tense up and my heart stutters. To me, the sound of her voice is the auditory equivalent to being hit in the chest with a Taser.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell Gavin as I leap out of the comfortable leather recliner to dart down the aisle, past management and other tour personnel.

The bathroom is huge and luxurious for an airplane. It’s decked out with an actual sink area and more than enough room to turn around without whacking an elbow on something. In my current state of mind, the fancy cubicle may as well be a coffin with a toilet.

“Fuck.” I dig my fingers into the edge of the counter and stare into the mirror over the vanity. Jesus, I look like shit. The hair at my temples is damp with sweat and there are dark circles under my freaky, mismatched eyes.

I take off my glasses—my dad’s glasses—and place them on the countertop. My entire life I’ve had people comment on my eyes. With one brown and one blue, they’re unusual to say the least. My mom always used to say they fit my personality perfectly, beautiful and unique. Yeah, if she could on

ly see me now, having a full-on freak-out five miles off the ground in the shitter of an airplane with U2 sitting in the main cabin.

With a trembling hand, I remove my keychain from my pocket, fingering the small flashlight. When you flick the button on the side, a tiny bottle opener pops out, one of the edges of which is a slender razor blade. I peer into the mirror. The exhausted man staring back is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.