Wreck (Sphere of Irony 4)

Hawke pauses and I’m sure he just figured out something is wrong. For all his flaws, Hawke isn’t stupid. In fact, he’s quite intelligent, which makes his self-destructive behavior that much more painful to watch.

“Okay.” Hawke directs me toward the long sectional in his living room.

I sit, and as much as I want to curl up in a ball and cry, I force my posture to remain upright. I have to project strength, even if I’m falling apart inside.

“What’s going on, Abby? Is this about Jessica?” Hawke’s voice is soft, unsure. A far cry from the brash man I know. One who speaks with conviction. Whether he’s joking around with his bandmates or fleeing to calm his anxiety, Hawke can be angry or frightened or nervous at times, but he never, ever sounds uncertain.

“Jessica?” I remember images of the gorgeous starlet hanging all over Hawke as he pulled her through the club and refrain from acting like I was punched in th

e gut. “No, not about her, Hawke. You can date whomever you like.”

I make the mistake of glancing at Hawke’s eyes. They’re soft and molten, shining with both love and fear. He reaches out and takes one of my hands, pulling it to his mouth to brush a kiss across my palm. I shiver in response to the intimate gesture.

Hawke takes that as a green light, shifting closer to cup my face. His warm lips cover mine before I can stop him and heat floods my body. Hawke’s fingers press into the back of my scalp, sending delicious chills down my spine. He tilts his head and plunges his tongue deep into my mouth, the piercing scraping and rubbing, driving my lust up a notch. When a low rumble vibrates from his chest, I remember why I’m here and tear myself away, breaking the kiss.

“I can’t, Hawke.”

“What? Why, Abby? I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

My heart shatters like glass, fracturing into a million shards that slice up my insides, leaving me raw.

“I can’t do this anymore, Hawke. That’s why I’m here.” He opens his mouth to speak, but I shake my head and cut him off. “I’ve been in therapy, Hawke. I have to fix myself or I’ll never be happy. Part of that is to stop trying to fix everyone in my life. I can’t fix you, Hawke. I can’t keep trying. I’ll never succeed and it’s killing me to watch you destroy yourself.”

I stand up to leave, but Hawke jumps to his feet, grabbing my by the arms to stop me. “Abby, don’t! I can change. I want to change, Bee. Please.”

Tears cloud my vision, streaming down my cheeks. “I can’t do it anymore. I can’t…” My breath hitches when I inhale. “I have my demons and you have yours. I’m dealing with mine. You aren’t.” I maneuver out of his grasp. “I love you, but I can’t watch you die. I won’t.”

“Don’t do this, Abby. I need you.” The sound of Hawke breaking down nearly has me changing my mind, running back to comfort him as I’ve done so many times before.

Not this time.

“I’m sorry.” I grab the doorknob, escaping while I’m still able to move, because I know that once I stop holding back, I’ll be paralyzed with grief.

I make it all the way home before the dam breaks. Sitting in my car in my driveway, I cry long and hard for the man I love. Behind his protective wall, behind the glasses he doesn’t need to wear, the piercings that make him look dangerous, and the tattoos that cover a multitude of scars, lies a scared, unhappy man.

I can’t fix him, I never could. I can only hope he fixes himself, otherwise he’ll end up just like Nick.

13

Hawke

“Do you have anything to say? You can start anywhere.”

I chew on the stud in my lip and stare at my hands. “This is stupid,” I grumble to the gray-haired, kind-faced man sitting across from me.

“What’s stupid about it?” he asks. I shrug and continue to worry at my lip. “Let me ask you something,” the man continues. Without looking up, I nod my consent. “Why are you here?”

That gets my attention and I flick my gaze back to him. “What do you mean ‘why am I here’?” I huff. “It’s obvious. I’m crazy, right? Isn’t that why people see a shrink?”

The man leans back in his chair, lifting an ankle to rest on his knee. “So you believe everyone who needs therapy is ‘crazy,’ as you put it?” He makes annoying little air quotes around the word crazy.

I scoff, irritated. “I don’t know, Doc. What do you want me to say? I don’t know anything. I play the fucking drums for a living.”

“All right. Well, I’ll tell you something about therapy. People come for lots of reasons and rarely is it because they are crazy. In fact, most of my patients are very normal people who happen to have one or two quirks they need ironed out.”

I glare at the very expensive celebrity psychiatrist I found through a friend who used to have a drug addiction. “One or two quirks, Doc? I have a metric fuck-ton of quirks. You could fill a 747 with my quirks.”

“Oh?” His bushy eyebrows lift. “Such as what?”