Call her.
Squinting at the TV, that day when we were happy flashes there. He’d said one day we would rule the world. And that was the biggest bullshit ever. I reach for the half empty bottle of vodka.
Shit.
My conscience won’t let up as the words call her keep repeating in my mind.
“For what?” I yell, hoping that will stop the incessant mantra in my head. “Sorry for being an ass? But, oh, I still can’t fucking be with you.”
I get a firm grip on my hair and tug. The pain reminds me I’m still alive. I let my head fall back and glimpse a picture of Drew, still young with a head full of hair. And I remember.
The phases of Drew flash before me. Healthy Drew, Sick Drew, Recovery Drew, Relapsed Drew, Realistic Drew, Dying Drew … Dead Drew.
“How am I supposed to go through that again?” I say out loud.
If anyone heard me, I’d probably be locked up. And maybe that’s for the best. I can’t imagine Sam losing her hair, her tits … her life.
“Wasn’t there a bald chick who sang sad shit?”
Drew isn’t here to answer me though.
“Yeah, that’s right. Sinéad O'Connor. She was kind of cute. I bet Sam would look even better bald.” What the hell am I thinking?
My dick tents my shorts as a bald Sam sings to me when I should be singing that chick’s song “Nothing Compares to You” or something like that to Sam. I sit up and find my laptop. I fire it up and google the song needing to hear it. The song streams through my speakers as I pick up the fucking vodka.
Shit.
“You were right. Look what a pussy I’ve become,” I say to Drew’s phantom.
When the song is over, I feel just like the bottle of vodka—empty.
I wake the next day or so, drool on my cheek, head pounding. Glaring at me on the TV is Drew and on my laptop the singer’s eyes. And more empty bottles stand around me in accusation.
Knowing what I need to do, I stumble into my room, not sure how many more days have passed. The bathroom light yells at me, so I turn it off and take care of business before staggering back to my room to plug in my phone.
On my laptop, I fire off a message to the office that I’ll be working at home this week. I can’t face anyone right now. They’re bound to see through me, but I can’t handle anyone asking me about Sam.
Five minutes later, I hear my phone fire to life. I sit with it tethered to the wall as a barrage of messages flash. I read them feeling shittier after each one. She’s called. She didn’t even sound mad. The first one is cute as she’s obviously drunk. Seems like we both turned to the bottle when we couldn’t turn to each other. Then her next is a hasty explanation.
There’s more and she seemed eager to forgive me. I don’t deserve her, my angel. She mentions news, but doesn’t tell me what. I have a few missed calls, but no more messages from Sam. That she’s scheduled for surgery puts the fear of God in me. Had they confirmed cancer? My fingers hover over the phone, but I put it down like a chicken shit.
I slip into memory like a drowning man.
We were high as shit.
“Is she gone?” Drew asked, laughing.
I nodded. “She’s going to get snacks.”
Drew guffawed like I’d said the funniest thing in the world. Only the smile died on his face.
“I want you to do something for me.”
“What?” I asked, chuckling.
He straightened and I frowned. He pulled a couple of envelopes from behind the seat cushions.
“Give this to Cate.” He pointed at one. “And give this to the guy she falls in love with.”
“What? No?”
“Benny, stop. I’m going to die. I probably have a week.”
“What?” My heart stopped in my chest. “No. I won’t accept that.”
“I’m a doctor, man. Don’t make this hard. Cate will be back here any moment and I need you to promise me.”
“Promise you what?” I snapped, anger killing my buzz.
He sighed. “I want her to move on. I want her to fall in love and be happy.”
“And how the fuck do you propose she does that? She fucking worships the ground you walk on. That’s asking too much, man.”
“That’s the thing. I love her so fucking much, I want her to be happy. I took these years from her. I owe her the world. And there is some guy out there that can give her all the things I wanted to.”
“There are miracles, man.”
“Not for me. I’m a dead man talking.”
I glared at him. “You’re an asshole. You know that?”
He nodded. “I should have let her go.”
I jerk awake as my phone shrieks to life. I get up to get it if only to silence it. The sound punches at my head like a heavyweight boxer. Sam’s picture in the yellow bikini flashes on the screen a second before it goes dark.
There is no way I can call her back. Hearing her voice will only make me lose my resolve. So I open a text message box and start to type. I erase it several times. I’m about to start another one when a message comes through.