I just don’t know what to do, what's best for him?
I wish I could talk to my dad about this, get his advice. But I don’t want him to know what state Jake is in. And god, if I told my mum she’d fly out here and carry me home kicking and screaming, I know that for sure.
I don’t have Stuart’s number to call him. It was in my phone, the phone which Jake broke in his little fit of rage.
And I don’t want to call Simone and put all this on her. Not while she’s all loved up in Denny world. Also I don’t want to put her in a position where she has to lie to Denny about Jake’s drug taking, if he doesn’t already know himself.
I’m on my own in this one, and will have to figure it out for myself.
One thing I do know is I can’t stay here forever, hiding from Jake and his … our problem.
All my things are at the Ritz, and right now I’m still in yesterday’s clothes and panties. I need clean underwear if anything.
I know I have to go back, it’s just … my pride is digging its pretty little heels in at the moment.
No, come on, Tru. You’ve been gone all night. You’ve left him stewing for long enough; you’ve made your point.
He has the show to do tonight at TD Garden. Go now and talk to him. Spend today sorting through this. Jake is too important to leave hanging for any longer.
I climb out of bed. I’m already in my clothes, so I just make a quick trip to the bathroom and then grabbing my bag, I leave the room.
I drop my key card in at the reception, and step out onto the early morning Boston street.
There are no cabs to be seen.
Feeling frustrated, I start to walk in the direction of where I think the Ritz is.
As I walk, I see posters up for Jake’s show tonight. Funny how I didn’t notice them yesterday when I was still majorly pissed at him.
I stop and look up the huge bill board, with Jake, Tom and Denny on it, staring back down at me.
I can see it in Jake’s eyes. The lost look. The one no one else sees. The look that only I can take away for him.
Suddenly, I feel such an overwhelming sense of love for him that it compounds, and covets me.
He’s screwed up, but he’s my screwed up. And I can’t be without him, no matter what.
I’m so desperate to see him in this moment. I just need to get to him and right things between us.
We can get through his problem together. I can be strong enough for the both of us.
Catching sight of a cab with its light on heading toward me, I run out into the street and flag it down.
Jumping in the back, I pant breathless, “The Ritz-Carlton.”
The cab pulls away and I fall back against the seat, filled with nervous anxiety at seeing Jake.
When the cab pulls up outside the Ritz, I pay the fare, and climb out onto seriously wobbly legs.
I’m so nervous about facing him after what we said to each other.
No, this is Jake. I can do this.
Kicking my shaky legs into action, I make my way through the empty early morning lobby, and straight into the waiting lift to take me up to Jake.
He’ll probably be still sleeping, so I’ll have to wake him because I don’t want to wait any longer for us to talk this through.
I put the key card in and press the button for the twelfth floor, to take me up to the Presidential Suite where we’re staying.
The lift starts to ascend, and I stand here hands knotted in front of me, stomach turning over, as I jig my leg on the spot. And I’m reminded of the time I was riding the lift going to do his interview, those few short months ago.
So much has happened since then.
The lift stops and the doors ping open.
I instantly know something is wrong the second I step out onto the landing.
There are bottles of alcohol laid discarded on the floor, cigarette butts trodden into the carpet, and what looks to be a woman’s top there too.
Going over to it, I bend down and pick it up. It’s red with the word ’Hussy’ wrote in the black on the front.
My stomach drops hollow.
I don’t want to go in there. I don’t want to see what’s behind the door.
But I have to, I know.
Taking a deep breath in through my nose, I carefully push my key card in. I hear the little beep and the click of the lock opening, and very quietly, I push the door open.
The place is a mess.
Littered with bottles of booze, sleeping bodies, some clothed, some not.
The whole place absolutely reeks of sweat, booze and cigarettes.
Jake had a party.
We had a fight. I spent the whole night worrying over him. And he had a party.
The knowledge makes me feel sick.
Obviously me leaving him meant nothing to him at all.
Maybe he’s been waiting for me to go all along. Maybe this is what he’s wanted for a while now.
I guess this was the wake for the funeral of our relationship. Or celebration, depending on which way you look at it.
This is Jake. He’s a rock star who parties, takes drugs and sleeps with groupies.