Jesus.
There’s a difference between loving a person and being in love with them. And while I’m aware Jessica still cares for me, I killed any chance of her ever being in love with me again six years ago.
“Jack, dude!” Dave says, coming to stand with me.
I lift my head to look at him right as he takes my hand and shoves a drink in it.
Grinning, he says, “Drink up, mate. It’s been too long between drinks for us.”
The world and everything in it screeches to a halt as my gaze shifts to the glass in my hand. Natural instinct kicks in and I watch as my arm moves, bringing that glass closer to my face.
It would be so easy.
To just let that amber liquid slide down my throat.
To just let it ease its way into my body.
To just let it wipe away all the thoughts jammed in a bottleneck in my mind.
Still grinning at me, Dave chugs his drink, watching me, waiting for me to give him what he wants. He and I, we like having a drinking buddy. We’re not solitary drinkers unless we have to be.
“Jack fucking Kingsley!” A slap on my back accompanies this greeting as Sully James steps next to me, shoving another fucking grin in my face. He clinks his glass to mine. “Drink up, man.”
My hand goes clammy.
My veins buzz with anticipation.
I want that fucking drink.
Fuck, do I ever.
I stare at the glass in my hand, conflicted.
It would be so easy.
Fucking hell, no.
The last time I recall being this conflicted was six years ago when I came to the realisation I could save Jessica from my demons and from Hollywood.
“What the hell are you waiting for, Jack?” Dave asks, eyeing me with confusion.
It’s a good fucking question.
It seems my life is filled with questions these days.
Questions I either can’t or don’t want to answer.
This one falls in the latter category.
I can answer it, but I’d rather not.
I’d rather just drink.
The last seven months roll through my mind like a slideshow of memories.
Coming to in that godforsaken hospital after the crash of a manic episode.
Ashton sitting by my bed, wanting to fix me, doing every-fucking-thing to fix me.
The comedown and dark depression that followed.
The appointments, the therapy, the medication, the fucking routine I’ve had to adopt.
The micromanaging done by Ashton, Josephine, and Belinda.
The boundaries and tools.
Fuck.
I don’t want a fucking thing to do with any of this.
But the alternative is worse.
That, I know for sure.
Jesus, how I fucking know that.
Sit with the discomfort, Jack.
Get in, do your thing, and get the fuck out.
And there’s the rub.
My thing isn’t fucking healthy.
Not for anyone, but certainly not for me.
That’s the answer to all my current questions.
I can’t do my thing at the moment.
Hell, I don’t know if I can ever do it again.
As I stare at that fucking glass in my hand, processing this mindfuck of thoughts, my phone comes alive with a succession of texts. My hand holding the phone jolts up so I can read those texts.
I suspect my mind knows it needs the distraction.
Mum: Are you ignoring me or are you busy?
Mum: I’m going to go with ignoring me. It is your specialty after all.
Mum: And as such, I’m going to give you my opinion on this. I promise it will be the last time I speak of it.
Mum: You need the love of that girl in your life, Jack.
Mum: I have never seen you happier or healthier than when Jessica was by your side.
Mum: I know you think you did her a favour by giving her an out all those years ago, but have you ever stopped to consider that maybe she could have handled you and your life?
Mum: That maybe she needed you just as much as you needed her?
Mum: She’s not happy, Jack. I can assure you of that. I see it in her eyes every time she visits me. She plays a good game, but she’s as lost as you are.
Mum: Please tell me you’ll think about this. A mother wants to see her child happy before she dies.
And then another text comes through.
Belinda: I just got sent a photo of you holding a drink. I’m about to call you. Do not ignore my call.
That’s exactly what I do when her call comes through.
I ignore it.
There’s no way I can’t.
Not when my mind is stuck on unravelling the mess of thoughts Mum has triggered.
She’s not happy, Jack.
She’s as lost as you are.
The Jessica I know is bold. Sure of herself. Content with her life.
She knows what she wants and strides through her days going after it.
She’s sure as shit not lost.
But is she?
That flawed, bruised organ in my chest falters at the thought.
My phone stops ringing, only to start again.
And again.
And then another string of texts come through.
Belinda: If you drink that drink, Jack, we are done.
Belinda: The kind of done that means no more. Ever.
Belinda: I hope I am clear.
I switch my phone to silent and slip it in my pocket before looking at Dave who’s talking and laughing with Sully. For the first time since meeting him four years ago, I see him. Really see him.
We’ve been friends for four years. Have spent many nights together. Drinking. Talking. Laughing. Just like he’s doing with Sully right now. And yet, I know nothing of any substance about him.
Not one fucking thing.
I glance around the party at the people who fill my world and let the knowledge sink in that I don’t know anything worth knowing about any of them either.
Sure, I know stuff. Surface stuff. Stuff that anyone who can check social media knows.
What I don’t know are the things I actually want to know.
And right there is the churning sensation in my chest that’s reared its ugly head numerous times over the last few years.
I’m fucking numbing myself because it hurts.
This world I’ve chosen for myself fucking kills me.
Is fucking killing me.
And I’m not ready to die.
My thoughts crawl and climb all the fuck over me.
Choking me.
I yank at my shirt, ripping the top few buttons open.
I’m not ready to die, but fuck, I want to chug this drink down.
And then another.
And another.
Fuuuuck.
I turn and throw the drink at the wall.
Glass shatters.
A hush blankets the party.
Phones are pulled out. Held up. In my face.
It’s just another fucking day in this world.
The same old shit, recycled.
And I finally admit to myself that I can’t keep doing the same old shit and expect a different result.
Something has to change.
And fuck it if I don’t know exactly what I have to do now.
3
Jessica
“It’s my new favourite T-shirt of yours,” Mira says to me on Friday night as she finds room in her fridge for the food I had a catering company deliver tonight. It’s for the party we’re throwing Will tomorrow to celebrate his MBA.
I glance at the T-shirt she’s just mentioned. The one she bought me today that says Having a vagina doesn’t stop me from believing my balls are bigger than yours. I have an entire collection of T-shirts that Mira has built up over the ten years she’s been in our lives. She takes great pride in adding to the collection every few months.