Chapter Fifteen
Edward POV
The drive from Baltimore to Philly is quiet. Uncomfortable. The guys are silent, none of us addressing what Em told me this morning about potentially canceling the tour, or continuing without me. It pisses me the fuck off, but I don't bring it up now. Not while we're in the confines of the van for a couple more hours.
Instead, I stare out the window. Try to sleep. Go to text Bella again, like I do every day. When I open our messages, I see a series of texts I sent her last night. They start off with me begging her to answer me then get progressively less coherent and more angry.
The last was sent at four in the morning. A simple fuck you.
I start to type an apology then stop myself.
I feel like shit. Less than, maybe.
When we get into Philly, we stop by the venue first to unload our gear then head to the hotel. I shower. Think about Bella. Jerk off. Think about Bella. Call her. Text her. Apologize. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. She doesn't reply, but I'm not expecting her to.
I know I don't deserve to hear from her. I know I've fucked this up beyond repair. My constant trying isn't because I have a sliver of hope that things will be okay between us. At this point, it's a delusion. It has to be.
Sam comes into my room a couple of hours before the show. He does a few lines, and I watch, but I don't join in. Not even when he tells me how good this new shit is. Not even when he leaves it out on the table while he takes a piss.
My knee bounces, and I stare at it. I know exactly what it would feel like. Taste like. The drip in the back of my throat after I snort it. The numbness it brings. The relief it creates. It would be so easy to do just a little. But I don't. I drink instead. Swallow down whiskey. Swallow back the temptation to use. I know it's fucking pointless, eliminating one vice in favor of the other. But Em wanted me to try. So, I'm trying. But it's fucking hard.
When my phone flashes with Bella's name, my heart fucking stops. I answer on the first ring, moving to the balcony for privacy.
"Hey," I say, clearing my throat. The city is loud, traffic sounds filling one ear. But her silence is louder. "Are you there?"
"You need to leave me alone, Edward."
The hope in my chest deflates. "You called me."
"Because I don't know how else to get my point across. This isn't… healthy," she tells me. "You have to stop—"
"I just wanna talk—"
"I don't. I can't keep getting angry texts from you in the middle of the night. Or calls. Or… just…" She sighs heavily, and I feel the weight of it. I'm inadvertently pushing her further away. I'm doing the fucking opposite of what I want to do. "You're making it so fucking hard to move on."
"Then don't move on. We'll work through it, Bella."
She's quiet. "I don't want to block your number, but…"
"Why not? I mean, if you're fucking done with me, what's the problem?" I taunt, her rejection and the whiskey in my blood making me angry now.
"Because I'm scared that if I do that, you're gonna… I don't know. Spiral or..." She exhales into the line, and I realize she's crying. "I'm trying not to ask about you. And I've been doing so good. But Emmett told Rose you aren't doing well. Like, at all."
My throat burns when I think about Emmett's concern. About him confiding in Rose. And then embarrassment creeps in when I think about Bella worrying about me, too.
"I'm not doing well," I admit, breathing out a small, humorless laugh.
"Why don't you just come home then?"
The way she says it so sincerely, so softly… I want to. I fucking want to so badly. But I know what she's not offering. She's not saying I can come back to her. To our life.
"And go back to what?" I laugh bitterly now. "I got fucking fired. I lost you. What's being home gonna do?"
"What do you mean you got fired?" she asks, and I realize I've fucked up even more.
I never quit my bartending job. Not like I told her. I got fired because I'd gotten careless with using, and someone walked in on me snorting a line in the back office. That wasn't the first time I'd been caught. Paul would usually brush it off and warn me to stop, but it happened enough that it was the final fucking straw. I lied to Bella because I was—am—a fucking coward.
"What do you mean you got fired, Edward?" she asks, the sympathy and pain in her tone long gone. "You told me you quit."
"I know. I… I'm sorry."
"Why did you get fired?"
"Does it matter?"
"Yes, it fucking matters," she says more angrily now.
"Someone caught me using at work," is all I say.
The line is eerily quiet. "God, I really am so fucking stupid," she mutters.
"Baby, I don't—"
"How long have you been using again, Edward?"
"Not long." Another lie.
"Something bad is gonna happen," she says calmly, but the hurt is still there. "And you aren't gonna have anyone around because you've pushed us all away with your fucking lies."
I feel the truth in her words. The filth in my bones.
"Then tell me how to fix this," I beg. To fix us. To fix myself.
"I can't. You need to leave me alone," she mumbles, already resigned. "I can't… I can't keep doing this."
Then, she's gone. The line is silent. I try calling her back, but it immediately goes to voicemail.
I think about chucking my phone off the balcony. The urge is there. To break something. To break myself.
Instead, I move back into the room and do line after line. I do more than I ever have in one go. More than I ever should. Sam just laughs and leans back on the couch, shaking his head.
"Knew you'd cave," he mumbles, a smug smirk on his face.
XXX
I'm on the floor again. But this time I have no idea where the fuck I am.
I'm in a house. Not the hotel. My mouth feels cotton-heavy, and my eyes feel like they've been glued shut.
There are bottles everywhere. The place is fucking trashed. There are strangers asleep on the floor, in chairs, propped up against the wall. I sit up and gain my bearings, then I notice Sam lying on a couch across the room.
I move toward him, my body sluggish and strained, and I nudge him awake.
"Let's go," I mumble, and he barely stirs. "Dude, come on."
The urge to get the fuck out of here is strong, and when I look at my phone, it's dead.
Stepping over people and beer bottles, I make my way outside, wincing against the sun. It's such a stark contrast to how I currently fucking feel.
I start walking. Don't even know where the hell I'm going, but I walk until I find a cab and have it take me back to the hotel. I make it up to my room, but I can't find my card key, so I go back down to the lobby and ask for another. Luckily I have my ID on me, so the clerk behind the desk hands it over with ease, but the way she eyes me makes me feel like… a fucking dirtbag. My hair's a mess. I'm wearing day-old clothes and probably smell like liquor, and God knows what else.
When I make it to the room, I go to shower and realize why the clerk was staring. I have a black eye and a bloody lip.
I hear movement in the room and leave the bathroom to find Emmett walking through the door that connects my room to his.
"Good to know you're alive," he mutters.
"Yeah." I rub the back of my neck. "What happened to my face?" I ask, and he just laughs. It's bitter. Short.
"Fuck, Edward. The tour is done."
"Em—"
"It's not even up to me now. After the shit you pulled? Venues are pulling out. People don't want us at their fucking establishments. It's… it's embarrassing."
"I told you I was sorry for being a dick on stage in Baltimore. It won't happen again."
His expression goes from confused to concerned. "I'm not talking about that night, Edward. I'm talking about our show at the tavern, our first night in Philly."
"That was last night," I say, and he just shakes his head.
"Nah. You and Sam have been gone for two days. Left me and Jasper to clean up your fucking mess," Emmett snarks. "Guess what? I can't do it anymore. This is out of my hands now. The tour is over. I have no say. I can't keep fucking… covering for you. Making excuses."
He looks down at his phone, clicks through some things, then he hands it over to me. And then I'm watching a video of us on stage at the tavern. I'm stumbling. Laughing. Talking shit to the crowd, to Emmett. At one point I tell the crowd the band is thinking of ending the tour, and everyone boos. I boo along with them. Still laughing. This is when Emmett walks off stage. My neck heats, and I can feel sweat beading on my forehead and upper lip. The video continues, but this time I'm pulling something from the pocket of my jeans. The crowd cheers, and though my back is blocking the view of what I'm doing, it's obvious to me that I'm pouring coke onto Sam's cymbal. Jasper steps in then, pulling me away, and I deck him. Right in the face. He stumbles backward, crashing into our gear. I'm laughing, and the crowd's confused, a mixture of gasps and cheers and boos before the video ends.
I don't know who that person is. I don't. It's one thing to not remember all the shit I pull when I'm fucked up, but to see it all playing out makes me physically ill. Bile rises in my throat, and I rush into the bathroom. Not much comes up, and it's so fucking fitting. Like I really am empty inside.
Emmett stands in the doorway of the bathroom, and I slide his phone across the floor. He bends down to pick it up, pocketing it.
"It's over," he says again, and the lack of emotion in his voice makes me feel worse than I realized I could. "Everything we worked for."
"I'm sorry," I mumble, voice cracking around the edges.
"No, you're not."
I move to sit on the edge of the tub and drop my head in my hands.
"I am sorry. I fucking am. I feel awful. I don't know what to do. It's like…" Like I have this urge to self-destruct or something. "It's like—" I begin to say, but when I lift my head to meet Em's gaze, he's not there, and I'm alone.
