1I'm breaking.
That's right. I, Tom Quincy, ex lead singer of boysattack, hot shot producer, notorious ladies man– am breaking. Two and a half days without any sense of her, and I realize I have no idea what to do with myself. And this isn't good, by the way. I'm a twenty four year old man with a new daughter, and I am almost dependent on a naive, but still oh-so-profound girl who isn't even eighteen yet. There has to be a legal drug for getting someone out of your head. And if there isn't one, there should be. Maybe I should get on that.
Anyway, I'm digressing.
It's midnight, long after I've put Sophie to bed. And I'm sitting on the couch, waiting for the vodka to start working its magic. Damn my body for being able to hold alcohol. A guy needs to forget sometimes. And so help me god (or whoever the hell else is out there) I need to forget right now before I drive myself insane and do something we'll both regret in the long run. For that second, I find myself unable to hold myself back anymore. I hit the speed dial button– Jude is still number one. I don't have the heart to change it, and I don't know if I ever will. My finger is inching for the glowing number one, calling out to me seductively.
And then the phone vibrates. Goddamn call waiting.
The ID tells me that it's Sadie, and I'm so shocked that I pick it up. Sadie? She hasn't called in however long, and I don't blame her. Our breakup wasn't exactly pretty, and it sure as hell wasn't neat.
Sadie doesn't beat around the bush, but then, it never was her style. "You need to check on your girl."
She's pushing a boundary, you see. I don't talk to Sadie. I don't talk about Jude. And so I sure as hell am not going to talk to Sadie about Jude. And for a good freaking reason. We talk about her, I break. Simple as that. Simple as one and two making three.
"What—what do you mean?"
I can almost hear Sadie grimacing into the phone. When you've been friends with someone a long time, you can read into everything they don't say. Their pauses, their sentence structure, everything. Me and Sadie never got there, but it was different with Jude. Two weeks flat, and we damn near had our own language as if we'd known each other forever.
"She's not sleeping. She's like a freaking zombie. She's having trouble writing stuff. And she's going out and drinking more than she should. Girl's gonna hit bottom soon, Kwest and I are worried off our asses. And if you give a damn about her, you should be, too."
Somewhere deep down, I know she's right. I can hear the edge in her voice, but that's expected. What's unexpected is the almost pleading behind it. It's the pleading of a sister who really cares about her sibling, and has tried absolutely everything else. And my heart goes out to her. Sadie never had it easy since Jude won Instant Star, but now she's trying to do right by her. At my expense, sure. But the fact that she's calling me with this much pleading tells me Jude might not be the only one who has hit bottom.
"What do you want me to do, Sadie?" My voice comes out harsher than I intended. And I realize then that I am not asking her, but asking myself.
"Something! You always said you cared about her, that she got you. If all that crap is true, prove it! Make this better! I know the mess with her is about you!"
I don't answer, I can't answer.
When I hear Sadie's voice again, I can hear her tears. And for one horrifying moment, I want to cry with her.
"Do what you want," she says, before hanging up on me.
And hearing the dialtone to my ear, punching in Jude's cell so I can feel the numbers, I do just that. Furiously, my fingers press the five, the two, the four, the six, the seven, the eight, and the one. I lift the phone forcefully to my ear and wait for the answer.
It rings.
And it rings.
And it rings.
And it rings some more.
Until finally, I hear the mocking automated voice in the background, "The number you have dialed is no longer in service."