Page 6 of Breathing Wisteria
“She’s what, Charlie. Tell me.”
“She’s not doing great, okay?” Her voice is reluctant, and I know she’ll be beating herself up for this phone call, worried that she’s betraying her friend. Charlie has been Wyatt’s best friend since they were eight years old when they bonded over their love of Reese’s Pieces and Nick Carter.
Hell, she was one of my best friends for a few years. Before everything happened. Now, not so much.
Luckily for me, she’s a stand-up person and stays in touch, albeit rarely and irregularly, to keep me updated on how Wyatt’s going.
“I think— no, I know, she’s struggling at the moment. Her friends are all getting married and having babies.” Her voice cracks on the last word and I feel that crack resonate in me. Just as broken as I am.
“Anyway, she’s been doing it tough for a while now, I guess, but you know her.” A somber chuckle carries over the line. “She just buries her head in the sand and pretends that everything is okay.”
It takes everything I have in me not to let my bitterness rain down at that giant understatement.
“I guess you know that better than anyone, though.”
“Yeah,” I answer, my voice brusque. “But she called you and talked it out? She’s good?”
My questions are met with a silence that makes every one of my pulse points roar to life. We’ve never had this conversation without it ending in one fact. Wyatt is okay.
Because as long as she’s okay, I can breathe.
“I think…” Again, her voice trails off and the combination of frustration from my earlier dream and annoyance at this beating-around-the-bush bullshit causes me to snap.
“For Christ’s sake, stop with the fucking dramatics and just tell me.”
“Calm down, Flynn. This isn’t easy for me, you know.” Her voice thickens as though talking is difficult, and if I was a better man, I would regret the way I spoke to her.
If I was a better man.
“Charlie…”
“Okay, okay. Jesus.” She inhales deeply before letting out a nerve-riddled sigh. “I think you need to go and see her. You two need to sort your shit out. I have no idea what that looks like, or what it involves, but she deserves to have some peace and she’s never going to get it the way you guys left things.” A pause. “Neither of you will.”
My fingers tighten around the phone and a persistent throb starts beating in my temple. I have a performance onThe Graham Norton Showtonight and then the European leg of this shitty promotional tour is done. I have a week before I have to start it all over again back in the States. The perfect opportunity to go off the grid.
Memories start to play on a loop through my mind and my heart picks up speed at the thought of seeing her. Touching her. Smelling her.
And, there it is. The creeper-line. I try to rein myself back in.
“I think this would be good for both of you,” Charlie’s voice interrupts. “You need to give her a chance to say the things she never got to.” Her voice remains neutral, but I feel the accusation like a right hook and just like that, my memories switch from ones of loving and laughing to ones of incrimination and bitterness.
I take a moment to be selfish and consider if doing this would be what is best for me.
Can I even face the living embodiment of my greatest regret?
The table vibrates under my tapping fingers and the sound of a melody I’m working on fills my ears. With my headphones on and a cap pulled down low over my eyes, people are paying me no attention.
I’m confident my presence in New York has gone unnoticed so far. I’ve learned that is one of the perks of doing things on the spur of the moment. No one knows your plans, so there’s no one to spill the beans. However, the reality is, I have no idea how many camera lenses might be waiting for me out there, hidden away. But from my booth in the back corner of this cozy diner I have a clear view of the entrance, while remaining obscured from the large front window. Concealed from public consumption.
Picking up my pen, I scrawl a couple of lines of lyrics, frustrated that this song doesn’t seem to be coming together. The melody woke me up a few nights ago and I had to quickly grab my guitar and record it with my phone to make sure I didn’t lose it. I’ve spent the last two days traveling and trying to work on the lyrics, but the words aren’t coming.
Scribbling out the last line I wrote, I slam the pen back on the Formica surface and scrub my hands across my face. Removing my headphones, I gulp down the last of my coffee and check my watch.
Charlie refused to give me Wyatt’s address or phone number, agreeing only to give me the name of this diner that she frequents, which turned out to be her aunt’s. My ass has been planted in this booth all morning and I feel my frustration with Charlie rise, but before my temper has a chance to ignite, I remind myself that as far as this story goes, I’m the bad guy. I don’t get to be pissed.
The door clatters open, bringing with it a gust of frigid air and a sound I never thought I would hear again.
My eyes are fixed on the laughing redhead and I shadow her movement with my eyes as she makes her way across the diner, falling into a booth with a chatty pink-haired girl who hasn’t stopped talking since they entered.
