Caspian
It’s been twenty-four days.
I want to kick my own fucking ass for even knowing that information. Why the fuck should I care that it’s been twenty-four days since I last saw Rowan? Twenty-five days since I last kissed his full, pink fucking lips.
I should hate him.
Idohate him.
I don’t, actually, but I fucking want to.
“Hey, man, we’re going out to that bar across the street for some drinks. Want to come?”
Glancing to my left, I brush the hair out of my face as my gaze connects with Quinn’s. We’ve all been preparing for the tour coming up. It’s taking up most of our time. The non-stop is helping to keep my mind off shit I shouldn’t be thinking about… like Rowan. It’s not working one hundred percent, but it does an okay job.
“Nah, I’m kind of tired and want to get some shut-eye. Thanks for the invite, though.”
Quinn looks at me like I’ve got three heads. I don’t blame him. Prior to Black Diamond, I would go out every single night. Life of the party. Since coming back, I’ve barely gone out at all. What’s the fucking point? Get into shit I shouldn’t be doing and get myself kicked out of the band once and for all? I’m good.
It’s more than that, but I refuse to admit it.
“Well, if you change your mind, you know where we are.” He pats me on the back as he leaves.
The traffic back to my condo is horrendous. Wouldn’t expect anything less for Los Angeles on a Friday evening. It takes me an absurd amount of time to get there, and by the time I park, all I want to do is take a hot shower and pass the fuck out.
I know good and fucking well the latter won’t happen. No matter how tired I am, I always lie there for hours. Nothing I do helps. I’ve tried smoking weed before bed, edibles, sleeping pills, working out. Nothing. My mind never wants to shut the fuck up.
After I climb out of the shower, I dress in a pair of old sweats and a Wicked Hearts tee, tossing my towel in the hamper before climbing into bed with a bottle of water and my phone. Turning it on, it’s ridiculous how many notifications I have. It’s a constant thing. I ignore all of them except the ones from Atticus.
Atticus: Why didn’t you come out tonight?
Atticus: Are you sure everything’s okay? I know you say yes, but it seems like ever since you got back from BD, you’ve been a bit more sulky than usual.
Atticus: Okay, and yes, it is nice that you aren’t partying and getting as fucked up as you were before BD, but still… worried about you, man. I’m here if you need to talk.
A half-ass grin tugs on my lips as I breathe out a laugh through my nose. Out of the whole band, Atticus is the papa bear. Harlan calls him “Atti-daddy” constantly. It drives Atticus nuts, but it’s oddly fitting. I know he’s worried about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if they all are, but he’s the only one to voice it. Probably because we’re the closest out of all of us.
He means well. Before I went to Black Diamond, I feel like the questions he sent me would’ve pissed me off. I don’t take well to people meddling or trying to be there for me. I never have. More than once since coming home, I’ve wondered if maybe that fucking place had more of an impact on me than I realized, because as I re-read the texts, I don’t feel anger or annoyance.
Me: Just wasn’t feeling it tonight. I’m fine, but thanks for checking in, man.
My mind is racing a mile a minute, so I pull up my Spotify app, turning on a playlist to help drown out the noise. It doesn’t fucking work, though, because as Sleep Token’sThe Love You Wantplays, all it does is remind me of the first time I met Rowan, when he sat down, uninvited, at my breakfast table, shoving his way into my life without warning. This was the song playing in my ears.
Rubbing my heel of my palm into the dull ache in my chest, I flip to the next song, because reminiscing is the last fucking thing I need to be doing. I hate how frequently he plagues my mind. It’s even worse when I sleep. Every single morning, I wake up with the ghost of his touch fluttering over my skin, a painstaking reminder of what I had. What I left.
What he fucked up.
My phone sits in my hands as I stare at it, trying to talk myself out of doing what I’ve wanted to do for weeks now. Honestly, I’m shocked I’ve held off this long. The urge is getting to be so strong, it’s almost a compulsion at this point, because I know if I start it, I won’t be able to stop. That’s how it is with all things Rowan. One taste, one touch, one look is never enough. He’s worse than any drug I’ve ever consumed. It’ll never be enough.
But it has to be.
Rolling my eyes at my own pathetic obsession, I grab the phone, unlock it, and pull up Instagram. It takes no time at all to find his account; he has hundreds of thousands of followers. Doesn’t surprise me. This is the first time I’ve ever looked at his page. He has a very typical L.A. influencer feed—music festivals, fashion shows, pictures with friends at the beach, at parties, food aesthetic pictures.
I click on the most recent post. It’s from yesterday.
He’s home. That means we’re in the same city right now…
Truthfully, it’s not surprising he’s home. I don’t know exactly how much time he had left, but I know it was only a couple of weeks at most.
