I wake up on the couch with a headache playing the bongos on my skull. There’s a clutter of beer cans and the empty bottle of Jameson beside me. A half-smoked joint is snuffed out on the coffee table.
I smoked inside. I never smoke inside.
The phone is dangling from my hand and I lift it as I wipe the sleep from my eyes, cursing the sun as it pours through the cracks in the blinds, and ravages my retinas.
Through my cloudy vision and fluttering eyelids, I can make out a one-sided text conversation on my phone screen, a flurry of blue bubbles stacked neatly on top of each other… one-word text after one-word text, after one-word text.
My heart sinks as I read the contact name at the top.
Sami.
There’s about fifteen sorrys and some jibberish mixed in, made up words likely typed by my ass cheeks, with help from the couch cushion.
After a quick scroll, I can see my text attack at least started out somewhat normal.
I told her I missed her. That this was all some big mistake. That I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
I told her I was so so sorry, with twenty-something exclamation points at the end.
I told her I loved her.
It’s those three words that really catch my attention. Not just that, it brings the phone hurdling from my hand to the ground, as if it were infected with Ebola. I grimace, from both the pain in my head and the utter embarrassment washing over me.
Did I love her? Maybe.
Did telling her so soon help me out of my current predicament? Absolutely fucking not.
I groan, dropping my head in my hands and running my fingers through my thick, curly hair, disheveled beyond repair.
What the fuck do I do now?
I have little time to comprehend this as a solid knock at the door draws my attention and shoots a surge of pain through my temples. Another knock and Sami comes into mind. It sounds too strong to be hers, and the idea that she’d visit before she texted back is absurd, but that doesn’t matter. In my mind, I’m convinced it’s her, and I don’t give her a chance to knock again. I jump to my feet and charge for the door, swinging it open just as I hear knuckles hit the door again, harder this time. I open it as a goofy smile spreads across my face.
And then it dies.
And then, just as quickly, it fades into a jutting frown as my eyes adjust to the beaming sun, and I recognize Javon staring back at me from the other side. He has a funny look on his face—a look of understanding and compassion, mixed with a little bit of nervousness.
He shrugs, his monstrous hands lifting to his sides. “You gonna let me in or what?”
I side step and motion for him to enter, not trying to hide the disappointment on my face one bit.
“Well, shit,” he says, making his way inside and eyeing the coffee table as he removes his jacket. “I thought you’d be a little happier to see me. Or at least fake it.”
“And why would that be?” I ask, taking the jacket from him and tossing it toward the coat rack, but missing it completely. I don’t bother picking it up; instead, I shuffle to my recliner.
He chuckles, meandering over to the fallen jacket and placing it where I had intended to put it. As he stands straight, he shoots me a grin. “You don’t remember shit from last night, huh?”
I eye him, scrutinizing him as I anticipate what kind of ass I made of myself last night, that shit-eating grin still plastered on his face.
“You want to enlighten me?” I ask, sighing with annoyance much heavier than intended.
He narrows his eyes on me, though the smile still tugs at his lips, and says, “We talked for a good hour last night. Early this morning, actually. And if you had your way, it would’ve been longer than that.”
I pick up my phone and confirm on my call log that what he’s saying is true, and I shrug lazily as I toss the phone back on the couch.
“I’m worried about you, Gavin,” he says, a new look of concern on his face, any semblance of a smile completely faded now. “Real worried.”
“Listen…”—I draw in a deep breath—“I was super drunk last night. High as shit, too. You can’t take anything I said too seriously.”
“How do you know if you can’t even recall what you said?”
“I just know I wasn’t in the right state of mind last night. A lot’s been going on.”
“Bobby told me,” he says, scooting over a bit closer. “He told me what happened with that Sami girl. He told me how he thinks you’re feeling.”
I roll my eyes and shake my head, exhaling as I respond, “Does Bobby ever shut the fuck up, or is it just you guys’ thing to talk about me behind my back.”
He scoffs, tilting his head, a pained look in his eyes. “Is that what you think? You think we’re just talking about you behind your back. Getting a good fuckin’ laugh out of it? Really?” He hesitates, and I’m about to respond when he continues, “You think I wanted to get woken up at three am to you crying, hearing how much you’ve been hurting? Having to call Bobby afterward to make sure I didn’t need to come revive your ass?”
“I told you both, I’d never try anything like that again…”
“Fuck that,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “Fuck that, Gavin. I listened to you vent for a good hour last night. I listened to every damn word, and you know what I heard?”
“What?”
“I heard myself… Years ago, in my grandma’s house, begging the Lord to help me feel anything else but what I was feeling. I heard all the pain, and hate, and jealousy I once possessed. I heard a man at the end of his rope.”
“You heard a man on a bottle of Jameson and without an ounce of clear thought. I was just drunk, man. That’s all,” I say, forcing a laugh.
“Gavin, listen to me. You’re falling, man. You’re trapped, and a part of you, maybe a tiny little part of you, is screaming for help. And then there’s this…” He motions to me in all my hungover glory. “You’re so unwilling to accept that maybe all this is outside of your control. And Gavin, let me fuckin’ tell you, it is. It’s completely out of your hands. I know, because I’ve been there. Do you know how long it took me to even realize I was depressed?”
“I know I’m depressed,” I respond, though I know he meant more than that.
“It’s not just depression, Gavin. The way you were talking last night… it was bad, man.”
“I’m not going to kill myself, Javon,” I say defensively, hardly aware of the snarl etched on my face.
“Who are you trying to convince,” he responds, sitting back into the couch and crossing one long leg over the other. “Me… or you?”
I lean back too, my focus shifting to the window and the sounds of passing vehicles and pedestrians, and for a moment, it all makes sense. For a split second, I can see my toes dangling over the edge of the bridge, my gaze fixed on the ocean water splashing against the support beams below. The wind whips my face, the motorists screaming down at me from the road above, and then I swan dive.
Maybe, I’m not so different now than I was then.
Maybe, I’m exactly the same.
“You can say what you want. You can deny how you’re feeling to yourself. But I’m not going to turn my back on you, Gavin. Neither’s Bobby. We’re here for you, whether you like it or not,” he says, standing and making his way to the coat rack. As much as I didn’t want him in my house, to be talking to him about my problems, I feel saddened by the sight of him on his way out. I want to tell him to stop and stay as he whips his jacket around his wide shoulders and slips his arms in. I want to tell him I need him to stay. That I need to hear it’s going to all be okay. That I’ll be okay. That I’ll wake up tomorrow, and just like him, I’ll be a new man.
I’ll just be normal.
But I don’t say a word.
He passes me a quick two-finger salute, his eyes somber as he makes his way out the door. I want to follow after him. I want to ask him to help me figure it all out. But I don’t.
It’s hard to see Javon—the man he is now—as the man he was then. Not much different than me. For as long as I’ve known him, he’s been about the happiest guy I’ve ever met. He’s exuded this confidence I’ve never seen before. He spoke freely and truthfully, with conviction and care. He’s not someone I would’ve guessed had dealt with the same things I have. He’s not someone I ever pictured with the barrel of a gun in his mouth, his fidgeting pointer caressing the trigger.
But he was that man. He sat in the corner of his bedroom closet, the pictures of his parents scotch-taped to the wall. The last one’s he’d ever taken with them before they were gone, their lives stolen from him by an errant drunk driver. He did clutch his braced knee, the one that would keep him from his NBA dreams. He did find his grandpa’s old Ruger and bought the bullets that awaited his decision.
He did want to end it all.
But he didn’t. And he turned it around. As he’d tell me later, only after getting help from Dr. Thresher—after rediscovering himself and who he really was. Only after the fall did he find a way to get back up again.
Just like now, sitting alone in my loft, the proof of my alcoholism sitting right in front of me, I often view myself through the microscope of Javon’s life. I see him, the old him, as I see myself now. And then I watch myself grow and learn like he did. I watch my future books bring in new readers, readers not expecting more of the same. I watch as Sami and I go on our fifth date, and our tenth, and our one hundredth.
I should be taking this as my opportunity to learn from him, to heed Dr. Thresher’s advice, to change my way of thinking, but I don’t. The depression is crippling. The anxiety feels like it’s ready to burst from my chest, and all I want to do is make it stop. All I want to do is end the pain.
Yes, I should chase after him, and tell him how much I need his help, but instead, I grab the bent-up joint from the coffee table, light it, and flip the TV on.
The View will do.