Kindred Souls

Chapter 9

     By the time I woke up the following afternoon, Tom was nowhere to be found. I had no missed texts or calls when I rolled over to check my iPhone which I had forgotten to charge overnight. I felt a pang of anxiety wash over me like a tidal wave. It was unlike Tom to leave me hanging without so much as a text message to wake up to in the morning. The pit of my stomach dropped when I even considered the thought of him leaving, especially after we finally had sex. The one thing we had been so hesitant to do in our relationship. He just wasn't that kind of guy. Or was he?

     Despite the thoughts racing through my head, I sat up in bed and subsequently groaned. My head pounded from the change in body position and I rubbed my temples. Everything in the room was untouched as I began to observe my surroundings and that included Tom's suitcase. I grabbed the small bottle of Tylenol that I brought along in my carry-on backpack and shook two white pills into the palm of my hand.

     "Well, at least his shit is still here, so he's probably fine. We're probably fine, calm down," I reassured myself as I started towards the kitchenette for a glass of water to shoot the pills back with.

     I rinsed out one of the wine glasses from the previous night with the tap before filling it up to the top. My head throbbed, and the mere sight of the liquid in the glass was enough to make my stomach churn. God, I fucking hated drinking. I clapped the pills to my mouth and chugged the entire glass of water afterwards. An empty bottle of red wine remained on the counter from the previous night and I chucked it in the trash on the floor next to the small granite counter before my stomach had time to catch up with what my brain was processing. My head spun, causing me to walk back to the bed to sit down. Before my thoughts had the chance to spiral, I picked up my phone to call my boyfriend. Surely he'd pick up - he always did when I called.

     The line buzzed for several long seconds until Tom's voicemail message rang through my ears. Apprehension welled up in the pit of my gut, or maybe I was just nauseous from my hangover. Either way, I hung up the phone without leaving a voicemail and began to mildly panic. My skin began to feel clammy. I rifled through my suitcase to find a pair of clothes and dashed to the bathroom, figuring a long hot shower would calm my nerves. As I let the semi-hot water run over my skin, the thoughts in my head didn't calm down, though I tried to talk them off their ledge in my brain. I couldn't go over to the festival; I didn't have any special credentials to get in, and I couldn't make it past security by simply telling them I was dating Tom DeLonge. He'd have women beating down the door of his trailer if it were that easy.

     Instead of sitting in bed and panicking, I flipped on a Padres game that was being broadcast on TV that afternoon, obsessively checking my phone what felt like every five minutes. This was a bold strategy that eventually paid off because around six that evening, Tom called me.

     "Finley! Hey! Sorry I've been MIA, you alright?" He asked.

     "I've been...better, I guess," I said, acting like I hadn't spent the entire day panicking about Tom possibly peacing out of our relationship for no reason other than the fact that we finally fucked.

     "Hey, I'm sorry about that. I had to be at soundcheck by 2 and I got caught up talking to Mark and our stage crew and stuff. I was going to come back to get you, but I had a few beers and by the time I looked at the clock it was after five," Tom explained. I could hear ruckus behind him as punk music blared through nearby speakers. Frankly, I was floored that he was able to drink again after being drunk the night before.

     "So I'll just watch tomorrow night when you guys play, then?" I asked. I was hurt. That hurt. I tried to ignore the sting of his words not matching up with his actions and played it cool over the phone.