Falling | h.s

two

HARRY'S POV

"Another one?" The bartender asks me as I slam my glass down on the counter, almost hard enough to make it shatter. I nod in response and shoot him an apologetic smile. He places a fresh drink in front of me and nods, understanding the situation. That, or he didn't feel like picking a fight with one of the only customers he would have for the night. I'm not usually that asshole in the bar, but special times call for special matters.

It's been forty-four days since she left me. Forty-four long days. Forty-four days since a drunken fight that ended the only relationship I really cared about. Not even two months and they already want me to write an album about it? I know it's not the label's fault--I'm overdue for new material. It's not their fault that I happened to get my heart shattered just weeks before the writing sessions for my sophomore album was supposed to begin.

"Just write about how you're feeling. You'll feel better," they told me. And I knew they were right. They were always right. It doesn't make it any less hard though.

We were supposed to start writing tonight, but after hearing her name mentioned for a song pitch, I stormed out of the studio, hopped in my car, and just drove. These days, there are really only two things that seem to help; drinking and driving. Not together, of course. But I've found a sort of therapy in driving until I feel I should stop, pulling off the highway, getting a room at a cheap hotel, and drinking in the local crappy bar. I was anonymous here, just another asshole in a bar. Nobody knew me, and nobody cared about what I did, how much I drank, or what I said. As long as I made it back to the hotel in one piece, I considered it a successful evening. And that's what brought me here, to Sandy's Tavern, after driving for what felt like only a few minutes.

The bar was, to put it kindly, a piece of shit. Only four other people occupied the bar, other than the bartender, who looked like he had been drinking himself. 80s pop lightly played from a jukebox next to a stage that had an old keyboard and microphone. And by "stage," I mean a two-foot-tall wooden platform that I was sure was covered in a layer of dust. Next to the "stage" was a chalkboard with a schedule detailing $1 beers on Mondays and karaoke night on Thursday. I'm almost positive that they haven't had karaoke night in years. The other bargoers were minding their own business and drinking quietly. Other than the ordering of drinks, there were no conversations to be heard. 

At this moment, this bar was perfect. It was the perfect escape, the perfect hiding spot for anonymity. It seems like these days, I can barely get a moment alone. 

I picked up my beer and nodded at the bartender before shuffling to a secluded and shadowed booth in the corner of the bar. With the sounds of Duran Duran softly playing from the speakers, I close my eyes and let my head rest against the back of the booth. During these little escapes, I try not to think about her. I try not to think about how, if she were with me right now, she would have ordered a whiskey sour with no cherries. I try not to think about how much she loves Duran Duran and how she would hum along, swaying her head from side to side. I try not to think about what she would be wearing, but I already know that she would be wearing blue jeans and an old tee-shirt, and still look like the coolest girl in the room. 

I try not to think about how much I miss her, about how much more fun I would be having if she were here with me. But then I force myself to remember that it has been forty-four days since she called me an arrogant son of a bitch and told me she was done. I force myself to remember that when I do return home, it will be to an empty house, the house she picked out. I force myself to remember that it was my fault and that she is not coming back. 

I take out my small, leather-bound notebook that I always bring with me on these little escapes. I don't want to write about her, but I know I will. My music is my diary. Lyrics are my unspoken confessions and the melodies are my unsung emotions. I wouldn't be me if I didn't write about how I was feeling. I stare at the blank pages and try to think of something, anything, to write down. I try to push all of my feelings to a head and force my mind to articulate how I'm feeling right now. And for once, I seem to be at a loss for words. 

I've never had trouble finding inspiration before. I could write a song in the notes on my phone, on a cocktail napkin, in the margins of a book. But for some reason, when I think of Camille, I come to a blank. I think it's just all too much for me. Too much hurt, too many unresolved emotions, too many things left unsaid. I think I'm overwhelmed with how much I want to say, but I also don't know how much I can say. I don't want to hurt her, and I know that some things I could write about her would hurt her. 

In other words, I'm stuck. I feel miserable and most of all, pathetic. I don't think I have loved anyone like I loved her, but I also realize now that I never knew her like she knew me. She never opened up, never told me her deepest darkest secrets. And how can you love someone this much who you knew so little about?

My phone buzzes next to my notebook on the table. 

Six missed calls from Tom Hull. 

 Seven texts from Tom Hull.

     4:37 – Harry, come back

     4:41 – Harry? 

     4:45 – don't tell me you drove away again 

     4:51 – I'm going to assume you're long gone so at least be safe. 

     5:18 – I'm really worried about you H. Please call me back

     6:21 – I'm sorry if the writing session was too much. We can just work on riffs and melodies      when you come back 

     7:48 – Also do not call her again tonight! I mean it

I decided to turn my phone off and flip it over. I also make a mental note to not turn it back on and especially to not call her when I get back to my motel. Starting at this moment, I'm going to try and move on. I'm going to stop thinking about what drink she would order at a bar and which tee-shirt she would be wearing. I'm going to put her behind me because she put me behind her months ago. 

The door to the bar bangs open suddenly, making me jump in my seat. The quiet atmosphere of the bar quickly shifts as four girls enter and with them, bringing lots of noise. A blonde and a brunette beeline to the bar as a redhead and a dirty blonde follow a few steps behind. 

"One round of tequila shots!" The blonde exclaims before the brunette adds "Oh, make it two!" The bartender unenthusiastically pours them eight shots and pushes them forward. The seemingly meek dirty blonde suddenly moves forward and downs the two shots before any of the other girls can react. The other girls cheer her on and order another round for the girl. I smile to myself before turning back to my own beer, almost done. Following suit of the upset girl, I chug the rest of my beer before sighing, resting my head on the booth, and looking again at the blank pages of my journal. 

I write down the words: "Do you know who you are?" in thick letters across the top of the page, and I ask myself the question. Over and over again.