Haze Andrea Wolfe (best mobile ebook reader txt) 📖

"Suppression obviously isn't working, Jack. Have you ever properly dealt with this?" I felt like a junior psychologist, even though that wasn't at all the intent of my questioning. I wanted to know, wanted to help, if that was even possible.

"I'm not so sure anymore." He picked up his wine and began, peeling back the protective layers of his mind until he reached his true focus."God, I can't believe I'm doing this," he remarked. "You really want a front row seat to my emotional baggage?"

"Why wouldn't I?" I asked. "I'm your—" I froze up for a second, not sure how to define myself. Was I his girlfriend? Did I even want that right now? "I care about you, Jack," I said, correcting my potential folly before it began. He didn't seem to notice one way or another.

"Katy," he went on. "I loved her, okay? I can't take that feeling away, no matter what." His features and demeanor softened up so much I feared he might just curl up and die right in front of me.

I gulped, worried that I had indeed opened up a door that I shouldn't have. The last thing I needed was to find out that he was still in love with his ex, probably a beautiful woman—assumed to be more beautiful than me, of course; my own assumptions were never reasonable—and having to let me go in exchange for her. Way to go, Effie! I was a cat about to be killed by curiosity.

Deep breath. I needed to relax since this was his moment, not mine.

I poured another glass of wine and took a sip. "Please, go on." I was at the top of the rollercoaster, ready for it to plummet toward the ground at hundreds of miles per hour while people screamed around me. Oh yeah, and my hands were in the air.

He continued.

It went back to his college days at University of Minnesota—that was sort of a relief since I assumed that meant it was a long time ago—when things had become uncertain in his life. He was writing music and wanted to pursue a full-time career of performing, yet he was also trying to keep his parents happy by completing the schooling they were picking up the tab for.

"College was their idea for me," he added.

On top of that, he had a long-term girlfriend since the age of sixteen, Katy, one who also contributed to the very complex mess that his life had become. She had followed him to the same university prior to choosing a major, and now that she had a more defined goal—and definitely some wanderlust—she was having second thoughts about her choice and wanted to move to Chicago.

His parents didn't like her, which didn't help the situation at all, especially not when she wanted to move out of state and he wanted to follow her. He was trapped between trying to satisfy their requests, his own aspirations, and his desire to be good to her, the ultimate conflict for a twenty-year-old.

They had wound up at a party one night, both far too drunk for their own good. She had to work in the morning ("It was a stupid, low-paying desk job where almost nothing went on, so it was even less important that she was there," he said), so after a great deal of deliberation, she ended up driving home while he slept on the couch. He never saw her again, except at her funeral, the open-casket imagery something he'd never forget.

She slid down a hill and crashed on the icy drive home, a fatal, tragic accident. Thankfully, there were no other victims—well, except for Jack, who felt more mangled inside than the smashed car had been. Even though he couldn't change anything now, he still felt personally responsible for it—and it happened to be death. He was certain that there was something he could have done to prevent it, even though he had also been drunk and obviously not thinking straight.

"I could have called a cab. Or demanded that she stay. Was her job really worth her life?" His eyes watered as he spoke.

His parents basically celebrated the event—it freed their son from his only other obligation outside of school, after all—so he angrily dropped out of school and took off to L.A., abandoning their plans for his life.

"They acted like she didn't even exist, like she wasn't even a person. Didn't go to her funeral. They proved that they just didn't give a damn about anyone outside of their family. They knew I loved her, but they claimed it was just my hormones. It only made me love her more."

That was more or less exactly how I had felt about my first boyfriend, the whole hormones-only thing. But it had been almost a decade ago for Jack, a good indicator that he was pretty serious about this. No misinterpreted teenage lust here.

"Have they ever tried to make peace with you about it?"

Jack shrugged. "I guess. They've written me letters and stuff. My brother has told me they regret what they did, that they just wanted the best for me. Everyone always says that when they mess up."

His heart shattered, he made L.A. his new home, drowning himself in drugs and alcohol while he worked shitty jobs and performed at coffee shops. And then one magic evening he ran into—and impressed—one of the top producers in the business, a man that both saved him and made him hate the basic framework of the industry more than anything.

"He took eighty-percent of what I was making for three years," Jack said. "I lost so much money those first years. I fulfilled my contractual obligations and saved the big hits until I was a free agent."

"At least you got to live in L.A.," I said. "I'd love to live there."

"We'll go there," he said suddenly. "Soon. I have some business to take care of." And with that announcement, he was back