That look in her eyes as she leaves gives me more questions than answers. I will her to stop. Pray she will turn around and come back to me. But she doesn't and the door swings shut behind her.
Without thinking I turn and head to the bar. A little voice in my head says to call Erik, he's talked me down before. But that little voice is very quiet and a much louder one tells me that one drink to quiet the demons is nothing. Telling me I've lost her and I deserve the little oblivion it could offer me.
Just one, "A pint of Fosters." I ask the barmaid.
She doesn't seem to recognise me or hesitate as she pulls the pint and hands me it, totally unaware of the war waging inside my head. I tap my phone again the card reader and then make my way to one of the seats near the window.
A quick scan of the street confirms she is gone. I don't want it to be real. Don't want to believe she has left me like this. She said it wasn't forever but it feels so final.
I raise the glass to my lips slowly. That first sip floods my senses with a familiar taste and the voices in my head quiet on a sigh. I know I shouldn't be doing this. I know I should stop. Fourteen months sober and I'm throwing it all away.
I know how common relapses are. I've read all the statistics. They told us so many times in rehab about how to get through the urges. My hand hesitates when I lift it again before reminding myself I've already had one sip so my record is gone, might as well finish this one.
It goes down too easily. Too quickly.
So does the next and the next. They blur into one. A camera flash sends dark spots dancing across my vision.
All that security, all my friends and here I am without any of them. I shouldn't have left to meet her alone. I shouldn't have agreed to meet her in a place with access to my one vice.
Another flash and I turn my head away from the window and the vultures gathering.
A phone is ringing and I am dimly aware it's mine.
Erik, my screen confirms.
"Hey buddy," I slur, finally answering it.
"Where are you?" He snaps back before I can complete a thought.
"I'm out, I'm out out!" I reply with a laugh, doing a little dance that sloshes my drink over the table.
"Out where? We are coming to get you."
I'm about to ask who he means when he says we when I hear the rest of the band calling out asking if I've said where I am yet.
I feel the beginning tendrils of regret curling up through me. "I'm sorry." My voice is hoarse and the world is spinning.
Feelings are passing faster than I can catch them and already guilt is slipping away and I feel anger and disgust rising. I cannot decide who they are directed at. Me? Phoebe? The universe?
"Where the fuck are you?" Erik sounds almost desperate now and I know it's my fault.
I stand to make my way to a quieter corner of the bar so I can hear him better and my legs give way under me, my elbow slamming into the table as I fall.
I'm a shit bandmate. Shit friend. Shit boyfriend. Now a shit alcoholic too.