Wolf called Jessica again but it went straight to voicemail. “Hey,” he said, sighing. “If you’re there, talk to me. I’m tired of playing games. I just wish you’d pick up.” He slid down the wall and cradled the handset between his jaw and shoulder, resting both arms on his knee. “I know I hurt you. A lot. But…I love you.”
There. He’d said it. And he couldn’t take it back.
“I love you,” he repeated, growing confident on Jack Daniels. “I know I didn’t handle things properly…I’ve got issues and I took my frustrations out on you. I guess I felt safe venting to you, but I didn’t think about how it affected you. What can I say? I’m selfish. But I do want the best for you and that’s why I was horrible, ‘cause I thought if I pushed you away, you’d go off and find someone who’ll treat you like you deserve to be treated. I know that sounds stupid, but it made sense to me at the time. I was wrong and I can’t deal with letting you go. You’re amazing. I just hope you achieve your dreams.”
Wolf paused, suddenly feeling foolish instead of brave. “Anyway, if you want to call me back, we can talk properly,” he rushed. “If not, fine. I’ll respect that. I’m leaving on Friday, so…just call me.”
He hung up and dropped the handset to the floor. What a whiny idiot. He should have learned by now not to drunk-dial.
“What’s done is done,” he muttered, reaching for the bottle and taking a slug.
* * *
Over in Santa Monica, Summer and Jessica stared at the answering machine.
“Girl, call him!” Summer nudged her. “He’s just bared his soul to you – what are you waiting for?”
“His drunken soul,” Jessica said cynically.
“Aw, he needed Dutch courage. I think it’s cute.”
“A whisky-soaked rock musician clogging up the voicemail is hardly cute.”
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