Page 93 of Gabriel's Album

The Fifteenth Song (First Verse)

The afternoon drags by interminably.I drink a lot of alcohol after Sebastian gets back, but Hayden insists on giving me water between each glass of alcohol Sebastian gives me. I hate him for it, but I’m also grateful that he’s looking out for me.

“I love you guys, but can I just be alone now?” I ask them eventually.

My friends all exchange glances, and Sebastian asks, “Are you sure? One of us should stay with you.”

“Yes, I’m sure. Please just go,” I frown at him.

He looks over at Heather and Harrison where they’re still sitting on the sofa. Heather has barely said anything since he came back and told us that Ariana left. She’s been crying and drinking as much as I have.

“If you speak to her,” Heather croaks, “Can you just…ask her to call me, too?”

“Of course,” I nod.

My friends all leave, and it’s strange being on my own again. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours, and I’m hurting so badly that I actually feel numb.

The silence in the room is deafening, and I open my phone as I lie down on the bed so that I can look at the pictures of Ariana again. It hurts so badly. I need her back, or at the very least, I need to talk to her.

I call her and hear her voice on the outgoing voicemail message. Hearing her sweet tone, sounding so happy and calm, brings a sharp pain to my chest and I consider what to say.

“Ari. I’m guessing by now you’re on a plane.” I squeeze my eyes shut tight against the image of her sitting in an airplane seat, but the image is still there behind my eyelids. “I can’t believe that you’re flying away from me right now. I don’t want to believe it. Please, just call me.”

I manage to hold off the tears until I’ve hung up the phone, and I lie in the quiet room, staring at my phone for a long time. When dinner time rolls around, I’m not hungry.

I consider calling Ariana back, but I don’t. I do spend the evening staring at my phone, hoping she’ll call me back, though.

I also read alotof news articles about us. Most of them are just a rewording of the originalDaily Mailarticle. They’ve all taken what Stacey said and are inferring their conclusions from that. There’s very little truth to the stories, and the comments border on cruel. I hate that Ariana will be reading them.

Eventually, I fall asleep, which is a blessed relief from the pain. When I wake up, my head is pounding, and for a second, I’m confused before it all comes rushing back to me, and my shattered heart bleeds into my chest.

I check my phone at once, but there are no calls or texts from Ariana. I have plenty from my friends, though, and when I check my emails, I see that Tristan has some of those interviews lined up for today. I don’t know how I’m meant to do an interview when I feel like I’m falling apart.

Almost unintentionally, I dial Ariana’s number. My heart thrums rapidly in my chest while it rings, but then the ringing stops, and I know I’m being diverted to voicemail.

Sure enough, her sweet voice says in my ear, “You’ve reached Ariana Chamberlain. Sorry, I can’t get to the phone at the moment, please leave a message after the tone, and I’ll get back to you.”

“Ari. Can you just—” I pause for a second, because I want to say so many things, I want to beg her to come back, and I want her to fight for us, but instead I beg, “—Just call me. I miss you.”

I check the time, and it’s after eight. According to the schedule for today, we should be in one of the hotel suites for our first interview in an hour. Right on cue, my phone starts buzzing, and my heart leaps into my throat, thinking it’s Ariana, but then I see Hayden’s name on the screen, and it plummets toward my feet again.

“Gabriel?” he says when I answer.

“Hey.”

“Do you want to meet us in Sebastian’s room before we head down to the interview?” he asks me.

Fucking interviews. How am I meant to do those? I know the answer. I can’t.

“No,” I manage to say.

“Okay, we’ll see you down there, I guess.” Hayden’s voice carries a tone of surprise.

“I mean that, no, I’m not going to the interview,” I clarify for him.

“What?! You have to do it.”

“No, I don’t,” I object.

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