Hamartia

The eidetic memory of Ben's audacity to cheat on me was still swimming in my head when the cab dropped me off in front of my sister's new house. It was like being thrown into a pool of trepidation and as I timidly set my feet in motion towards the front porch, I could actually feel the decadence of my confidence to face the situation.

Contrary to what I have expected and to what exactly should have happened, my mother didn't make a big fuss about my inability to maintain successful relationships with men. “You're just seventeen,” She cooed. “Before I met your father...” She said, which made me think, “Holy shit, not again.”

“But I'm fine.” I countered.

It wasn't a total lie.

I reckon I should have been sad, well I was, but not that “I need to eat a gallon of Ben & Jerry's” kind of sad. I actually felt better. I mean, I've always been in doubt of his fidelity after he and Veronica fucked each other mindless, which also reinforced the fact that he, and always will be, a man-slut. He had just saved me from having another week of sleepless nights purely intended to ponder and question his loyalty to our three-year relationship so I guess I owed him a friendly slap on the back of something.

For the past thirty minutes of savoring my solitary confinement in my room, the ceiling and I were having this kind of staring competition. Actually, I have been contemplating on whether to go to the show or not. Come to think of it, I didn't even know this guy. But it was undeniable that I was accountable for that. I didn't give him the chance to introduce himself, did I? And besides, I basically owed him an apology for being an insufferable bitch.

But I've never really had a penchant for concerts, or shows, for that matter, because there were always too many things to do back then. Either that, or I was just too lethargic to function. Most of the time, though, it was the latter.

“Robin Flynn.”

I glanced at the door where my sister poked her head in. Apparently enough, the ceiling won the competition.

“Abby, hey.” I darted across the room, put my arms around my sister's tiny frame and soothed her red hair. “I missed you.”

She chuckled, slowly pulling herself out of my grasp. “Of course you would.” She sighed. “I'm sorry for what happened.”

I grunted, flopping down on my bed. “Why do people keep saying that! The only one who should be sorry is that asshole who couldn't keep his dick in his pants.”

It didn't take long for me to notice the evil glint in her eyes as she looked down at me. “Right, because he surely will be missing out a lot tonight.”

“What?”

“Don't even think of sulking in here for--”

“Actually, Abby,” I got up and rummaged through my bag. “I have a show to attend tonight.” I waved the ticket in front of her face like it was the oasis of hope in the barren land of my uneventful life.

I wasn't planning on attending it, really. It was just whatever was on Abby's mind, I was a hundred and one percent sure that I wouldn't like it even a bit. The last time she tried to save me from my misery, she forcibly dragged me into a stripping club where men in briefs with bulging crotches were the main attraction. And that was the same night I found out Ben and Veronica in such a compromising position on my couch.

“Woah, Robs! What has gotten in to you?”

“Common sense.”

She let out a laugh that seemed to say “That's a good one!” and I laughed along.

“So where's the groom?” I tried to discreetly divert the topic. “Should I give him my threats of castration now?”

“Mom has taken care of that but it's not like she needed to. He just loves me too much.” She winked and I sulked over the fact that she was happy and I was not.

Five hours of melodramatic sighs later, I found myself being driven by my sister's personal chauffeur to the show's venue and it was like I was being slapped in the face with the mortifying realization that she had achieved her Disney ending, which I have always imagined myself to have because my name was so Disney and so cliché.

“We're here, madame,” The chauffeur’s voice drifted from the driver's seat. I thanked him and refuted his offer of waiting for me because, as he put it-- in a thick British accent--, “You'll never know what those punks might do to you.”

“Well, Nick,” That was his name. “I know just what to do with those punks when something goes wrong. But I'll hit you up.” I promised and thanked him for the ride, although I didn't ask for it.

There wasn't so much people outside so I assumed the show had already started. I showed the guy near the entrance the ticket then as my sky blue eyes absorbed how large the crowd was before me, I panicked.

How was I supposed to find this guy in a crowd of hundreds?

But my predicament didn't last long because on the stage was the same auburn-haired guy I met at the airport yesterday and I couldn't help but laugh as I watched his fingers glide smoothly on the neck of his bass.

I thought my ex-boyfriend would impress others in a bad boy sort of way but then here was the Ryan Adams fan boy, who was indisputably attractive in a rockstar kind of way.