Just Wait

“Garrett,” I say, shaking my head. “Seriously? This is, what, the fourth or fifth time this month?” I feel my heart deflate once more, the feeling no longer unfamiliar, as Garrett mumbles apologies and false hope into the speaker.

“I’m sorry, R! You know I don’t like missing time with you, but this tour is big, and we need all the planning time we can get. You should understand!” He says, his voice in between normal and shouting. I scoff, rendered speechless. I try to say something, but the words won’t form.

“Fuck,” I hear him whisper. He knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Yeah, Garrett. As if realizing you’ve said the wrong thing makes it any better. Don’t try to make it up, Garrett. Don’t try to make up any of the seven fucking dates you missed.”

“Rav—“ he says, but he’s too late. I’ve hung up already, and I’ve just collapsed on the floor, curled up into a fit of tears. When did Garrett turn into someone so engulfed in his work? Garrett said I should understand. But I have been understanding, I’ve been understanding for the past three years, but it seems the band is more important to Garrett than the girl who saved his life.



My phone has been ringing nonstop in the past week. I have 23 missed calls and 45 text messages from Kennedy, 47 missed calls and 34 text messages from Pat, 59 missed calls and 38 text messages from Jared, 12 missed calls and 5 very sloppily typed out text messages from John because he was probably drunk and Garrett probably asked him to do so. John’s the only one that understands I need my space. 101 missed calls and 174 messages from Garrett. As if any of them elicit a reaction from me. I’d be lying to myself if I said that they didn’t, really. The fact that I hadn’t answered 101 phone calls and responded to 174 messages from Garrett over a time frame of seven days made me want to cry even more, because never have I ever ignored Garrett for so long.

I choke back a sob as I excuse myself from the dinner table, my mother giving me a wary look, my older brother about to stand, and my father holding him down. I walk slowly up the stairs, a haunted expression on my face. I must look terrible; I haven’t slept in days. I go to the one place that actually has a lock on the door so I can be alone: the bathroom.



Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip. We have a leaky faucet, the one in the bathtub. Dripdripdripdripdripdripdrip. It’s been leaking since October. It’s now January. I don’t know how long I’ve been in the bathroom, sitting in the bathtub, and listening to the water drip, feeling the cold water soak my feet. All I know is that 3,492 drips have come out of that faucet since I locked myself in. I don’t know what this solitude is doing for me. Is it comforting me? No, I still feel like a ghost. Is it angering me? No. I don’t feel any extreme emotions. It takes me five minutes—and I can only tell it’s been five minutes because I’ve looked at the wall clock for the first time—to realize that this solitude, these walls that I have put up, are only numbing me more. What’s weird is that the numbness is more of an element of pain that rises and ebbs. Fuck. I shouldn’t even be feeling like this over Garrett. Maybe he was right, should I have understood him better? Or maybe it’s a sign telling me Garrett doesn’t need me anymore. Maybe Garrett never even needed me to start with.

My mother giving me a wary look at the dinner table. I know her thoughts. Stupid girl. Wasting her tears on a boy who plays bass and video games and girls. I raised her better than this. My brother about to rise. I know his thoughts, too. She’s probably expecting me to go after her. I’m her older brother. Whatever. My father putting a hand on my brother’s shoulder, a silent, universal notion for “stop.” I know what they are all thinking. We are her family. We should be supporting her. But what’s there to support, really, if not a pile of sinking, sallow skin and shattered bones? A lifeless corpse? She is not awake. She is not living. Why should we care?

I turn and look at the counter, my anti-depressants sitting prettily, unopened, by my toothpaste. How long has it been since I’ve taken one? Three, four, five weeks? I make use of the dripping water. The level is probably only a quarter of an inch right now, so I turn the faucet with my foot, the amount of water slowly increasing. My clothes, now wet, are dead weight. They are anchors weighing me down. My foot applies more pressure to the faucet. The water is now up to my chin. I smile as I think of the success The Maine will have as soon as this tour that they are planning is finished. I feel a wave of nostalgia as I realize how many more girls will be fawning over the boys, especially Garrett. There’s just something about bass players, I know. I sigh as I realize how sad my family will be, but then I remember that they will carry on, because that’s the only thing they know how to do perfectly. Carrying on.

My hair is swirling in pretty little ringlets around my head. The water is lukewarm, and I welcome it, sinking in. I stay under for a while, my eyes wide open, when I feel my chest tightening. Is this what dying feels like? Warm, but tight? Suffocating? But I can’t stop now. I’ve already gone too far. I am choking. Water is coming in through every opening, and everything burns. It’s like a wildfire, and I am right in the middle of it. It’s too late to run. It’s too late to call for help. All I can do is lie there and wait for the salvation of darkness, and when I begin to second guess my decision, it comes. I feel light. I feel happy.



Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Whiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiir.

Pitpatpitpatpitpat. Pit. Pat.

Death. I welcomed him with open arms, an embrace so sweet, and he rejects me. Spits me out like a bad fire out of the mouths of hell. What did I do wrong? Now, I am tormented by the sound of machinery, choked sobs, and shuffles of feet across a squeaky-clean linoleum floor. I am plagued by the scent of detergent and rubbing alcohol, too-sweet daisies and wilting roses. All of this is going through my head and then, it all just stops. It all stops when I hear the one sound that I had wondered about all my life. It’s a slow, choked sob. Uncontrollable fits of shaking and the constant curls of the body, trying to crush all emotion and block everything out. It’s the sound of tears that haven’t stopped. These are the sounds I’ve always wondered about whether Garrett could conjure them up. Whether they even existed in Garrett, in the deep, emotional pits of his heart that I questioned the existence of until now.

“Raveena, please,” he cries quietly. A pressure on my hand. “You have to wake up. Please, please, please,” he says, his voice’s volume lowering with each plea and his voice cracking more with every syllable. I can hear how much this is breaking him.

“I’m so sorry I pushed you so far over the edge, I’m sorry I didn’t make time for you, I’m sorry I didn’t love you enough, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he sucks in a deep breath through his teeth, and just by listening to him, I can tell he’s trying to keep himself together. Garrett is probably running his hands though his hair right now, judging by the deep breaths that he’s taking. He usually does those simultaneously.

“I called you, and I texted you. It totaled up to 275 unanswered and unread forms of miscommunications from me to you. I, ah, left you a couple of voicemails, too. Do those count?” Garrett is trying to make idle conversation now. Trying to avoid the subject at hand. I miss seeing his face. I have memories all over my mind, our first date, when Garrett spilled coffee over my new high-rise shorts. The first The Maine concert Garrett took me to, his face unforgettable while he was “rocking out,” as he called it, onstage. The look of admiration I always had when he talked about his music because his face would just light up. But every memory was just a fragment of Garrett, just a small piece of him. Seeing Garrett is different every time, not one expression or emotion of his is ever the same. And I love that. Garrett takes something off my bed side table, and when he unlocks it, I know it’s my phone. What is he doing? The ringer is going off. Once. Twice.

Hey Raveena, uh, it’s me… you know. Garrett. I know you probably don’t want to talk to me right now, but hold on, for me, please? Just wait. Just listen, please. I love you. I love you so much, Raveena. It’s so hard to be away from you because no matter what I’m doing, my mind is always drifting back off to you. Even during our concerts. Even when I’m spending my nights not being wasted, but at a party, nonetheless. When I can’t go to sleep. When we’re talking about set lists. My mind always drifts off to you. I can’t help it, I love you too much to not be thinking about you, every moment, every second, of every day. I know I haven’t been there for you lately, and I’ve been a shit boyfriend, but please, Raveena, just wait. I promise you there’s a better Garrett in me, and he’s the one that wants you to be waiting for me. Fuck, what am I talking about? I’m so bad at this. All of me wants you to wait for me, just as all of me wants to wait for you, no matter what. I know I’m a handful, Raveena. So hold on for me, will you? Hold on to me, and wait? Please? I promise it’ll be worthwhile. I know you’re probably not listening to this, but it’s just something that I had to say, even if it was to your voicemail. Speaking of voicemail, how did it even get all this? I love you. So please, just wait for me. That’s all.

Garrett sniffs. “I, uh, just thought you should give it a listen, ‘cause knowing you, you probably have never called your voicemail before. I love you.”

And right when he says those three words, three syllables, eight letters, I feel a finger of mine twitch. My ring finger. And I feel another twitch, my thumb. And all of a sudden, my entire hand is moving, squeezing Garrett’s with all the feeling I have in me, because I love him too. And I can wait for him, now, knowing that whatever I do, he’ll wait for me, too.