Chapter 3: The Intervention
The amber liquid in Andy’s glass shuddered as Ashley’s hand slammed down, the impact echoing in the relative quiet of their corner. The crumpled rectangle of paper landed between them like a challenge, its edges softened from being clutched in a pocket.
“What the hell is this?” Andy’s voice was a gravelly mess, his eyes bleary as he tried to focus on the thing that had interrupted his solitary communion with the bottom of a glass.
“It’s a plane ticket, you idiot. Usually, people use them to get on airplanes.” Ashley slid onto the stool next to him, flagging down the bartender with a two-finger gesture. “Two waters. And keep ’em coming.” He turned back to Andy, his expression a mix of exasperation and genuine concern. “It leaves for New York tomorrow morning. JFK.”
Andy picked up the ticket, smoothing it against the sticky wood. The destination meant nothing for a second, then everything clicked into place with a sickening lurch. New York. Lily’s fashion week campaign. The one she’d mentioned months ago, when things were still good enough for them to share calendars. He dropped it like it was on fire. “No.”
“Yes.” Ashley accepted the waters from the bartender and pushed one toward Andy. “Drink that. You’ve had enough of the other stuff.”
“I’m not going to New York to ambush her. That’s… that’s pathetic. Worse than this.” Andy gestured vaguely at his own disheveled state, the empty glasses lining his personal space. “She was just at the studio. It was a disaster. I told you.”
“You told me you kissed her and then cried on the floor. Not exactly the closing argument of a winning campaign, mate.” Ashley took a long sip of water. “But she kissed you back. For a second. That’s your opening. That’s the crack in the door.”
“It was a mistake. A reflex.” Andy ran a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the memory of her lips, the fleeting pressure of her fingers on his jacket. The recollection was immediately followed by the image of her pulling away, the horror in her eyes. “She hates me, Ash. She should hate me.”
“Yeah, probably. But hate isn’t the opposite of love. Indifference is. And she’s not indifferent.” Ashley leaned in closer, his voice dropping, though the jukebox had mercifully moved on from their song to a generic rock ballad. “You sitting here, turning your liver into paté, isn’t fighting for her. It’s surrendering. It’s exactly what you think you deserve, which is why it’s so easy.”
Andy stared into his water glass, the ice cubes shimmering in the dim neon light. He wanted to argue, to tell Ashley he didn’t understand the depth of the rot inside him, the guilt that felt like a physical weight. But the ticket was there, a tangible thing. A possibility.
“What would I even do? Show up at the shoot? They’d tackle me before I got within a hundred feet of her. She’s working. It’s her world. I’m just… the messy footnote.”
“Use your head, for once.” Ashley sighed, patient. “You don’t go to the set. You find out where she’s staying. You send flowers. Not ‘I’m sorry’ flowers. ‘Thinking of you’ flowers. You write a note that isn’t a drunk text. You be the man she fell for, not the bastard you became.”
The simplicity of it was maddening. Andy felt the urge to order another whiskey, to drown out the faint hope Ashley was dangling in front of him. Hope was so much more painful than despair.
“And if she throws them in the trash? Or has security escort me out of the city?”
“Then you know.” Ashley’s gaze was steady, unflinching. “You finally know it’s over. And you can start to… I don’t know, learn to live with it. But at least you’ll have tried. Right now, you’re just punishing yourself, and frankly, it’s getting boring to watch.”
A harsh laugh escaped Andy’s throat. “Boring?”
“Tragedy is only interesting for so long. Then it’s just pity. And you’re better than that.” Ashley stood up, tossing a few bills onto the bar. “The ticket’s paid for. Your bag is already packed. I did it myself. There’s a car picking you up at seven.”
Andy looked from the ticket to his friend’s retreating back. “You packed my bag? What did you pack?”
Ashley turned at the door, a flicker of his usual mischief in his eyes. “Clean clothes. Your toothbrush. And that fucking awful cologne she bought you for your birthday that you never wear. The one that smells like expensive regret.” He pushed the door open, letting in a blast of cool night air and the distant wail of a siren. “Your move, Andy.”
The door swung shut, leaving Andy alone with the hum of the refrigerator, the clink of glasses, and the impossible weight of a decision on a crumpled piece of paper. He picked up the boarding pass again, tracing the flight number with his thumb. New York. Her city now.
He left the water untouched, but he didn’t order another drink. He just sat there, holding the ticket, watching the condensation on his glass trace paths down the side, like the tears he’d shed on the studio floor. The pattern they made looked like a map, and for the first time all night, he had a destination.
The condensation on his glass traced paths like the tears he’d shed on the studio floor, a map leading nowhere until now. He stared at the crumpled boarding pass, its edges soft from Ashley’s pocket and his own sweaty palm. A destination.
He GRABS THE PASS.
The paper felt flimsy, insubstantial for the weight it carried. He stood up too fast, the stool legs screeching against the worn floorboards, and the room tilted for a dizzying second. He shoved the ticket into the inside pocket of his jacket, right over his heart, a stupidly symbolic gesture that made him grimace.
The night air outside the bar was a cold slap, clearing the whiskey fog from his brain. He fumbled for his phone, his thumb hovering over Lily’s name in his contacts. He didn’t press it. Sending a text now, drunk and desperate, would undo everything. Ashley was right. He had to be different.
A taxi cab, its yellow paint stark under the streetlamp, slowed as he raised his hand. The backseat smelled of pine air freshener and old vinyl. “Where to?” the driver asked, his voice bored.
Andy gave his home address, the word feeling hollow on his tongue. Home was just the house they’d shared, now full of her absence in every room. He leaned his head against the cool window, watching the city blur past. He could still taste her from the studio, the ghost of her lipstick and their shared regret.
The memory was a physical ache. He closed his eyes, and he was back there, pinning her against the soundboard, the hum of dormant equipment vibrating through them. ‘I still taste you in my dreams,’ he’d whispered, a confession torn from a place he usually kept locked down. Her sharp intake of breath was the only warning before their mouths crashed together in a frenzy that felt more like a fight than a reunion.
It had been all teeth and clutching hands, a desperate attempt to reclaim something they’d already broken. Then she’d pushed him away, her eyes wide with a fresh horror that cut deeper than any anger. “This doesn’t fix anything, Andy,” she’d said, her voice trembling. “You don’t get to erase it like this.”
The taxi hit a pothole, jolting him back to the present. He was alone. But the ticket was a hard rectangle against his chest. He wouldn’t ambush her. He would just… be there. In the same city, breathing the same air, trying to prove he could exist without the constant need to self-destruct.
The car pulled up to his dark, silent house. He overtipped the driver and got out, standing on the sidewalk and looking at the blank windows. For the first time in months, it didn’t feel like a tomb. It felt like a starting line.
The house was exactly as he’d left it, a museum of his own failure. A single high-heeled shoe lay abandoned by the sofa, a stark black monument to her absence. He stepped over it, beelining for the shower, needing to scrub the bar smell and his own indecision from his skin.
The hot water did little to quiet the thrumming in his veins. He braced his hands against the tiles, head bowed, watching the water swirl down the drain, dark with yesterday’s mascara and studio grime. The ghost of her weight against the soundboard flashed behind his eyelids, a tactile memory that was equal parts torture and fuel.
Ashley had, in fact, packed a bag. It sat by the door, a silent accomplice. Andy rifled through it, finding the cologne she loved—the one he’d always found too sweet, too soft for the persona he wore on stage. He uncapped it and the scent hit him like a physical blow, a time machine to birthdays and quiet mornings that felt like someone else’s life.
He didn’t spray it on. He just stood there, holding the bottle, breathing it in until his chest ached. Then he zipped the bag shut. The taxi would be here soon. His phone buzzed on the counter, a reporter’s name flashing on the screen. He ignored it, his world narrowing to the single, terrifying act of getting to the airport.
LAX was a jarring cacophony of bright lights and hurried strangers. He kept his head down, sunglasses on despite the pre-dawn gloom, the collar of his jacket turned up. Every blonde head in the crowd wasn’t her, but his pulse spiked each time anyway. He felt exposed, a raw nerve in a world of perfectly normal people.
At the gate, he bought a terrible coffee and chugged it, needing the caffeine more than the taste. His knee bounced uncontrollably. This was insanity. Showing up in her city, uninvited, after everything. He could still hear the sharp, final sound of her voice in the studio: This doesn’t fix anything.
“Now boarding Flight 287, non-stop service to New York, JFK,” a voice chimed over the intercom, smooth and impersonal. The queue began to shuffle forward. This was it. A point of no return masquerading as a blue carpet and a smiling gate agent.
His phone vibrated again. This time, it was Lily. His heart stalled. He stared at her name, a cold dread washing over him. Was she calling to tell him to stay away? Had she somehow found out? He let it go to voicemail, his thumb hovering over the decline button feeling like the heaviest action he’d ever taken.
He stood, slinging his bag over his shoulder. The line was moving. He could still turn around. Walk back to the taxi rank, go back to the bar, go back to the quiet, punishing emptiness of his house. That was the easy path. The known quantity.
He thought of Ashley’s voice, rough with frustration in the dive bar. You either fight for her or you let her go. He thought of the way Lily’s fingers had dug into his jacket for one fleeting second before she pushed him away. That wasn’t nothing. It was a splinter of hope, and he was going to cling to it, even if it tore him apart.
He joined the end of the line, his boarding pass crumpled in his damp hand. The agent scanned it with a mechanical beep. His feet carried him forward, down the jet bridge that felt both endless and far too short. The air changed, taking on the distinct, sterile smell of pressurized cabin and anticipation.
A flight attendant nodded at him as he crossed the threshold. He found his seat, a window, and stowed his bag. Outside, the ground crew moved with a practiced, indifferent rhythm. He sank into the narrow seat, buckling the belt with a definitive click. The door of the plane hissed shut, sealing him in his decision.
The engines whined to life, a deep vibration thrumming up through the fuselage and into his bones. He leaned his head against the cool plastic of the window, watching his city, his old life, begin to slide away. There was no going back now.
HE BOARDS THE PLANE.