Breakdown (Hystoria #4)

8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

Katie

Eight years earlier

“And then they had me sign their boobs, Katie. Their boobs! It was amazing!” Paxton laughs from the other end of the line as I unpack my groceries, phone wedged between my shoulder and cheek as I listen to him telling me about his tour.

“Good to know you’re enjoying yourself in Europe,” I tell him curtly trying to not show how annoyed I am. It’s been a while since I’ve last heard from him. A year ago, we called each other daily; he told me about everything that happened as he discovered the music industry, and I told him everything about university. But now?

Now, he's famous, always busy, either with music or with women, never calls me and when I call him, he’d only answer sometimes. It used to be so different. He used to ask me what my days were like. Messaged me every few hours and forwarded me memes he saw online he thought I'd find funny. He sent me songs he thought I might like and asked me whether I did. My thoughts used to matter. I used to matter to matter to him.

Then the messages became sparse, and he'd only answer me if I followed up several times. Even then, he’d only answer the latest message, ignoring all the ones I’d sent before. Maintaining the friendship turned draining and university chipped too much energy away from me to keep up this one-sided farce.

Then he decided to go on a little power trip. He’d call me in the middle of the night, even on days that he knew I had to get a good night’s sleep because I had an exam the following day. When I answered, he’d talk about nonsense, stuff that definitely could have waited until the next day. One time he called me while there was a goddamn party in full swing in the background and put me on hold while he talked with another person there. If I hung up, the guilt-tripping, gaslighting messages would trickle in.

“I can’t believe you would do that to me.”

“You are such a bad friend. You can’t even be here for me this one time.”

“What do you mean I was ignoring you? I was talking to you the whole time!”

All of those conversations would end up with me apologizing to him and secretly seething because of his treatment, yet the guilt tripping worked so well that I just couldn’t bear to end the friendship. Instead, I became cold. I gave him no reactions. I let him talk and talk without replying anything more than a hum and ‘Is that so?’ with my phone set to almost silent as I worked on my homework. He became background noise, and I hoped that at one point he’d finally have enough.

And slowly, but surely, our contact fizzled out. I stopped initiating and at some point, so did he. If he really cared about me, he’d remember that I exist at one point, right? But the call didn’t come after a week. It didn’t come after a month. Or two. And I started wondering how long it would take him to notice. The answer was in equal parts depressing and illuminating.

Six months. It took him six fucking months to call me.

And at this point, I'm not sure if that can salvage this friendship, or if I even want to salvage it, even if my heart began to flutter when I saw his name on my screen with the incoming call. Maybe I should have just ignored it, accepted that our friendship has run its course, let it fizzle out like a lit match in the rain.

But throughout the past half year, it didn't feel like an important piece of me, or my life was missing. Thinking back, it was more of a relief. There was no pretending to be happy to hear him talk about himself and word-vomit his problems, then not listen to my advice even though he asked for it. There was no struggle to even get a word in, only for everything I said to be ignored as he continued to complain about his life. No apologizing for being hurt from his behavior.

"It's so great here! The beer is amazing, the women are all so fucking beautiful and the crowds are just next fucking level. And did you know they don't have speed limits in Germany? Jake rented a car, and we went like 230 kilometers per hour, we were so fucking fast."

"That's great for you, Paxton," I tell him without any real emotion in my voice as I put the milk into my fridge. At this point, I just hope the call is over soon. He didn’t even greet me, never asked me how I’ve been or how university is going, he just straight up delved into talking about what he's been up to.

"Got to go now, Katie!" I blink once. Twice. Utterly surprised.

"Really?" I ask, disbelief making my voice high-pitched. “That's it?" Anger sears through my body, pumping through my veins and burning me from the inside. "It’s been half a goddamn year since we last spoke and you don't even care how I am? If anything is going on in my life? I'm the one you call to fucking brag and dump your stories about signing boobs on?"

"I mean what the hell should have happened? Your life is so fucking boring, listening to you would just be a waste of time."

I take the phone away from my face, fighting the urge to throw it against the nearest wall. My fingers are already flexing, the muscles in my arm twitching with the desire to chuck it through the room. Did I hear right? Did Pax really just say that?

Anger is replaced by sadness as the words sink in.

"When did this happen?" I ask, my voice cracking under the weight of emotions coursing through me. "When did you become such a self-centered, arrogant asshole?"

His answer is laughter. Fucking laughter. And all the love I ever thought I felt for him evaporates like water in the desert. Now, he’s just made it unmistakably clear just how little I and our friendship mean to him, not even worth two minutes of faking any interest.

I almost chuckle at my stupidness. How dumb was I? Almost worshipping the ground he walked on. Being there for him when he crumbled under the weight of expectations his parents placed on his shoulders. Being the shoulder to cry on when he struggled with life. For someone who can't even be bothered to ask how I'm doing, or at least pretend to care. What a joke.

"Lose this number, Paxton," I say eerily calm and end the call without waiting for an answer. Feeling numb, I walk backwards, until the back of my knees hit the back of my bed, then sink down. Only slowly, the thought is settling in: This is it. It’s done. I’m done. Years of friendship end right here. In this shitty student dorm, on my far too hard mattress, between milk cartons and frozen food. And even though I knew it was coming, it doesn’t stop the pain from searing through my heart.

My gaze wanders down, but the phone in my hand remains silent. No attempt to call me back.

Blinking until reality seems closer again, I take a deep breath. Before I can change my mind, I pull up my contacts, scrolling until I find him in the list. Blocked. Then deleted. And then I throw my phone somewhere on the bed before I pull my legs onto the mattress and bury my face in my knees, silent tears staining the fabric of my jeans.

It hurts. Realizing how much I put into this friendship, just to end up here. It hurts. Worse than leaving home.

Sobs wrack my whole body, and I clutch my shirt right above my heart, right where it hurts.

Then my phone rings again. Full of hope, I glance at it; slightly deflating when I realize it's my parents, presumably letting me know that they've dropped my brother off at their friend's place and are now off on their vacation.

If only I'd known then that it'd be the last time I heard them.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" The words leave my mouth before I even fully comprehend that it’s him. My stomach drops and it takes everything in me to fight the urge to slam the door in his face. The same burning anger I felt back then is rushing through my veins, and a cold shiver of hurt runs down my spine, as his words echo in my head. “ Your life is so fucking boring, listening to you would be a waste of my time.”

He looks just like did back then. Well, almost. Light crows’ feet wrinkles line the corners of his eyes and deep, worried wrinkles run across his forehead now. His face has gotten sharper, his jaw more defined. And he definitely didn't have that kind of beard stubble back then. He even struggled to grow a moustache.

There are dark bags under his eyes and his cheeks are falling in. He looks exhausted, but his eyes light up when he lifts his gaze to look at me.

"Katie-"

"What are you doing here?" I repeat sternly, crossing my arms in front of my chest. My heart is beating furiously, so loudly I fear he might hear it pumping anger through my veins.

Paxton steps closer, until he's filling the doorframe and making me take a small step back. Now I can't close the door on him, even if I wanted to.

"I'm here to look at the room," he says, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips and my jaw drops. He’s the one who messaged me? Oh hell no.

"No, you’re not." I shake my head, squaring my shoulders. That is absolutely not happening.

"Hey, what's going on here?" Worried by my absence, Micah pops his head around the doorframe into the hallway. His eyes grow wide and the ever-present grin slowly slips off his face, when he realizes who's standing in front of me. "What the fuck?" The words come out in a confused whisper, and I nod.

“That’s what I said,” I mutter, without taking my eyes off Pax. Like those creepy angels in that one popular series that I saw on TV randomly, I’m scared that something will happen when I look away.

"Listen, I'm not here to cause trouble,” he promises, lifting his hands for a conciliatory gesture, his palms facing me. “I need a place to stay and just want to look at the room." He takes another step further inside, and I take one back, opening more space between us..

"It's a no," I repeat. "Actually, a ‘hell no’. I don’t want you as a roommate. You don't need to look at the room." I glare at him, hoping he’ll finally get the hint and have the decency to leave.

"Please?" He asks, his confident demeanor suddenly changing as he raises his hand to scratch the back of his head, shooting the both of us a sheepish look.

"No. Absolutely no way." I shake my head.

"But why?" Micah asks curiously and I turn around to glare at him.

"Because," I finally find my confidence again and step right up to Paxton and drive my index finger into his chest with each point I’m making, "you're a rockstar, which means first off, you can stay anywhere you want that's not here. Second of all, you're a rockstar, one who caused quite a stir last year.” He winces but I ignore it. “If paparazzi find you here, Luke’s and my lives are turning to hell and I'm not doing that to him. Thirdly and lastly, you've suddenly disappeared, which I assume in show business terms means you've been to rehab. If so, good for you, really, all the best, but I can't have an addict living with my brother. That's just not happening." I shake my head and turn right around again, strutting to the kitchen with my head held high.

"It wasn't rehab." Paxton's quiet voice makes me waver. "At least not in the sense that you think. Remember how you called me self-centered arrogant asshole? Turns out there was a reason for that. Please let me explain." I stop right in front of Micah, but still do not turn around.

"Listen,” Micah says and clears his throat. “I don't think I need to be a part of this conversation." He pats my shoulder, shooting me a wink when I look up at him. "Apparently you're not a creep who wants to lick floors and the two of you have history, so I’m not needed here. I have no desire to get into that. So, Katie, see you later, let me know how it goes.” I return his hug, and he leans down to murmur into my ear. "People can change. At least hear him out."

I want to stomp my foot on the ground and shout 'But I don't want to hear it.' but I stop myself. Instead, I take a deep breath. Then another. I am an adult; I can do this. I am calm. And I am not letting Paxton walk all over me again. I can do this.

I hear Micah walk past Paxton to the door. "Big fan by the way," he chuckles and claps Pax's shoulder before disappearing out of the apartment.

Now it's just Paxton and me. And a complicated history and burning anger between us. How lovely. That’s exactly how I pictured this day going.

"So, you weren't in rehab," I say quietly, breaking the almost deafening silence that fell after Micah pulled the door shut behind him, and cross my arms in front of my chest again. "I assume that means there wasn’t an addiction. Then what the hell has been going on with you?"

"Acquired Situational Narcissism," he admits quietly. Finally, I slowly turn around to him, my face scrunched up in confusion.

"Acquired what?" Of course, I know what narcissism means, but it just doesn’t make sense. He never behaved like a narcissist when we were young.

"Look, I'll be more than happy to explain everything but can we, like, sit down for this? The whole thing is not really a hallway kind of topic. I promise, if you really don’t want me here I’ll go, but please, let me explain."

I narrow my eyes at him. He said “Please.” That’s different. I scan him from his head to feet.

Something about him is different. I can't quite put my finger on it, though. Still, that and the fact that he said “Please” are intriguing enough that wordlessly walk to the kitchen, a silent invite which he follows with a quiet, relieved sigh I’m sure wasn’t meant for me to hear. I even pour him a coffee as I get one for myself, aren't I the greatest host?

He makes himself right at home, helping himself to some milk from the fridge before he sits down opposite me at the table. I observe him as he fidgets with the mug in his hands, not sure what to make of all this. Is he nervous? The Paxton from Hystoria, God's gift to humanity and the planet earth, is actually nervous?

"Talk." Is all I say before I lean back in my chair and catch the hem of my shirt with my fingers, fidgeting with it.

He clears his throat before he answers .

"How much do you want to hear?"

"Considering you want me to let you move into my spare bedroom, I think I deserve the whole story, don't you think?" I raise my eyebrow at him, and he nods, his eyes wandering towards the mug in his hands on the table.

"So, the past year I was in therapy for a narcissistic personality disorder," he admits quietly after clearing his throat again, turning the mug in his hands as he talks at it.

"I'll be damned," I whisper, my eyes growing wide. He threw the words out back there, but I didn’t think he’d actually spend the whole damn year in therapy. That’s crazy.

"Everything came to a head with the boys last year, that’s the scandal you were talking about. I did some horrible things that I'm really, really not proud of, which resulted in me being more or less temporarily kicked out of the band.” He raises his mug to take a sip of coffee, then continues. “This is going to sound like an excuse, but it was like a haze. I remember everything that happened, obviously, but I just don't recognize the person who did that.” He gulps, now back at fidgeting with the mug. “Neither did the guys. They also thought I was on drugs, and I don’t think they were very convinced when I told them I wasn’t. Either way, they issued me an ultimatum. I could get help or leave the band. In the end, I got help."

He clears his throat again and I see his Adams apple bob up and down a few times before he goes on. "It took a bit, though, I have to admit that. The first month of the past year was filled with rage, but one day I realized they were right. The knowledge hit me like a fucking sledgehammer. Within a week, I had myself checked into a facility, where I also got diagnosed." He laughs nervously, while I lean back in my chair and watch him.

"What exactly does your diagnosis mean?"

"To put it into simple terms, I am a diagnosed asshole." His eyes meet mine and in them, I see nothing but sincerity, sincere pain and sincere hope. My heartbeat speeds up in surprise, but on the outside, I remain calm.

"And you're the first person I owe an apology to, I guess this part is kind of similar to what happens after a rehab.” He takes a deep breath but doesn’t break the eye contact. “I'm so sorry, Katie. I was a horrible friend back then and you deserved so much better. Your life isn’t boring.” I take a sharp breath. His words have been playing in my head over and over, but I would have never thought that he’d remember them. “You deserved a friend was there for you. I'm very sorry that wasn't me." I nod curtly, not quite sure what to feel. It’s nice to hear it of course, but at the same time I’m just so… indifferent to his apology.

"Thank you," I say in response, and he nods, clearly not demanding forgiveness. Another surprise. "It doesn't explain why you’re asking to move into my spare bedroom, though."

"It's complicated," he sighs, and I cock my head at him, raising my eyebrow.

“Well, try me.”

"I can't face the guys yet. I fucked up so badly and I just..." He sighs and his hand lands in his hair, pulling on it. “I need more time. I’ll make sure the paparazzi won’t find me. Or you.”

Despite my remaining anger, my heart aches for him. I want to reach out and take his hand in mine and give it a reassuring squeeze, but this is not the time to focus on him. This is the time to put myself first and protect myself and Luke. Protect our peace, my sanity, and my heart. So, I bury my hands in the fabric of my short sleeves and hold onto the fabric tightly.

"Therapy's been eye-opening," he elaborates and my eyebrows scrunch together. Where is this going? "It made me re-evaluate myself and frankly, I just have no fucking idea who I am anymore. I'm Paxton, the public figure who is kind of an asshole, that's who I was the past years, but without that? I’m just some random guy who got lucky." A bitter laugh falls from his lips. "All I do know is that the last person in whose presence I felt like myself, was you. Before I went to shit, of course. That's why I'm here."

"Okay, hold on," I say with wide eyes, my heartbeat picking up even more speed.

What kind of admission is that?

"So, living here is your fix? Because once upon a time you felt like yourself when I was around? You realize how crazy that sounds, right?"

"I know it sounds crazy,” he sighs. “But living here is not a fix. There is no easy fix for narcissism. It would be an opportunity to adjust to these huge life changes outside the spotlight and court of public opinion.” He rubs his hand over his face, looking even more exhausted than when he first came in.

“I don't expect you to do the heavy lifting for me. Hell, I don't even need you to be my friend. It would be nice, but all that I’m asking for here is honesty." His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he gulps. "If I go back into show business, I'll be surrounded by yes-men again. That’s just how it is. But I know that's what’s the most likely to throw me right back into the hole I spent the last year climbing out of. I know you're honest, Katie. And I know you're not afraid to give me the truth straight. I'll pay you double, or even triple the rent, I don't give a flying fuck, but please, Katie. Please help me out." His wide eyes are full of fear. “Because I don’t want to become that person ever again.”

"I..." I start but I don't have the slightest idea how to finish that sentence.

"I’m sorry," he mumbles into the silence, guilt written all over his face. "I know it's an ambush, but that's not the kind of topic I wanted to approach you with at your work."

"So, you've been at Temptation," I mutter out loud. "Why?"

"I was working up the courage to talk to you." He looks at me sheepishly. "Apparently, it's not that easy to approach someone who rightfully thinks of you as an asshole. I have a lot to make up for, not only with you but also the guys. But I’m ready to do what it takes." He takes a deep breath, visibly nervous about having to ultimately face them. Understandable. I wouldn’t like to be in his shoes for that either.

Before I can answer, I hear the apartment door open and my head whips to my right, where the clock hangs on the wall to check the time. Is it Luke or an untalented intruder?

Pax visibly tenses, his shoulders going stiff and rising up to his ears. I don't know what or who he expects, but his shoulders sag again with relief when Luke pops his head into the kitchen.

"Hey there, sis. Oh, you have-" His eyes catch on Paxton, then grow wide and his jaw drops as realization sets in. "Oh."

"Hey there, little man." Pax gets up and holds his fist out. “It’s been a while.” Luke bumps his fist against Paxton’s, before he can tear his eyes away from our guest to look at me.

"What 's going on?" He sounds unsure and confused and honestly, I’d love to know that, too.

"Paxton is here to apply as our roommate," I tell him, resigned. "Listen, Pax, what you’ve told me is a lot to take in." I cringe internally at how easily his nickname rolled from my lips. "Give me a few days to think about it."

"Of course. Here's my number." He fishes a small piece of paper out of his pocket and hands it to me and I almost laugh. He came prepared. "Let me know when you've decided."

He looks at me as if he wants to add something, but instead, he exhales deeply. Luke and he shake hands and then, just like that, Paxton walks out of the front door.

"Does he really want to live here?" Luke asks me once it falls shut. "That would be awesome!"

"Would it?" I lean my head back and look at the ceiling, letting the conversation run through my head again. Narcissism. It explains so much. The disregard, the selfishness, the arrogant attitude, the gaslighting and the deflection. Can it really be gone? I didn’t even know it was treatable. And if he lives here, will it really not end with the emotional labor being dumped on me? Because it sure sounded like it would.

But when I lower my eyes and look at Luke, I see the excitement in his eyes. Obviously. He knew Pax back then as well. He was basically the older brother Luke always wanted to have. The three of us spent so much time together it would have been hard for him not to remember him. He idolized him when he was five, proudly declaring that when he’d grown up he’d be a drummer, just like him .

And now he’s still frozen to his spot, his eyes shining with excitement glued to the spot where Pax disappeared, and I have no say in the matter anymore. The decision is made.

Now, what?