Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #437
Frankie: I’ve been awake for hours. I had a dream about you, you touched and loved me. It felt real . . . I wish it was real. I hate you for leaving me, Risk. I told you to go, but I can’t believe you really listened to me. I hope you’re happy. Even though I’m hurting right now I know that when I wake up tomorrow, I’ll still love you just as much, but I’ll miss you a little less. Even though I don’t have you anymore, there are times when I feel happy. Time really has helped heal the wound that you leaving ripped open. These periods of sadness when they come . . . Christ, they really do hurt, though.
Keep chasin’ rock star.
Text message #471
Frankie: I had an asthma attack today. It was scary, it hurt, but eventually the pain went away. I wish the pain of missing you would go away. I hate it, Risk. I fucking hate it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #499
Frankie: Anna told me that you were making eyes at a Kardashian at an award show. You’re such a PIG!
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #511
Frankie: A tourist in town asked me out on a date today. I turned him down, but it wasn’t a flat out no, which tells me I might be ready for a new relationship soon. Maybe not, I’m not exactly sure. Being emotionally fucked up is so fun. Can you feel my sarcasm? I feel like you can feel it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #533
Frankie: I miss you. I love you.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #567
Frankie: Hannah told me that you were all over Twitter. Again. Stop taking drugs and drinking alcohol, wazzock. I fucking hate that you’re taking that squit! WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU? Please, please, please, stop. I can’t lose you again. I can’t. Please. Stop.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
Text message #589
Frankie: I heard you’re sober. Do you have any idea how happy this makes me? Do you, Risk? I’ve been so worried about you. So worried. I was terrified whenever Hannah or Anna mentioned you in case they would tell me that you’d died. I’ve been sick just thinking about it, but you’re sober now. I’m so proud of you. Please, please, don’t take that stuff again. It’s not worth the risk. Don’t take it.
Keep chasin’, rock star.
My eyes rolled over my sent messages to Risk’s old phone number. I skimmed past the similar-sounding ones and focused on the ones I remembered sending and how I felt when I sent them. I was still waiting to receive a message one day telling me I had the wrong number and to stop bothering the new number’s owner, but until that day came, I was going to keep sending messages to ‘Risk’ whenever the mood struck me because it helped me. It really did. It was a form of expression and even though it was only me who knew about it, it helped me straighten out how I felt. Most of the time, anyway. I tapped on the message box and began thumbing out a new message and when I hit send, for once, I wished Risk would text me back.
Text message #600
Frankie: You’re home.
Our first encounters were not good . . . not good at all, but you came to find me and you apologised for the things you said to hurt me. I think I gave in easier than I should have, but I couldn’t help it. You were in my fucking kitchen, drinking tea and holding my hand. I could have died. We decided we’re going to be friends, but what I want to know is how are we going to make that work? How can we be friends . . . ? How can we be when I’m still so deeply in love with you? I thought our love was past tense, I thought I was holding on to you because I was hurt and messed up inside but I’m holding on to you because I NEVER stopped loving you. We’re going to be friends and I love you, how messed up is that?
Risk, I love you. Do you love me too?
Keep chasin’, rock star.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RISK
I hummed to a tune that was stuck in my head and before I forgot it, I rolled up my sleeve, revealing one of my many tattoos. From my inner left forearm down to my wrist, I had blank sheet music paper on my arm. I often thought of music and had to write it down before I forgot it. I had been writing lyrics and music notes on my skin for years, a tattoo of sheet music just made it easier for me to keep track of it until I transferred it to actual paper. I jotted down the music notes on the tattooed staff on my skin, then I scribbled a couple of lyrics in small print on the back of my hand with my fine-tipped, permanent Sharpie.