@heatherwatson asked: Breaking News: Social Media Influencer, Heather Watson, In Critical Condition After Car Accident (Developing)
Travis had gotten home from work when he got the notification. He didn’t use social media of any kind outside of staying in Heather’s world. The notification had come from a news coverage program that follows influencers-- Heather had recommended it to him because they were always doing articles on her. He’d read every one of them, of course. He couldn’t get the redhead out of his head on top of his own problems. Here he was without kids trying to recover-- trying to put his past mistakes behind him so he could win them back. On top of it he was in constant communication with Heather, texting her... receiving calls... pictures-- she treated him like a long lost friend and he cherished it. She was the solid piece in his life despite her never coming back to Texas after the motel.
He often wondered if she knew how caught up on the idea of her he was. He kept it hidden, kept it pressed away beyond the moments they’d playfully tease each other over something. She had her whole life to do something wonderful and he’d been through his-- fucked it up. Couldn’t put that on someone else. Not ever. She had no idea how bad it was. No idea how caught up in shit he was with CPS. He even did a good job of hiding the fact he had kids-- avoiding any conversation that could lead to them. She didn’t need to know his woes either. She had so much going for her and if Travis tried to get closer... he’d just tear her down.
But all of those thoughts were bottled into regret of not pushing through with it when he saw the notification on his phone. His heart sunk and his stomach flipped, living room floor shifting under his feet as he stood there staring at the notification. Slowly he swiped his thumb against it, pulling up the article to read through it. There was a picture of he vehicle-- the mangled metal and twisted parts making it look absolutely horrible. He fell into his recliner, eyes blurring slightly as he read over the words written there in sporadic bursts: STATUS CRITICAL. NOT SURE OF RECOVERY. LUCKY TO STILL BE ALIVE. Every new set of words just set him into a spiral.
He wasn’t sure how long he sat in that chair reading different article after different article-- hands shaky and heart tight in his chest. He did the only thing he could think to do. He texted her. He knew she wouldn’t respond. Knew she wouldn’t be able to, but he had to. He didn’t know anyone he could call to get a status update-- didn’t know anyone who could tell him anything. All he could do was wait with the rest of the world that knew her and that smile.
Eventually the minutes turned to hours and the hours to days. There was no update. Everything kept saying she was still critical and that they were waiting for someone to give an update. Eventually the worry and concern drove Travis to a place he had been avoiding-- hands rotating the wheel of his truck as it moved down the road, leading him to a bar on the outskirts of town. He sat in his truck for twenty minutes before making his way inside. Eyes on his phone as he moved along the parking lot-- staring at their message thread and the heart she’d last sent a day before the accident. But his eyes were on his messages. The two he’d sent. A ‘you’re in my thoughts, please be okay’ and another that admitted he had more to say to her than he had the last few months and that if she recovered: he’d tell her.
He was staring at those messages as if he knew getting a response would stop him from entering the bar, but when he reached the door and nothing came through-- he sighed and slipped inside, walking straight to the bar. He was greeted by an older bartender, the man asking what his poison was. Travis hesitated before ordering a beer, settling himself onto a stool. Moments later there was a bottle of beer in front of him and he was reaching out to grab it. A calloused hand wrapped the bottle, lifting it from the wooden bar top and towards his lips. He paused a moment in thought about doing it before bringing the lip of it to his own, tipping back and letting the amber liquid soothe the dryness in his throat.
Instantly his eyes shut and he tipped it back further, drinking at the beer as if it were the only thing able to quench his throat. When he drew it back it was halfway gone, blue eyes instantly falling to the mirror behind the bar and his tired reflection. He was quick to look away though, quick to deny himself the sight of him crippling and falling.
He was realizing far too quickly how much Heather Watson meant to him and the longer he sat there at the bar the closer he got to doing something stupid. That’s what brought on the second beer… the third… the fourth. Eventually he was stumbling out of the bar and climbing into his truck to sit behind the wheel, but he made no advancements to drive. Instead he found his phone and dialed Heather’s number, squeezing it tight in his hand as he waited for it to go to voicemail. When it did he spoke, shaky and quiet, “Hi, Heather.”
He sniffed a breath and couldn’t stop the way his words poured out, “I don’t know when you’ll hear this... or if you will, but I need to say this.” His words were low, accent thick from the alcohol buzzing through him, “You’re amazin’, darlin’. Everything about you down to the twitch of your eyebrow when you’re stuck in a thought. And honestly I don’t know if things would ever be the same for me if you didn’t recover. You... you’re the closest thing I got to a friend while I work through my shit. I know that ain’t fair to put on you, but your voice... your videos.. they get me through the worst of it and right now-- I don’t want to imagine my life without you in it somehow.” He furrowed his brow, gripping the phone tighter, “I need you to be okay.”
His voice cracked and he felt tears edging at his eyes, body tense. “Please be okay.” He whispered the words then hung up the call before shifting in his seat to lean against it. He reached down to grab at the handle for the seat, tipping it back a bit so he could shut his eyes. He wasn’t going to drive. It was bad enough he went drinking. If anyone found out? He’d be thrown back several hundred steps, but he needed this. It was all he had left.
Sleep. He sighed and let the thought consume him, let the tired pull of too much booze lull him into sleep. She was going to be okay. She had to be. She was strong, right? She could get through this. She’d pull through and Travis... he... he’d do something about his feelings. Right? He’d put on his brave face and say what he was thinking. She had a right to know. But for now it was a matter of waiting and depending on how he woke the next morning would determine if he went shopping for something stronger. He could really go for a glass of whiskey.
