I look between them. “What? No. Are you serious right now?” I shake my head. “No. Absofuckinglutely not. No.Fuck.”
Whirling around, I ignore my crushed smokes and the lit cigarette in my other hand as I clasp the back of my head.
It’s starting to rain again, just a light drizzle that prickles my forehead, dampening my exposed skin.
It’s been raining on and off since this morning, which is apparently super unheard of in LA. Not sure if it’s a good sign, or a bad sign, that out of the thirty-some days a year it rains in this city, we happened to be here for one of them.
We need to haul ass, or we’re gonna have to grab a ride before the skies open up on us. The idea of confining myself in a car or bus right now, with no easy way out, is not really at the top of my list of things I want to do in the foreseeable future.
Mason and Shawn are quiet behind me as I pace. I feel like a caged tiger, which is stupid. It’s not like I’m rooted to this spot. Open roads surround me, and yet the world is closing in,
Make it make sense to me.
I’m not really taking anything in as my eyes dart around the street. Slater Records is on a side-street, so it’s not too heavy with foot-traffic. Especially at this time of night, even if it seems to be bustling farther down at the intersection.
I stare blankly at the couple jogging hand in hand across the crosswalk. It feels like there’s a boulder sitting on my chest right now as it really sinks in just how easy it could be to give in without Will here. Without anyone here.
Reggie, Ivy, Dr. Wells…
Deacon, my sponsor. An older man I met at the Addicts Anonymous meetings I sometimes go to with Shawn and Mason back home.
I don’t go often. Neither does Deacon. We met on a whim a few months back and hit it off right away. I’m his first sponsee, and he’s my first sponsor. It’s a match made in whiskey Heaven, sans the whiskey, something he gave up two years before I was even born. So he’s basically a pro at this whole sober-livin’ thing.
I know I could call him, or any one of my so-called support system, and they’d do what they can to talk me off the ledge in a heartbeat. Even if it’s just to stay on the phone and listen to me bitch for as long as I can stay awake. They’d fucking do it, the masochists.
Hell, Will would probably steal a plane and fly himself to me if he could. Especially if he knew I lied this morning when I ignored his call, and sent him back a text with some bullshit excuse about how I couldn’t talk because we were finally making good headway in the studio.
Spoiler alert: we did not make any kind ofwaytoday,because saidWay,as in yours truly,kept fucking everything up. Losing count, losing focus, losing my patience…
Just all the losing, until ultimately I gave up, and just… played angry nonsense on my guitar until my fingers bled.
But I try not to think about any of that right now, least of all lying to Will, or the fact I haven’t heard from him since. Because I know what he’d say if he knew where my head was really at right now. I know he’d be pissed that I’m keeping it from him.
But he deserves to have a life outside of worrying about me. He deserves to have a fucking break.
“The point is we could,” Mason finally says, slowly, meaningfully, and it takes me a second to remember what we were talking about.
Right.Flinging ourselves off the proverbial wagon.
“We always know we can,” he says. “How else do you think we manage to resist when it’s thrown in our faces?”
My brow furrows as I slowly drop my hands to my sides and turn to face them once more. A long line of ash falls off my cigarette, but I hardly notice.It’s not cutting it tonight.
“Ignoring that little voice,” he goes on, still side-eying Shawn, “shoving it away, pretending that giving in isn’t as easy as it is…” He turns his gaze on me. “It does us no favors. It’ll just bite us in the ass later when it all comes to a head and we’re at our lowest.”
Shawn nods. “Over time it gets easier to ignore. It’ll become less of a shout, and more of a passing whisper. So when itdoespipe up, usually when we’re not doing so hot, or when we least expect it…”
“We’re strong enough to shove it away and move on with our day,” Mason finishes.
I swallow tightly as tears burn the back of my eyes.
“It’s not a crime to… daydream about it,” he says after a moment. “And it’s not always helpful, trust me, but it… makes it more manageable. In a convoluted way, maybe, but… yeah.”
“It’s our way of planning for the worst,” Shawn clarifies in a steady voice. “We picture it all. Taking that hit, that sip… what we need to do to get it… how we might hide it…” His shoulders rise, then fall with his exhale. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth and takes a quick puff. “Then we think about what comes after. The shaking, the nausea. The agonizing pain…”
Mason’s eyes redden. “Phoebe screaming and crying in my face, beating my chest.”
Shawn tips his head. “That.”