by Henry, Max
“You mean you thought you’d check I have enough drugs and alcohol to stay compliant?” Yeah, I figured out her game years ago. The difference is, I didn’t give two shits about it until Alice turned up in my life again.
Whenever someone throws it in my face that I drink too much—Toby, Mom, or on the odd occasion, Deanna—all I feel is anger. Their judgment makes me mad, frustrated that they’d choose criticism over encouragement. Everybody is quick to throw a comment on what I should be doing, but not one of those fuckers wants to stand by and help me figure out how.
Yet when Alice showed up last week … fuck, I felt sadness. The way she looked at me when I pulled that bourbon from the fridge, the pity in her goddamn gaze when she watched me from the doorway.
It fucking tore me apart. I’d let her down, and that goddamn hurt.
I never wanted to let her down, and yet that’s all I ever did.
Disappointed her time and fucking time again.
“I’m taking care of you,” Deanna states, hands to her hips. “I don’t want you struggling with withdrawals while you try to put something together for the next album.”
Not so long ago, I would have believed the bullshit she spews, but since alienating my parents and living above the garage in exile, I’ve had plenty of time alone to think. Time to wake up to the fucking fact that I take less when I’m on tour.
Time to replay that goddamn look on Alice’s face over and over again until resolve filled my languid limbs with steel and put a fire in my heart that no amount of alcohol could subdue.
It’s time.
“I not addicted enough to get withdrawals from drugs, Dee. You know that. They’re recreational only.”
Her eyes narrow. “Tried going dry lately?” She doesn’t wait for a response, striding across to my trashcan and tearing the metal lid off. “It seems not.”
“I’m not an alcoholic.” I’d take the fucking thing out for collection in the morning if I didn’t think I’d disturb half the neighborhood with the rattle of glass on tin. “Just got some issues I need to work through.”
“Sure. You’re not an alcoholic, and I’m a virgin.” She snorts her disdain. “Until you face up to the fact you have more liquor in your veins than blood, you’ll never change.”
Frankly, I can’t remember a fucking time when I wasn’t like this. I’ve been pouring burning release down my goddamn throat since I was old enough to reach the top shelf. As much as I want to deny the bitch could be right about anything, she’s raised a valid point.
How can I change when I don’t know how else to be?
“You’re going to be late,” I mutter, reaching for the TV remote.
A sigh out her contoured nose is all I get in response.
I switch on the first thing that comes up—some reality show about homesteading—and feign interest in what the fucking people do.
“What happened to you?” Deanna whispers, stepping into my periphery. Her low-cut top slips a little as she bends to level our faces. “When did you become so goddamn beaten down and useless?”
I swing my gaze toward her, the retort on the tip of my tongue: “When I met you.” But I don’t voice it. I never can. Futile little rebellions are all that I can manage. I can only push so far before the fear of the unknown kicks in.
I want to be rid of her, but I’m scared of what that future would look like for me.
Alone. Unwanted.
“I’ll come back tomorrow,” she announces, moving for the door. “Make sure you shower before then. If you want me to suck your dick, you need to make it at least appealing.”
My thumb taps the volume higher.
She traipses down the stairs, her heels making sharp taps on the wood as she goes. I wait until the sound of her car recedes before I dare to move. My focus slipped a while ago; the images on the screen are a mere blur of color.
I need to change. If this is what life will be like for the next however many years until I finally take one too many, then I don’t want a part of it. Question is, who the fuck will help me figure out what the alternative is?
My dry palms scrape down my face as I groan into the empty room. Mosaic shifts on his bed, too fucking scared to even lift his head when the bitch is in situ. I know what I need to do, and thinking of it already has me keen to lie down and quit before I’ve started.
“Back soon, buddy.”
With a cautious sniff of my pits to confirm the woman was only winding me up, I rise off the sofa and head for the house. Dad’s already asleep on his recliner when I enter my parents’ living room; legs crossed at the ankle and head lolled to one side. I meet the blank stare of my mother and freeze.
“She didn’t stay long.” Her gaze drops back down to the cross-stitch in her hands.
“I didn’t want her to.”
The needle pauses for the barest second before she continues.
“You’re right.”
She frowns, studying her quickening needle.
“I sit up there”—I thrust one arm toward the garage—“and drink away the gift I was given.” My throat remains dry, the next words hard to voice. “The gift you guys sacrificed a lot to nurture.”
She sets the craft aside carefully on the overstuffed leather cushion and sighs. My mother has always been a woman of poise and grace, no matter what social status she held. Even as a broke woman lining up with carefully counted food stamps to collect the basics for our family, she held her head high. Not much gets my mother down, but there’s one thing sure to drain the life from her bright blue eyes: me.
“What have you decided?” she asks carefully.
I glance toward Dad as he stirs. “Where do I start?
“With what part, exactly?” She bundles the cross-stitch into her craft basket and sets it out of the way.
“Getting sober.” My gaze falls on the family portrait displayed on the mantle. “Getting rid of Deanna.”
Her intake of breath is drowned out by the creak of my father’s chair as he wakes. The old man pulls himself upright, the chair folding in with the movement, and frowns when his gaze lands on me still frozen in the doorway. “Long time, no see.”
Always the smartass. “Figured I better remind you what I look like.” No prizes for guessing where I got it from.
He chuckles at my response and glances toward Mom. “What did I miss?”
My mother rises from her seat and breezes past toward the kitchen. I’m met with the familiar cloud of gardenias that have accompanied her since I can remember—even in the lean times.
I fix my stare back on Dad and bring him up to speed. “I asked for help.”
His brow dips, and he leans forward in the seat, elbows to knees. “What’s happened?”
The clang of the fridge door echoes behind me.
“I guess I reached the point where I’ve had enough.” I shrug. “I want to get sober.” My throat grows tight while I drag a hand over my face to wake myself out of this fucking nightmare. “I want to figure out if I like my life the way it is.”
Glass clinks over my shoulder. I turn to find Mom frozen with a pitcher of iced tea in one hand, and tumblers pinched between the fingers of her other. “Why would you not?”
How do I explain this to them? My fingers find a haven scrubbing through the overgrown lengths at the back of my head. “I just …” My breath leaves my lungs in a rush. “I tour, and then I do this. I sit around and wait for the next one, passing time by getting off my face, so I don’t feel guilty about how much I waste. What do I do when the touring stops?”
“You find another way to utilize your music,” Dad states as though it’s that simple.
“I need something outside of music, though.” He watches me as I enter the room and lean an elbow on the mantle. “You get that, right? When you don’t want to be working, you have an escape—your sculptures.”
His lips flatten into a line. I know he gets this.
“You need to let her go first,” Mom mutters as she sets the drinks down.
“As long as that woman is around, you stand no chance at getting through the rest.”
Deep down, I always knew it, and the thought strikes me at that moment—have I kept Deanna around as an excuse to keep wasted? Was she my safety blanket, my reason when the subject came up at the dinner table?
“So, how do I do it?” I whisper, staring down at my booted feet.
“You need us to tell you that?” Dad asks.
“It’s complicated,” Mom defends. “The woman has a vindictive streak the size of the Grand Canyon.” Her focus shifts to me. “What does she have over you if things go sour?”
“What do you mean if?” I laugh.
Dad shakes his head, leaning back in the seat as he looks away.
I find Mom still watching, waiting for a proper answer.
“She knows what happened in L.A.”
“Fuck’s sake,” Dad murmurs. “Why?”
“I didn’t think it was a big deal to tell her at the time,” I shout.
He shoots from the seat. “If you want our help, then you speak to us with respect in our own home,” he bellows, pointer finger jabbed toward the floor.
“Karl,” Mom utters. “We all need to focus on what’s important here: Emery wants our help.”
He sighs out his nose as he turns away, striding to the darkened window. “We can request she doesn’t step foot on our property, but you’ll have to deal with the rest yourself.”
“Can I legally shut her up?” I ask.
“Only if you can prove that what she has to share is detrimental to you.”
“It is,” I scoff. “She could rip me off the circuit with that knowledge.”
“Detrimental to you,” Dad stresses. “Not your career.”
“Don’t the two go hand in hand?” Mom asks, peering up at him.
“Again, we’d have to prove the mental suffering her betrayal caused, and even then, it would be shutting the gate after the horse has bolted. Your best bet is to get her to agree to a mutual split.”
I burst out laughing, running a frantic hand over my head as I pace the room. “Are you serious? How the fuck do I get a mutual split from her?”
“That’s for you to work out,” Dad says, turning back to face both of us. “You knew what she was like, Em. Why did you let her into your life like this?” His face scrunches up with confusion.
I shrug, unsure myself. “She was just there when I needed someone.”
“You had someone,” Mom mutters.
“No offense,” I chuckle. “But, my parents can’t give me what I got from her.”
Dad rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t mean us.”
I look to Mom for the answer. She sighs, shaking her head. “You’re so blind to what’s always been right in front of you.” Her gaze searches mine before she gives up. “Alice, Emery. You had Alice, and you let Deanna get between the two of you.”
“Alice was my best friend,” I explain. “We were never anything but platonic. I needed more than that.”
Mom’s brow dips. “She is the same Alice who wrote you all those letters, isn’t she?”
“What letters?”
“The ones that came when you first went on tour.”
“What are you talking about?” I frown. “She never wrote me.”
“I swear there was a whole lot of mail for you those first months,” Mom mutters, rubbing her forehead with pointer and thumb. “Maybe I’ve got my wires crossed…”
“I’ve had enough of this. I’m going to bed,” Dad announces, throwing both hands in the air. “You need to do the same, son. Spend some time thinking it over. There’ll be a way to let Deanna go, but you’ll be the best judge of how, Emery.”
“Yeah. Fine.” I pour myself an iced tea, hoping I can pretend its whiskey and call it a night.
If I’m serious about getting sober, about changing this goddamn tune, then no more putting it off until Monday. The rest of my life starts now.
“We’ll talk more in the morning, okay?” Mom sets a hand on my shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. “I’ll make us all breakfast, and we can eat out on the deck if the weather’s fine.”
“Sounds cool.”
“You can do this.” Her palm finds my cheek as I stare down at the rest of my drink. “I believe in you.”
So did Alice; look where that got us.
“Thanks, Mom.”
TWENTY-SIX
Alice
“It’s the End of the World As We Know It” - Leo
My hands throttle the steering wheel while I wait for my bandmates to get in the car. Our trusty little Lincoln has seen better days, but they don’t make newer cars big enough to carry all our gear within our budget. So, peeling paint and a trunk that takes a practiced twist when you slam it to get the catch engaged is what we stick with—the known.
The familiar.
Perhaps that’s what this anger toward Emery is? The familiar? The known? I haven’t heard from him since we spoke weeks ago, and I don’t know if I should be frustrated by that, or not. He didn’t exactly end the call in a hostile way, but we didn’t promise to continue the conversation either.
“What’s on your mind?” Shanae asks while Fria fluffs around, locking her front door. “If you frowned any deeper, you’d split your face in two.”
“Funny,” I droll. “Just confused about something.”
“Wanna share?”
“Not really.” Not when it means detailing how invested I am in the life of a man who cut me out of his.
“Can we hit up a Burger King before we reach the on-ramp?” Fria asks as she drops into the front passenger seat. “I’m fucking famished.”
“Sure.” I gun the engine a little and then slip the car into gear. “You cool with that?” My gaze flicks to the rearview.
Shanae nods. “I love me a Whopper now that I’m not watching my intake.”
I chuckle, easing us onto the road. “We’re such creatures of habit.”
“Your point?” Fria lifts an eyebrow.
I stare at her a moment, seeking out tells that she simply ribs me. After Emery’s meddling, I have trouble picking when she’s teasing and when she’s truly angry. Just another thing to add to the list of reasons why I should maintain my frustration with him.
“Just that every time we finish a tour, we binge eat at some takeaway joint.”
“Ugh,” Shanae groans. “That’s the best part. Knowing I get to gorge myself on greasy meat and cheese after the shows end is the only way I keep my diet during them.”
“Exactly.” Fria settles into the seat, tucking one foot under the other leg, jean-clad knee propped on the door panel. “There’s nothing wrong with spoiling yourself every once in a while, you know?”
“I didn’t say there was,” I defend.
Her gaze burns in my periphery before she answers in a level tone. “You should try it sometime then.”
Yep. Still angry.
“So,” Shanae shouts rather loudly, clearly changing direction. “What’s our plan going forward, babes? We scored tonight’s gig ourselves, so how long are we sticking with Mickey if he can’t do his job and get us work?”
I frown at the mention of our current manager’s name. The fact he was mostly M.I.A. on our tour with the Lords hasn’t escaped my attention. “I’m not sure.”
“We shouldn’t stand back and take his shit,” Fria states. “If he won’t work for us, then we need to find somebody who will. I’m tired of this whole fucking thing being that we have to beg and grovel to get people to do us favors.” She hesitates, jaw hard. “If it weren’t for musicians like us, half these fuckers wouldn’t have a career, to begin with.”
“We’re not proving our worth,” I point out. “We’re proving we’re worth more than our competition. There’s a difference.”
“Is there?” She leans forward to check the side mirror also as I change lanes. “Because if you ask me, it’s all the fucking same.”
“Who else is there, though?” Shanae asks quietly. “We
can’t afford any of the agents and managers the big guns use, but how the hell do we know who to trust out of the little guys?”
A point that irritates the fuck out of me as well. So much of this world is based on hearsay and recommendations down the grapevine—on both sides. If you want in with the veterans of the music world, you better hope you have someone credible to either vouch for you or drop your name in the right circle. But if an unproven rep wants in with us, they need the same: a kind word from a band we trust and respect.
“Did you have any luck researching the classifieds?”
Shanae shakes her red locks. “That stuff takes time. I’m still watching who goes where.”
“What about the guy Jasper used when he first shifted from the UK?” I ask.
“Albert Santorini?” Shanae asks.
Crap. “I thought he had someone smaller.”
“Nope. His cousin knew a marketing guru at Crusoe. He managed to skip the slush pile.”
“Do we know anyone else who can vouch for the people who kicked off their career?” I ease us to a stop at a red light and slump back into my seat. “What about Mayhem Mary? They didn’t have a big rep until they signed that two-record deal last year.”
“They were indie up to that point,” Fria informs in a flat tone. “I hate it.”
“Why?” Shanae leans forward between our seats.
Turning her head to address our bassist, Fria scowls. “Because it makes me wonder why the fuck we’re not able to do the same.”
Shanae’s back hits the seat with a whoosh; her hands slung loosely between her knees. I crawl away from the intersection, following the SUV in front of us toward the Burger King drive-thru.
“Beating ourselves up over it won’t achieve anything.” I inch forward at the tail end of the queue.
“No, it won’t,” Fria snaps. “But sitting on our fucking hands won’t change a thing either.”
“You think we’re sitting on our hands?” I turn to face her, using my periphery to watch the line of cars. “We’re steamrolled at every turn, Fria.” The dark mass of the SUV eases out of view, so I take my foot off the brake to let us creep forward as well. “Unless you’ve saved up what it’ll cost to hire out the recording studio, then we can’t make quality content. And until we do that, then there’s no income. What the fuck are we supposed to—”