Revel

by Shey Stahl

  I never answered her. In fact, I hung up on her and had to think about my response.

  I was young when I became a star. Sixteen. I had no idea how to process the fame let alone deal with it. I was never able to handle the power and money that came. In many ways, I’ve fallen victim, destroyed by the very people who catered to my every want and need. I’m shackled to my image. The public wants me perfect, while the press mercilessly exaggerates my faults. I don’t have the chance to be human and experience the world outside the artificial shell they’ve molded me in.

  And here I am, in rehab serving out my twelve steps, and for the first time, I’m not that larger-than-life persona and completely over-the-top rock star on the lip of the stage.

  In rehab, I’m an alcoholic.

  In rehab, I’m fucked up.

  The good news? Everyone else in here is too.

  After the first few weeks of anger, feeling sorry for myself and living in a downright livid state of my irrational mood changes and tantrums, I shake through my pathetic “poor me” thoughts because I don’t have time for them. I’m surprised they didn’t drug me then wheel my ignorant obnoxious self into the ocean. I wouldn’t have blamed them.

  The fact of the matter remains, I did this to myself. My drinking ran deeper than even I wanted to admit. It had nothing to do with my parents dying, my grandfather, or even Grant not wanting anything to do with his younger brothers. It didn’t have to do with Jenna dying, or my fame, or Hensley. . . it was all on me. While they tell me alcoholism is a disease, I made the decision to drink. I picked up those bottles and drowned myself in them. I didn’t see anyone forcing me to drink or waterboarding me with vodka, though I probably would have enjoyed it.

  After I accepted it was on me, that’s when it all started to make sense and I allowed myself to do it for me.

  Do I think of Red? Constantly. Too much. In fact, she’s all I think about and I lied. I didn’t do this for me. I did it because I never wanted to hear her say the words “It’s over” again in my life. She deserves better.

  A month into the program, I begin carving out lyrics, because it’s what I do to forget. Only this time, it doesn’t make me forget.

  I remember, and it’s awful. I try to bury it somewhere, but it finds me, haunting me in a constant state of flashbacks.

  Deep down, and you’re probably more aware of this than I am at this point, but I’m just a lost man with a broken fucking heart, who misses cold toes, endless random questions, freckles, tangled red locks. And I really fucking miss drinking.

  Here’s the thing, though, even after everything I fucked up, I can’t forget her. Never will. You can try, but you don’t forget your heart even when the devil inside you destroys it.

  Now I’m alone, my obsession with her only gets worse, demanding to be fed and in turn, every thought is about her. As much as it hurt to walk away, I want her to be happy and if that’s without me, then so be it. You and I both know it’s for the better.

  Rehab should really be called self-induced isolation. Sure, they make you attend the classes, and the therapy sessions, but I think the real healing begins after the numbness, anger, rage, fury, whatever you’re feeling, once that shit wears off and you’re alone, that’s when you finally understand.

  That I’m a selfish asshole.

  That I’ve wasted my fame.

  That I took my music, family, friends, lovers. . . I took them for granted at the mercy of my addiction.

  And Red. . . she was never really mine, and in theory, she was never really hers and I didn’t make it any better.

  I think reality really hits me when I finally sit down with Liz toward the end of rehab.

  “We’ve talked about this before, but is your answer still the same?”

  “Same as what?” I glance up at her over the cup of steaming black coffee I’m drinking and still, sadly, wishing it had something stronger mixed with it.

  “That you’re here because of her.”

  I lied to Red. I didn’t come here for me. But there’s a twist. I didn’t do it for her. I did it because of her. “You mean because of Red?” I ask bluntly. Liz nods and I shake my head. “I can’t say that all of this is me. . . because it isn't. It’s for the band, me, her, you. . . everyone. I want to get better for myself, but I also want to be better for them.”

  She nods, chewing on her bottom lip. Like it or not, but Liz is the closest representation to a mother I have, and she’s only ten years older than me. Step number eight to becoming a recovering alcoholic is to make a list of all the people I’ve wronged and be willing to make amends to all of them. I couldn’t tell you who was on the top of that list, but Liz is right up there with Red. Especially after all that shit she said to me before I came here.

  “Do you love her?”

  “Red?”

  Liz nods.

  I hesitate. I resist. I do because I’ve learned an emotion slipped from your tongue can either be a blessing or curse. “Yes,” I admit for the first time. I haven’t told anyone about my feelings for Red. I’ve never been one to share my feelings. I can’t ever remember telling my siblings I loved them. I told Hensley I loved her once and I think I might have been high or drunk at the time.

  “You know she might not take you back.”

  I swallow over the building anxiety in my chest. Thinking about leaving here scares me because I’ll be left to my own devices with temptation at my fingertips. “I know. I’m not going to even try.”

  “So you understand you might not get forgiveness. She might be angry with you.”

  “I wouldn’t blame her if she is,” I say with a humorless laugh. “She has a right to be mad at me. It doesn’t change the way I feel about her.” I want to punch myself for what I’m saying. It’s not me. I don’t talk about this shit, and I blame this forgiveness crap they preach here. They’re probably drugging me.

  “I just don’t want you to come out of here with false hope as to what it’s going to be like.”

  I sigh, wishing I could have a cigarette, and a drink. “I know that. She said it was over and that’s what it’ll be.”

  Do I believe that?

  For her, I have to.

  Liz isn’t my only visitor in rehab. Cruz, Deacon, even Hardin, they all come to see me. And finally, Hensley. She came four times, all of which I told her to leave until this last time when I figure it’s time to tell her if she doesn’t stop coming, I’m going to see about a restraining order. Then and only then do I let her talk.

  “I have nothing to say to you,” I tell her as we sit outside on a bench overlooking the Pacific Ocean.

  Hensley nods. “I know you don’t, but I have some things I want to say to you, and then I’ll leave here and never come back if that’s what you want.”

  I fight the urge to run away. “You have two minutes. I can’t miss group discussion. I’m dying to find out if the crazy preacher’s daughter is banging the custodian,” I say sarcastically.

  “Are you serious?”

  I roll my neck to look at her, raising my eyebrows, as if to say, are ya fucking kidding me? “Why are you here?”

  “I wanted to apologize and tell you to your face I’m seeing Jory.”

  Anger hits me, and it’s not because of her, or even him. It’s Red I care about. “Good for you. I wish you happiness,” I lie between clenched teeth and then stand. “Don’t come back.”

  She grabs my hand, trying to hold me in place. I jerk it away from her. “I don’t fucking care if you’re seeing him. You don’t need my permission.”

  “That’s not why I came here.”

  I push out a heavy breath, running my hand through my hair. I stare at the ocean again, silently wishing for a tsunami to take me out. I don’t think it’s too much to ask for at this point. “You just said that’s why you came.”

  “That and I’m sorry.”

  “For what?”

  “I’m sorry that I wasn’t honest with you about Jory from the beginning.” She pauses, f
idgeting with the holes in her jeans. “I was… seeing him the entire time we were together.”

  My jaw clenches, again, my knuckles turning white. Don’t hit her. Don’t worry, I won’t, and it’s not that she cheated on me while we were together that has me angry. In show business, it’s unfortunately how it goes. It’s naïve to think someone can remain faithful when they’re seldom together. What really sets me off is that she lied for so long.

  “Why?” I finally ask, squinting into the sun. I can’t make out her facial expressions. Every time I can see her clearly, I glance at the sun and let it blind me.

  She clears her throat, standing, and shrugs. “Young and dumb?”

  I snort out a laugh, shoving my hands in the pockets of my jeans and I start to walk away before saying, “If you say so.”

  “Revel?”

  I don’t turn around, but I do stop, pushing aside the tension.

  “I’m not the only one at fault here. The grass is always greener on the other side when you stop watering it.”

  I keep walking because there’s truth in the silence I give. When Hensley and I were together, we fought constantly. And eventually, we stopped knowing why, just that we did. Probably because she was seeing someone else and never truly gave what we needed to work. I stopped trying and caring, but I didn’t walk away. This time I am. For me.

  It’s when I’m back in the building that I realize why Red told me it was over. It wasn’t that she didn’t love me, it’s that she knew had she stayed, everything would have been about me, and it wasn’t in her nature to live her life for a guy who was never really hers. She was never mine. The only one I’ve ever belonged to was my desires, and the only one who could fulfill them was a bottle.

  SO THIS IS WHAT SOBER IS LIKE?

  REVEL

  THREE MONTHS LATER

  I should feel rehabbed. A brand-new sober man. But I’m not. I’m nervous and indecisive and unsure if I can resist two things. Alcohol and Red. I know my weakness and both have the power to destroy me in this fragile state I’m in.

  I’m outside, in the passenger seat of a blacked-out Bugatti. In my hand, water. In the other, my cell phone I haven’t held in close to three months.

  The court in Denver, Colorado, had ordered me to a thirty-day rehab along with a two-year probation, but I decided to give a shit this time and went for the extended stay in rehab. At nine thousand a week, three months was my max. I needed to get back to work.

  “You look like shit,” I tell Cruz. He looks tired.

  “She’s pregnant,” he blurts.

  My heart drops to my stomach. “Who?”

  “Bella.”

  I sigh in relief and nail him in the shoulder. “Jesus Christ, you could have started with that, asshole.”

  “I know, but that was fun,” he says with a laugh, smiling at me. “Fucking crazy, huh?”

  “What?”

  “That I’m going to be a dad.”

  I twist the bottle cap on the water, then twist it back the other way. “Yeah, I suppose. Are you happy?”

  “I don’t know. Not really. I didn’t want to be a dad, but I guess shit happens. Liz is all over my case about it and Bells, she’s just fucking cool. She’s like whatever, be present or don’t. I can’t get a read on her.”

  I’m not surprised. She’s related to Red, and I could see her being the same way, unwilling to rely on a man to make her happy.

  Cruz rolls his head and looks over at me, squinting into the sun. He looks at the Promises sign outside the building and then my phone. I don’t say anything to him, his words rattling around in my head as I attempt to clear my mind from distractions and not going running right back to the vice that put me in here.

  Cruz notices and dips his head to catch my eyesight. “I know who you want to call.”

  “Have you heard from her?” I ask, refusing to look at him. I still don’t like eye contact.

  “No, not really.” And then I think he realizes where I’m going with it. “I’ve known you a long time, and I’d love to drive you to her place so you can apologize, get laid, or whatever it is you want from her, but you are bad news for her, and she sure as hell ain’t helping you out. This place, it was one step. You gotta figure this out without her.”

  I consider his words. I don’t like them, but they’re the truth. Cruz and I have been friends long before Revved came about. Back when I was just a kid breaking into the local liquor store to steal the mini bottles of alcohol because they were easier to hide from Oma. Through all my shit, he never judged me or lectured me. Not that he hasn’t done his fair share, but not like my fuck ups.

  I fight the urge to ask him for a cigarette. Believe it or not, I haven’t touched one in two months. “Did you get the songs I sent you?”

  “I did.” He nods, rolling his head to look over at me again. “They’re good. I think we got something. Are you ready to work?”

  “I am.”

  I don’t know where the next few months will take me but I know I can’t call her. I’m barely hanging onto this new-found sobriety and if I call her now, that’s only using her as a crutch. I refuse to put her in that position.

  RESISTING

  REVEL

  EIGHT MONTHS LATER

  I told Red this once, but the good songs, the ones that really evoke emotions and hit the top of the charts, they come from extreme sadness or happiness. Everything else is watered-down bullshit.

  Our fifth album in eight years, Ruins, releases that winter, nearly a year since I last saw Red, and hits number one worldwide its first week. You probably don’t care about any of that though, do you? You want to know if I’ve contacted her, and if any of the songs are about her, don’t you?

  I’ll start with the second question. Are the songs about her? I won’t say that they are, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say she was the motivation behind them. I’ll tell you one thing, it isn’t watered-down bullshit, that’s for sure.

  Now back to the first question. In the eight months since I’ve been out of rehab, I heard from Red once, and it was only a text wishing me happy birthday. I sent her one on her birthday, and I think I surprised her I knew the day. To be honest, I googled it. That’s been the extent of our communication.

  Most would think, why not go to her and explain yourself, or at the very least, apologize for being such a dumbass? Well, I could, but that wouldn’t be me. I’ve never been one for groveling and secondly, what I want to say to her needs to be done in person and when I’m ready to. So far I’m not there yet and I don’t think she is either. If she wanted to talk, she would have called.

  While the band and I haven’t announced our next tour yet, the Grammys is in two weeks and I know what that’ll bring. I’ll be stuck surrounded by people I don’t want to see, and the one I’m dying to. Revved has been nominated for album of the year, song of the year, and record of the year. Not only that, but “Roses of Revenge,” the song I wrote with Red, it’s up for song of the year as well. I’m not surprised. Not only was it amazing, but it’s us together—our chemistry, our connection, and the way our voices sound together—that sells the song.

  She’s up for three Grammys herself having released an album as well. This Is Me. Her first rock album she produced under her own label. Do I listen to it?

  I obsess over it. For two weeks. Every lyric, every chord, I lose myself in her words and voice only to come out of it more in love, more a mess, and wanting a fucking drink. It’s our love woven deep beneath the tracks for me and her, only us. I drown myself in her revelatory, deep and personal lyrics, and realize I tore us apart by my actions.

  After I’ve listened to the entire album, I switch back to “Black Eyes,” which happens to be her number one single at the moment and speculated to be about me. She doesn’t comment either way.

  Your eyes are black and your heart so cold

  High above the city you painted my heart with colors so bold

  How was I to know this is how it’d all unfold
<
br />   Suffocating in silence, here I am, still caught up on a love so raw, so real

  Somedays I’d give anything not to feel

  I’ll whisper your name but I can’t say it out loud

  I’m so haunted by your black eyes

  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize who it’s about.

  When I saw Red on stage for the first time in person when we were on that tour together, I never had a doubt she could pull off a rock album, and she did. My chest swells with pride for her, because whether she’ll admit it or not, I like to think I played a part in it, but she made that happen. Not her dad, not her label, and certainly not me.

  I buy the album on CD, something I haven’t done in years, only to stare at the cover for hours. It’s a picture of her on stage, her hair covering her tits and holding a fender guitar. Jealousy runs through my veins, my hands trembling holding it. I’m angry at whoever took the picture. I’m only angry because they got to see her in person, and I haven’t seen the outside of a recording studio in months. Probably for the better. They got to see her smile, the curve of her waist, the red curls I dream of. . . they got those moments with her and I ruined the last one I had by overreacting. Fuck this shit. I hate feeling. It was a lot easier when I was drunk. At least then I didn’t give a fuck. Now I’m just miserably sober.

  Cruz walks into my house, takes one look at the CD and smiles. “Need some alone time there, bud?”

  “Fuck you,” is my natural response to nearly everything. I push past him. “Why are you here? This is my house. You can’t just show up whenever you want.”

  “I know, but if I go to my house, there’s a screaming baby there so this is a better option.” He opens my fridge, realizes there’s no beer, no alcohol of any kind and rolls his eyes. “Never mind. You’re sober and boring now.”

  “Thanks for the support.”

  He pats me on the back as he leaves. “No problem.”

  Breathing in deeply, I reach for my water to try to calm my nerves. It doesn’t work.