Page 36 of Unholy Confessions
H: Hey, don't forget we're doing the Zoom meeting tomorrow to go over the first draft of the first episode. Hope you're doing okay.
Something flutters in my chest - something light and warm that I haven't felt in months. It's just a text about our group, but there's something in the way he wrote it, the way he asked if I'm okay, that makes my heart skip a little.
I've been so focused on RJ's jealousy of Hayden that I never stopped to think about why he might be jealous. Hayden is sweet and funny and brilliant, and when we work together on our scripts, I feel... easy. Comfortable in a way that doesn't require constant vigilance.
Before I can respond to Hayden's text, another message comes through, this one from RJ.
R: I want to see you. Can I come over?
The flutter in my chest dies instantly, replaced by a heavy dread that settles in my stomach like a stone. I've never felt that way about a text from RJ before. Never felt anything but excitement or love or even anger. But never dread.
"What is it?" Skylar asks, noticing my expression change.
"RJ wants to see me," I say, showing her the phone. "And for the first time in my life, I don't want to see him."
Skylar looks at both messages, then back at my face. Her expression is sad but knowing. "Maybe your decision has already been made for you, but you just don't want to admit it."
I stare at my phone, at the two messages that seem to represent two completely different paths my life could take. One that feels heavy and familiar and increasingly toxic. One that feels light and uncertain but full of possibility.
Maybe Skylar's right. Maybe my heart already knows what my head isn't ready to accept yet.
Maybe it's time to listen.
Chapter 19
RJ
She's not going to answer me, I might as well face facts. I fucked up, and I fucked up big time. Part of me wonders if I'm doing this to myself for a particular reason, or if this is just who I am. Mom always preached to us about her eating disorder, and how it's easy to fall into the trap of I've done this once, I have to do it my whole life.
Mom's clear message was you can change. No matter when it is, no matter the circumstances, you can change.
And I want to. I don't want to sit around and count pills, or the hours until I can take the next one. That's not who I ever wanted to be, and definitely not who I was before I started playing around with my medications.
Looking around my house, all I can think about is the good times I've spent with Montgomery. She's most of the memories I have in this house, really anything that's not connected to Grey Skies, is just her. Since I was sixteen and she was fifteen, it's always been her.
"Fuck my life. If I stay here, I'm going to take the whole fuckin' bottle," I mumble.
Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I type a quick message off to Micah.
R: What's going on today? Any writing?
M: Yeah, just me and Evan. Wanna come join us?
It's better than anything else I have going on.
R: Be right there.
It takes extreme effort, but as I'm grabbing my wallet, keys, and phone, I leave the pills. For once I need to let them go.
The drive into downtown Nashville feels longer than usual, every red light dragging on for what feels like hours. My hands are already starting to shake slightly on the steering wheel, and I grip it tighter. The city sprawls out before me as I navigate through the familiar streets, past the honky-tonks and tourist traps that make Nashville what it is on the surface. But underneath all that glitter and neon, there's the real music scene—the one where we've been grinding for years. It's the one I love, the one that I'd do anything to stay a part of.
I park my truck next to Evan's beat-up Honda and take a deep breath before getting out. The late afternoon sun beats down on the asphalt. Nashville heat is brutal, especially September. We're so close to fall, but not far enough away from summer.
The studio door is propped open with a brick, and I can hear the low rumble of conversation and the occasional strum of a guitar coming from inside. I push through the entrance, past the small lobby area with its mismatched furniture and walls covered in framed photos of bands that have recorded here over the years. Some made it big, some didn't, but they're all part of the story this place tells.
"RJ!" Micah calls out from behind the mixing board as I walk into the main room. He's got his usual uniform on—black jeans, vintage band t-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap that's seen better days. "About time, man. We've been waiting for your sorry ass."
Evan looks up from where he's tuning his bass, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He throws me a wave.
