Page 37 of Unholy Confessions
Micah gives me a sympathetic smile. "Figured you'd be wallowing at home," he says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"Yeah, well, wallowing wasn't getting me anywhere," I reply, grabbing the guitar I use when I'm in studio with them.
He spins around in his chair, a beer already in his hand even though it's barely four in the afternoon. "We've been working on that bridge you started last time. Want to hear what we've got?"
I nod, propping the guitar on my knee, ready to pop in when I can. It almost feels like everything is normal. Almost.
They play through what they've been working on, and I have to admit it sounds good. Better than good, actually. There's something about it that cuts through all the bullshit and gets right to the heart of what music should be about. It's the type of shit I lived for when I was a teenager, looking for someone to understand me.
"That's solid," I tell them, already sure of where the lead guitar should go. "Let me try something."
I start playing, letting my fingers find their way across the fretboard without really thinking about it. The melody that comes out is darker than what they were playing, probably more to do with my mental state than anything. It's Montgomery's face in my mind, from the cookout. When I'm pretty sure she got a good idea of what's been going on.
We fall into a rhythm, the three of us locked into the creative flow that every artist aims to achieve. Hours pass without me noticing, the sun setting outside the small windows near the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room.
Micah keeps the beers coming, and before long there's a small pyramid of empty bottles on the floor in front of us. The nicotine from our cigarettes creates a haze in the air, mixing with the smell of beer. It's all so familiar, it's been the backdrop to some of the best nights of my life.
But as the evening wears on, I can feel myself starting to fade. The clarity I had earlier begins to slip away, replaced by a jittery restlessness that makes it hard to focus on the music. My fingers stumble over chord changes, and I catch myself staring off into space mid-song.
"You alright, man?" Micah asks during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Yeah, just tired," I lie, taking a long pull from my beer. The alcohol helps a little, smoothing out some of the rough edges, but it's not enough. Nothing ever feels like enough anymore.
Evan gives me a look from across the room, his dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. He's always been good at reading people, picking up on things that others miss. It's part of what makes him such a good writer—he notices every single detail.
My phone buzzes on the chair beside me, and for a split second my heart jumps, hoping it might be Montgomery. But it's just a notification from some app I don't remember downloading. The disappointment hits harder than it should, and I have to set my guitar down to collect myself.
"I'm starving," Micah announces, scrolling through his phone. "Anyone want to split some Thai food? That place on Music Row delivers."
We all agree, and he puts in an order for enough food to feed a small army.
"I'm gonna go grab some cash from the ATM while we wait," Micah says, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. "There's one right around the corner. Be back in like ten minutes."
And then it's just me and Evan, the silence stretching between us. He lights another cigarette, the flame from his lighter illuminating his face for just a moment before plunging us back into the dim glow of the studio's overhead lights.
"So," he says, exhaling smoke through his nose, "how long has it been?"
"How long has what been?" I ask.
"Come on, RJ. I've been where you are. I can see it in your eyes, the way your hands are shaking, how you keep checking your phone like you're expecting some kind of salvation to come through the screen."
I want to deny it, to tell him he's wrong, but the words stick in my throat. There's no point in lying to someone who can see it so clearly.
"A few hours," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe six, seven hours since my last dose."
Evan nods like he expected as much. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small plastic baggie. Inside is a white powder that catches the light.
"This'll help," he says simply, setting the bag on the coffee table between us. "Just until you can figure out how to get more of what you really want."
I stare at the bag, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I know what it is, know what it means, know that crossing this line is different from everything I've done before. Pills are medicine, even when you abuse them. This is something else entirely.
"I can't," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
"You can't what? Feel better? Stop hurting? Man, I've been watching you all afternoon. You can barely hold your guitar steady the longer we're here."
He's right, and we both know it. My hands are trembling now, and there's a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead despite the warmth of the room. The familiar ache is starting to build in my chest, that gnawing emptiness that no amount of beer or music can fill.
"Montgomery would never forgive me," I whisper, more to myself than to him.
