Page 61 of Unholy Confessions
I never thought I'd like the structured schedule. I've lived in one with the band, but it was more of a loose suggestion. Here, we're expected to be certain places at certain times, and I find I like that. It gives me less time to think about Montgomery, to think about what I've done to my life, and where I'm going to get my next fix.
"Thompson, are you heading to breakfast?"
The voice doesn't surprise me. It's part of the schedule now. I met Benson my first day in here, actually we entered at the exact same time, and we've become friendly, going through the steps of finding ourselves together.
"Yeah, let me brush my teeth. I'll meet you down there."
The bathroom mirror reflects someone I'm still getting used to—cleaner, clearer-eyed, but somehow more fragile than the person who walked in here two weeks ago. The withdrawal was hell the first week, but now I'm starting to feel like I might actually have a shot at this thing called sobriety.
I find Benson already seated at our usual table in the cafeteria, picking at what looks like scrambled eggs and turkey bacon. The food here isn't great, but it's consistent, and that's something I've learned to appreciate.
"Morning, sunshine," he says with a grin that's become familiar. Benson's got about five years on me, used to be a finance guy before heroin took everything from him. His sense of humor is darker than mine, but somehow it works.
"Don't start," I mutter, sliding into the chair across from him. The coffee here is terrible, but I pour myself a cup anyway. Caffeine is about the only vice they allow us.
"So I've been thinking," Benson says, stabbing at his eggs. "First thing I'm gonna do when I get out of here? I'm gonna go to my daughter's soccer game. Just sit in the stands like a normal dad and cheer for her. No drugs, no alcohol, just... being present."
Something twists in my chest at the longing in his voice. "How old is she?"
"Nine. I missed her eighth birthday because I was high in a hotel room in Denver." He takes a sip of orange juice, his jaw tight. "Her mom sent me videos, but I was too fucked up to even watch them until I got here."
I nod, understanding that particular brand of shame all too well. "What about you?" Benson asks. "What's the first thing you want to do?"
I consider the question while chewing a piece of toast that tastes like cardboard. "Honestly? I want to play music. But not the way I used to, not because I have to or because there's a contract or because fans are expecting it. Just... because I love it. I wanna find the joy in it again."
"You think you still do? Love it, I mean?"
It's a question I've been asking myself a lot lately. "I hope so. Sometimes I can't tell if I love music or if I just love the way drugs made me feel when I was playing music. It didn't take very long for it to get all jumbled up in my head."
Benson nods knowingly. "The thing about addiction is it fucks with everything you think you know about yourself."
We eat in comfortable silence for a while, the low murmur of other conversations washing over us. This place has its own ecosystem, its own rules and rhythms. Part of me dreads leaving it, returning to a world where I'll have to make choices every day about who I want to be.
"Thompson, Cole," one of the staff members calls from across the room. "Group therapy in ten."
I drain the last of my terrible coffee and follow Benson toward the therapy room. Dr. Tate is already there, settling into his usual chair with a steaming mug and a patient smile. He's probably in his fifties, with graying hair and kind eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. I hated him the first week—hated his gentle questions and his refusal to let me deflect with humor or anger. Now I'm starting to see why EJ was recommended this place.
"Good morning, gentlemen. How are we feeling today?"
The usual pleasantries follow, but I can tell Dr. Tate has something specific he wants to dig into. He's got that look he gets when he's about to ask the questions that make you squirm.
"RJ," he says, settling back in his chair. "I'd like to talk about pressure today. You've mentioned several times that you felt overwhelmed by expectations. Can you tell me more about that?"
I shift in my seat, already feeling exposed before we even start the discussion. "I don't know. I guess... when you grow up with parents like mine, there's this assumption that music is just in your blood, you know? That it should be easy."
"Tell me about your parents."
"My mom is Harmony Stewart. My dad is Reaper from Black Friday." I say it matter-of-factly, but I can see Benson's eyebrows shoot up. I've been able to keep that to myself. Most people have that reaction. "They met on the red carpet of some awards show, fell in love, had me and EJ. Classic rock and roll love story."
"And how did that legacy affect your relationship with music?"
I run my hands through my hair, trying to find the words. "It's like... imagine if your parents were both Olympic athletes, and everyone expected you to win gold too. Except instead of just disappointing your family, you're disappointing thousands of fans who grew up loving your parents' music. I've always worried about that. We've sold millions of records, and I still worry about that."
Dr. Tate nods encouragingly. "That sounds like enormous pressure."
"It is. And the thing is, I do love music. Or I did. But somewhere along the way, it stopped being about joy and started being about proving I was worthy of the family name. Every song had to be perfect, every performance had to live up to this impossible standard."
"Is this what you really want?" Dr. Harrison asks quietly. "The music career, the band, the touring?"
