Three days.

  Three fucking days.

  In the grand scheme of things, three days is nothing.

  Shoving clothes in my old duffle, I grab my phone and pop open the app I’ve been religiously scoping the last, well, ten days, and pull up the schedule for Delta Airlines.

  They’re gonna hate me there, I think dryly, hitting the Confirm button without hardly a glance before throwing on the first clean shirt I can find, and exchanging my sweats for jeans.

  I flip the lights, shut off the television in the living room, and unplug the coffee pot before the timer can kick on.

  Swinging my bag over my shoulder, I grab my keys and hightail it to the front door, locking up behind me without a backward glance.

  Yeah, three days is a blink, but in the grand scheme of all that is near and dear and holy to me…

  Fuck. That.

  West Coast, here I come.

  Tonight’s gonna be a bad night.

  Mason hits the lights, plunging the studio into black. He’s the last one out of the room, so he locks up while Shawn and I start heading down the dimly lit hallway.

  Digging out my pack of smokes from my back pocket, I slap them against my palm and focus on putting one foot in front of the other.

  Faded red brick walls stretch out on either side of me as we pass by the other practice rooms, doors closed and already locked for the night.

  The building is owned by Slater Records, the label we signed with to produce our first album, with their state of the art recording studio located three floors up.

  Footsteps sound behind me, quick and loud before fading off as Mason catches up to us.

  I try not to stiffen. I know it’s him.

  But there’s something about this narrow fucking hallway and buzzing lightbulbs swinging from the ceilings that gives me the creeps.

  And not in a fun way.

  More like a trapped in a closet way.

  There’s a joke in there somewhere, and for a second the pressure in my chest eases as I think of Will.

  I don’t really think he’d appreciate the joke though, pun and all.

  Too soon, he’d say. To which I’d say back, When will it not be?

  I blow out a breath. In front of me, Shawn doesn’t break stride as he flits me a quick look over his shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything. Neither do I.

  Even Mason’s silence closing in on me from behind speaks volumes.

  They know I’m losing my shit.

  Hell, who am I kidding? I’ve been slowly losing my shit since our late-night dinner last night, when some fuckhead had to go and drop a frying pan as I was digging into my waffles.

  The pack of cigarettes in my hand crinkles from the pressure of my fist, as I remember the echo of it slamming against the linoleum floors of the diner ringing out like a—

  “Way.”

  “I’m fine,” I say sharply. I don’t even know who spoke.

  Easy, a voice warns me, one that sounds suspiciously like the guy I’m trying really hard not to think about right now. Knowing it would only send me spiraling faster.

  Blinking a few times, I wince against the grating buzz of another stupid, swinging lightbulb.

  I mean, really, couldn’t they’ve afforded something a little less garage chic?

  My teeth clench and I stare hard over Shawn’s shoulder, counting the steps I have left as the hallway ends, giving way to a small, but spacious, foyer. One with glass walls stretched out before me, giving me an unobstructed view of the outside world.

  There, I think, cracking my neck as I step away from the guys, finally feeling like I can breathe again.

  Me and tight spaces, we have a love-hate relationship these days. And today’s not a day where I’m feeling the heart-eyes. Today’s a day where I want to curl up in a ball and not exist for a couple hours.

  I frown, steps slowing until I come to a stop inches from the double glass doors. “What time is it?”

  Street lamps light up the quiet street. A car whooshes by, spraying puddle-water on the sidewalk. Heavy bass thrums from an old beater car idling in front of the apartment complex across the street, rattling the glass.

  “A little after midnight,” Shawn says, pushing open the door. He holds it for me, and I hold it for Mason as he trails behind us.

  Shit, I think. Another late night.

  We usually call it quits by nine, but we’ve been struggling with this one song the label wants on our album. To diversify it, whatever that means.

  Because it’s happier than the other tracks? I scoff at the thought.

  Well, as it turns out tweaking happy music when I’m not exactly happy is really fucking hard. Shocking, right? Who knew?

  It’s only been ten days, a voice reminds me.

  I mentally flip it off.

  Tonight, though, tonight was about more than just figuring out why this song isn’t working. Hell, even our agent, Paul, who usually never leaves our side when we're at the studio, left hours ago, knowing we were done getting anywhere. I only vaguely remember him slipping out with a tired, “See ya,” leaving us to our guitars and notebooks and Mason’s keyboard.

  In the corner of my eye, I watch as Mason steps around me, snapping a photo with his phone of the semi-busy street.

  I fight an eye roll. He’s always taking pictures these days of the most random things. When I asked what that’s about, all he said was, “Snapchat.”

  At first I thought he was posting them for our followers on the band’s page. We don’t have a crazy huge following, despite what it might look like on our TikTok page—that shit’s very misleading, we’ve come to find out—but it’s big enough.

  Big enough to garner the attention of vicious assholes who want to shit on our success for no other reason than they can… or die-hard stalker types who want to have our babies.

  So, yeah, I’d rather strangers on the internet not know where we are in real-time, thank you very much. Hence why I stay away from socials like my life literally depends on it.

  But Mason assured me he wouldn’t do that, not without our explicit permission, so I assume he just sends the pictures to Ivy. Maybe Jeremy. Maybe that girl he befriended during his last stint in rehab, the one he went on a date with a little while ago.

  Who fucking knows? And I don’t really fucking care so long as I don’t have to worry about some crazy-ass fan pulling a knife on me.

  Worse things have happened in my life, so I’m not one to scoff off the possibility, as unlikely as it may be. I’m a fucking trauma magnet, okay? Bad juju everywhere.

  I groan as soon as the thought comes. “Fucking Phoebe,” I mutter.

  “What was that?” Shawn says stopping next to a parking meter.

  Reaching up, I pinch my nose and shake my head. “Nothing.”

  “Alright, enough,” Mason says loudly.

  Slowly, I drop my hand back at my side and step back, turning slightly as Mason joins us. He shoves his phone in his back pocket, the buttons on his flannel pulling across his chest with his movements.

  “It’s not nothing, you’re not fine. You haven’t been fine all day.”

  I roll my eyes. “Mase—”

  “Today was a bad day,” he says, as if it’s really that fucking simple. He crosses his arms, silently daring me to dispute it.

  And it’s gonna be an even worse night, I think tiredly, not for the first or second or third time.

  I didn’t sleep last night. Told the guys I did, when really I just snuck down to the hotel gym for a couple hours once I was sure they were asleep. Then I spent the early morning walking the streets, and pacing the beach. Went for a run…

  Anything to keep myself away from the hotel bar.

  Anything to keep me from calling Will and begging him to hop on a plane.

  So I’ve been dreading this all day. Counting down the minutes to when I’d no longer be able to put off sleep. In a bed that’s not mine. In a city as foreign to me as another planet. Alone.

  It’s been ten days since we arrived in LA.

  Ten days, and while it hasn’t always been easy, it hasn’t been hard. Not until today.

  Because I had my first panic attack in weeks last night, and it’s the first one I had in over a year that I didn’t have Will with me to talk me the fuck down.

  I mean, sure, he tried to.

  Okay, he did.

  But a cold, hard phone against my ear isn’t exactly the same as a soft pair of lips against my head. Or strong arms holding me tight.

  Hearing him breathe means shit to nothing when I can’t feel it on my cheek.

  When I can’t feel his heart thumping against my chest.

  When I can’t remember his dark blue eyes without picturing them red-rimmed with tears and wide with panic. Blood dripping down his temple. The smell of motor oil burning a pathway up my nose and down my throat.

  “What do you need?”

  At the sound of Shawn’s voice, I’m pulled from my thoughts.

  They’re both standing in front of me now. Like a wall separating me from the world beyond. Or maybe like a wall to keep me in. I’m not sure if it’s supposed to make me feel feral or safe.

  Ping-ponging my gaze between them, I wonder what I’m supposed to say here. To give myself time, I quickly pull out a cigarette, light up, and inhale a long, scorching drag.

  What do I need, what do I need…

  Tipping my head back, I squint at the overcast sky as I blow out a cloud of smoke.

  It’s not like I can tell them the truth. The truth is fucking pathetic, and I’m trying really, really hard not to be pathetic.

  It also doesn’t take a shrink to tell me it’s unhealthy too. I know it is. The problem is, though, if it’s not Will I allow myself to need, it’s—

  “A fucking drink,” I gravel out up at the starless sky, nose flaring as my eyes burn, throat searing.

  I blink rapidly as my vision blurs. Dropping my head, I stare unseeingly at the spot between their shoulders. I feel more than see them share a loaded look.

  “Well,” Mason says slowly, “I for one could use an Oxy right about now. You know, something to take the edge off.”

  I still.

  Shawn huffs, and my gaze snaps to him just as he runs a tanned hand through his dark hair. “Pretty sure that’s a dealer standing over there.” He jerks his head toward the right.

  My eyes follow, to the corner across the street where a guy shuffles about, hood drawn over his head and hands in his pocket as he paces, face downturned.

  “Saw him there the other night, slapping hands with a couple of scrawny ass kids.”

  Swallowing hard, I drag my gaze back to his.

  Mason blows out a harsh breath. “And there’s a bar. Two actually, right over there.” He nods down the opposite way.

  I know, I think, taking another drag from my cigarette. I already imagined all the ways I could sneak over there. The excuses I could come up with. Even reasoned with myself that I’ve cut back enough by now, that I can start fresh. Keep it under control. I know better now.

  But it’ll be a year sober in just under a month, and to be honest, it’s that fact more than anything that’s been keeping me from flushing it all down the drain. I want to hit that one-year mark.

  After that though…

  Shaking my head, I try not to think about it. Especially seeing as I won’t be home with Will when that day inevitably comes.

  I’ll be here, in the City of Angels, with two other addicts who just proved how easy it would be to give in to our vices.

  And here I was thinking it hasn’t been on their mind at all. It’s why I hadn’t even been able to voice the words until now. Until it came down to blurting that or the fact I’m jonesing for my boyfriend.

  See? Pathetic.

  I didn’t want to trigger them. So much for fucking that.

  I swallow hard. “Don’t…” My voice trails off, and I shake my head, unsure what I wanted to even say.

  “Don’t what? Talk about it?” Mason says.

  In the corner of my eye, Shawn lights up a cigarette of his own. He’s been trying to quit. I probably don’t make it easy for him, since I’m not.

  Now is definitely not the time for that. Sorry, man.

  I meet Mason’s light blue eyes.

  His mouth ticks up, pulling at his lip ring. He shrugs. “It’s what we’re all thinking, right?” He glances at Shawn for confirmation, who nods, blowing out smoke from his nose, before continuing, “It’s easy back home. We know who and what to avoid. We’re comfortable. Our… need or whatever isn’t so loud, because we’re used to it there.”

  “And we’re not used to anything here,” Shawn finishes quietly.

  Mason sounds pained when he says, “We could all give in. Easily. And maybe… maybe no one would know.”

  Shawn says, “It’s just us out here, right?”

  I look between them. “What? No. Are you serious right now?” I shake my head. “No. Absofuckinglutely not. No. Fuck.”

  Whirling around, I ignore my crushed smokes and the lit cigarette in my other hand as I clasp the back of my head.

  It’s starting to rain again, just a light drizzle that prickles my forehead, dampening my exposed skin.

  It’s been raining on and off since this morning, which is apparently super unheard of in LA. Not sure if it’s a good sign, or a bad sign, that out of the thirty-some days a year it rains in this city, we happened to be here for one of them.

  We need to haul ass, or we’re gonna have to grab a ride before the skies open up on us. The idea of confining myself in a car or bus right now, with no easy way out, is not really at the top of my list of things I want to do in the foreseeable future.

  Mason and Shawn are quiet behind me as I pace. I feel like a caged tiger, which is stupid. It’s not like I’m rooted to this spot. Open roads surround me, and yet the world is closing in,

  Make it make sense to me.

  I’m not really taking anything in as my eyes dart around the street. Slater Records is on a side-street, so it’s not too heavy with foot-traffic. Especially at this time of night, even if it seems to be bustling farther down at the intersection.

  I stare blankly at the couple jogging hand in hand across the crosswalk. It feels like there’s a boulder sitting on my chest right now as it really sinks in just how easy it could be to give in without Will here. Without anyone here.

  Reggie, Ivy, Dr. Wells…

  Deacon, my sponsor. An older man I met at the Addicts Anonymous meetings I sometimes go to with Shawn and Mason back home.

  I don’t go often. Neither does Deacon. We met on a whim a few months back and hit it off right away. I’m his first sponsee, and he’s my first sponsor. It’s a match made in whiskey Heaven, sans the whiskey, something he gave up two years before I was even born. So he’s basically a pro at this whole sober-livin’ thing.

  I know I could call him, or any one of my so-called support system, and they’d do what they can to talk me off the ledge in a heartbeat. Even if it’s just to stay on the phone and listen to me bitch for as long as I can stay awake. They’d fucking do it, the masochists.

  Hell, Will would probably steal a plane and fly himself to me if he could. Especially if he knew I lied this morning when I ignored his call, and sent him back a text with some bullshit excuse about how I couldn’t talk because we were finally making good headway in the studio.

  Spoiler alert: we did not make any kind of way today, because said Way, as in yours truly, kept fucking everything up. Losing count, losing focus, losing my patience…

  Just all the losing, until ultimately I gave up, and just… played angry nonsense on my guitar until my fingers bled.

  But I try not to think about any of that right now, least of all lying to Will, or the fact I haven’t heard from him since. Because I know what he’d say if he knew where my head was really at right now. I know he’d be pissed that I’m keeping it from him.

  But he deserves to have a life outside of worrying about me. He deserves to have a fucking break.

  “The point is we could,” Mason finally says, slowly, meaningfully, and it takes me a second to remember what we were talking about.

  Right. Flinging ourselves off the proverbial wagon.

  “We always know we can,” he says. “How else do you think we manage to resist when it’s thrown in our faces?”

  My brow furrows as I slowly drop my hands to my sides and turn to face them once more. A long line of ash falls off my cigarette, but I hardly notice. It’s not cutting it tonight.

  “Ignoring that little voice,” he goes on, still side-eying Shawn, “shoving it away, pretending that giving in isn’t as easy as it is…” He turns his gaze on me. “It does us no favors. It’ll just bite us in the ass later when it all comes to a head and we’re at our lowest.”

  Shawn nods. “Over time it gets easier to ignore. It’ll become less of a shout, and more of a passing whisper. So when it does pipe up, usually when we’re not doing so hot, or when we least expect it…”

  “We’re strong enough to shove it away and move on with our day,” Mason finishes.

  I swallow tightly as tears burn the back of my eyes.

  “It’s not a crime to… daydream about it,” he says after a moment. “And it’s not always helpful, trust me, but it… makes it more manageable. In a convoluted way, maybe, but… yeah.”

  “It’s our way of planning for the worst,” Shawn clarifies in a steady voice. “We picture it all. Taking that hit, that sip… what we need to do to get it… how we might hide it…” His shoulders rise, then fall with his exhale. He lifts his cigarette to his mouth and takes a quick puff. “Then we think about what comes after. The shaking, the nausea. The agonizing pain…”

  Mason’s eyes redden. “Phoebe screaming and crying in my face, beating my chest.”

  Shawn tips his head. “That.”

  They share a quick look and I frown, wondering what that’s about.

  “Whatever you need to do to keep that fantasy from becoming a reality, do it,” Mason says, leveling his gaze with mine. “Use it. Find what works and don’t be ashamed of it. Trust me, we all have our little anchors to hold on to when we feel ourselves drifting. It could be anything.” He pauses meaningfully. “Including people.”

 

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