I scoff, clenching my fists tight at my sides. “Nothing bad, no. But…I talked to my old friend.”
“The one that blew the whistle on your abuse.”
I wince, but say, “Yeah, him. He…he scares me. It’s been fifteen years, and I still felt like he was the same boy I had a crush on, whose bed I would sneak into when I had a shit time at home, the same boy that could calm my panic attacks.” I lower my head, emotions swirling around and around in my chest. “I wrote songs for him, you know? I thought about him even when I didn’t want to. A lot of the songs in the early days were about him. Especially the angry ones. But he was always there.”
“What’s wrong with that? Does being around him bring up bad memories?”
“Not really.” I move over to the couch and sit across from her. “Mostly the good. That’s what scares me. He’s…he’s not like me. He’sgood. Not polluted like me.”
“Negative thoughts, Wesley.”
I scoff. “Yeah, I know, but I am, Mirrie. I put shit in my body that I shouldn’t have, and now I have a lifelong addiction that I’ll never get rid of. I don’t want him living in fear that one day I’ll relapse. He deserves better than that.”
Mirrie gives me a pointed look. “Can I be blunt?”
“Aren’t you always?”
“You’re putting a lot of thought into something that isn’t even established. You’re making rules for a relationship that doesn’t exist. Have you talked to Jaxon about being more than friends? Or being friends in general?”
I shake my head. “No. He said he wanted me to think about it.”
“And your thoughts were he wouldn’t be able to handle being friends with or dating an addict?”
Even though I know what I am and have come to terms with it, it still stings when someone calls me an addict. I’ve earned the title, many times over, but it hurts when my failures are pointed out to me.
“Yeah, exactly.”
She reaches for my hand, and when I nod, she grabs it. She learned early that I don’t like people touching me without my express permission, and she’s respected that.
“Wesley, you need to take your recovery one day at a time, but you also don’t have to wall yourself off from people. Take things slowly with Jaxon, but don’t make decisions for him. He might have the same reservations as you, but then again, he might not. Have you considered that he’s waiting on you to make the first move?”
My shoulder lifts in a defeated shrug. “Maybe. He asked me to think about it, just in case being around him would trigger me. But he doesn’t. I’m triggered that I might fuck up and hurt him worse than I did when we were sixteen. We’re not kids anymore. If I go to him, I have tomeanit.”
“So what’s stopping you?” Mirrie asks.
That question rings in my mind the entire drive home. Whatisstopping me? Besides my own baggage. I’m still awork in progress. I’ll probably be a work in progress for the rest of my life. But maybe being around someone like Jaxon will…I don’t know, make me want to be better. Disappointing him would fucking kill me.
Maybe Mirrie was right. I can take things slow. Maybe start by asking for his fucking number. I’ve been such a fucking coward that I haven’t called his office to ask for his cell number, so I have no way to reach him after he goes home from work. Maybe I’ll reach out tomorrow.
Maybe.
I spend the rest of the night unpacking some of the boxes Zed brought here for me. He came to visit last week, and he had the moving truck bring up the stuff from my LA condo. He personally went through everything he packed meticulously to check that there weren’t any pills stashed anywhere. Everything is cleared by him, all the important things I’ll need for however long I’m going to stay here.
After I’m done unpacking the bedroom, I gather all the trash and boxes to take down to the recycling bin at the end of my driveway. The house is isolated enough that I can walk around the property freely without fear that someone will recognize me at a distance.
Just before I step outside, my gaze catches on the black case I didn’t notice Zed bring up. The boxes tumble from my hands as the breath whooshes out of my lungs. Even though the case is closed, I know what it contains. It’s the guitar Jaxon gave me all those years ago. I take cautious steps over to it, like if I move too fast, it’ll disappear.
I kneel in front of it and flick the latches, lifting the top so I can look at it.
It’s still as beautiful as the first day I saw it, sleek and black, carrying a sound that can’t be replicated by guitars made in later years.
Even though I was pissed at Jaxon, I’d never gotten a gift like this before, so I cherished the guitar. After we signed with a label, I was able to afford another, and I put this one away so I wouldn’t have to look at it again.
I missed it.
With gentle fingers, I rub along the surface. I haven’t played it in so long. I’m not even sure the strings are any good, as the guitar’s been locked up for close to ten years.
I sigh and close the case. I’ll come back to it later. Not right now.
