“Yeah, I shut it off after my last check in with my regular at my volunteer job last night. At least I waited until I made it home safely. How did you even get my phone number, anyway?”
They give each other a sheepish sort of look before facing me. Ezra is the one who finally stops begging me with his eyes to be understanding and says, “Your dad.”
I freaking knew it!
“You shouldn’t have done that. I don’t really speak with him.”
“We know. There was a very lengthy conversation had with Axel when we decided to make a plan to find you in the first place. It was actually his idea to—”
“It doesn’t matter. I don’t care what his ideas are. Nothing is going to happen with any of us. I told you guys already. I’m not joining your band. You could have told me about the tour though. You didn’t have to lie to me.”
“We didn’t lie. We told you we were getting the band back together and that we needed you to be a part of it.”
“Are you serious right now?” I scoff. “Conveniently leaving out the weird overnight sensation thing, which hasnothingto do with me by the way, and a world tour? Did you think I’d drop out of school, leave my whole life behind to follow you guys around like some love sick groupie? I’ll have to pass, thanks.” Disgust is evident in my voice, but I’m beyond caring about hurt feelings right now. I don’t have the mental bandwidth to discuss why the thought of groupies is nauseating. Frankly that conversation seems about as fun as getting my toenails ripped off in a torture chamber.
These guys don’t get to brush my feelings off like they don’t matter. They came here assuming I’d fall to my knees and do whatever they asked because what? Because I’ve missed them so much that my entire world felt duller without them in it? I was coping. I’d found some semblance of happiness. I’m still moving forward despite the never ending ache that exists in the place they once were.
Fuck them for this.
“Hey, take a deep breath. Calm down and then I think it’s time for us to have a conversation about how things have been these past years.” There’s a brokenness to Nix’s voice that sets me on edge.
Immediately my first thought is that I don’t want to have this conversation. I don’t think I can take much more and as I stare at what have arguably always been my most broken boys, I know that this is about to be brutal.
Chapter Twenty
Ezra Ryder
Oneyearago…
“C’mon brother, you know how hard he’s been working to stay clean. You coming today is really important.”Cyan says through the tinny line of the phone.
I’d gotten rid of my phone a little over a year ago and my so-called best friends lost their shit about it, forcing me to carry one in case of an emergency. They’d guilted me into it, using Phoenix’s addiction against me. A lot like they’re doing now in fact.
It’s not like I don’t want to be there for his one year celebration of being sober. He asked if we’d be there when he collects his one year token from his NA meeting, but then I’d have to face the facts and to be perfectly honest, I’m not willing to give up my own vices just yet. Taking responsibility for my own lack of sobriety sounds like everything I don’t want to do.
Speaking of, I pull a bottle of liquor from the cabinet—it’s expensive and likely wasted on the likes of me—and chug a bit straight off the top, then sit down to roll out a joint, lacing a small amount of smack in with my weed. Lighting it up, I take a hit and respond on an exhale. “I said I’d do my best to get there, didn’t I?”
“Yep, and you said the same thing for his six and nine month milestones. You showed up to neither. We’ve been trying to be more of a staple in your life and involve you in ours for over a year now and you’re shutting us out.”
“I got the new fucking cell phone at your insistence. I respond when you message, at least most of the time. What more do you want? I’m doing my best,” I lie, smoking the joint too quickly for my liking.
I’m not doing my best. I know it. They know it. Hell, the world probably knows it with the random paps that still stalk us from time to time. I’ve seen some of those tabloid images and they don’t paint a pretty picture.
“Doing your best isn’t lying to you best friends—your family, man. I know you said that you simply wanted to escape technology, but we all know that’s a load of shit. Be real with me for once. What happened to your other phone?”
“I threw it away,” I murmur, annoyed with this whole conversation.
It’s not a lie. I did throw it away and didn’t bother to replace it. That was the first night I’d been willing to accept that I probably had a problem. I understood it in real time, accepted it even. Under no circumstances does that mean I was willing to stop, much preferring the highs of the high over the lows of acknowledging what my life is sober.
“And why would you do that? Was something wrong with it?”
“No.”
Yes.
“E, you know you can tell me anything. I’m not here to judge you or talk you into changing, or whatever else you’re assuming of me. You’re my best friend, my brother, and I love you. That’s it.”
“Lay off with the dramatics, Cy,” I breathe out on an exhale. “It was no big deal. I was in an accident and it broke. I didn’t want anyone to know. Still don’t, so keep your fucking mouth shut.”
