*Hey, just checking in.You okay?You sounded off when we talked last night.Let me know if you need anything.*
He didn’t remember having a conversation with the woman who signed the checks he’d been happily cashing.That could be problematic.Vic stared at the message for a long moment, thumbs hovering uselessly over the keyboard.He typed, deleted, typed again.The words felt inadequate, but he forced them out anyway.
*Hey, Meg.Sorry for going dark.Rough night.I’m good.Thanks for checking.*
He hit Send, then added quickly before he could overthink it:
*Won’t happen again.*
Meg’s reply came through almost immediately, like she’d been waiting.
*Good.You’re one of the best I’ve got.Don’t make me worry.Take care of yourself, kid.*
Vic set the phone down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of his old bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging heavy between his shoulders.The room spun slowly around him, the familiar posters on the walls blurring at the edges.
He could still taste the cheap whiskey at the back of his throat, bitter and cloying.
He could still hear Harper’s quiet, apologetic voice echoing in his head.
“I’m getting married.”
Emotion tightened his throat until he couldn’t draw a full breath.The pressure built behind his eyes, hot and stinging.Why wouldn’t I have known?The question rolled around in his mind, louder with every repetition.Why hadn’t he seen the signs?Why had he let himself believe, even for that short handful of days, that something real was possible?Why did he always do this—let himself hope, only to end up exactly where he’d started?
The longer the question echoed, the more lost he felt.Lost in his own skin.Lost in the life he kept trying to build only to watch it crumble.Lost in the pattern he swore he’d never repeat.
He sat there on the edge of his childhood bed, staring at the floor until the light outside the window grew brighter, the shame and regret settling heavy in his bones like they belonged there.
***
Vic’s head felt likeit had been split open and filled with broken glass.The reminder of the cheap whiskey from the night before still sat sour in his stomach, and every heartbeat sent a fresh spike of pain behind his eyes.He was sprawled on the old couch in Grams’ living room, one arm thrown over his face, trying to will the world to stop spinning.
His phone rang.
He almost ignored it.Almost.
But old habits died hard.He cracked one eye open, saw Meg’s name on the screen, and answered.
“Yeah?”His voice came out like gravel.
“Montrose.”Meg’s tone was crisp but kind, the way she got when she had work for him.“I’ve got a full week of tracking sessions starting tomorrow.Four different artists, good money, all at Blackbird.You in?”
Vic sat up slowly, the room tilting for a second before settling.The idea of crawling back under a blanket and stewing in his own shame for the next seven days felt worse than the hangover.Work meant movement.Work meant focus.Work meant he wouldn’t have to sit here replaying Harper’s words on loop.
“I’m in,” he said, already standing.“What time tomorrow?”
“Ten a.m.sharp.You sound like hell, by the way.”
“Feel like it too,” he admitted.“But I’ll be there.”
He hung up and rubbed a hand over his face.The decision felt right.Necessary.
***
Grams was in the kitchenwhen he walked in, stirring something on the stove that smelled like heaven.
“I got session work,” he told her, leaning against the doorframe.“Full week at Blackbird.I’ll stay in a motel for the four nights so I’m not driving back and forth exhausted.Should be home by Friday night.”
Grams turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel.She studied him for a long moment, eyes soft but knowing.“You sure you’re up for that right now, baby?”
