"Tommy, it's everything," I say.
He's quiet for a moment, then: "You ever look in the mirror and see your old man staring back?"
"Every day for years." I admit.
"Then how the fuck do you stop it?" There's desperation bleeding through the anger now. "How do you break something that feels like it's coded into your fucking DNA?"
"By understanding that you're not your father's sins," I say carefully. "You're not the sum of what he did to you or what he failed to be. You're you. And maybe—" I pause, "—maybe your whole purpose in this lifetime is to break all those old narratives that got passed down to you. To take all that pain and fear and anger and turn it into something that looks nothing like what he gave you."
He's listening now, even though his arms are still crossed defensively across his chest.
"Scott used to tell me that I'd never amount to anything. That I was weak and pathetic and everything wrong with the world. And for a long time, I believed him. I thought I was destined to be exactly what he said I was."
"But you're not."
"No. But it took me years to understand that his voice in my head wasn't truth—it was just trauma. That I got to choose who I became, even if it meant fighting every instinct he'd beateninto me."
"What if I can't fight it? What if I'm already too far gone?"
"You're not," I say. "But you don't fight it alone either."
"You're making it sound a lot easier than it actually is." The sarcasm is back, but it's weaker now. More defense mechanism than genuine dismissal.
"Oh, it's far from easy. But you show up every day and try to be one percent better than you were yesterday. You fuck up and you forgive yourself and you try again, you do that one hundred times before you might see some shift. You let people who give a shit about you hold you up when you can't stand on your own. That's all any of us can do."
He's quiet for a long moment, staring at the floor.
When he speaks again, his voice is so small, so unlike the confident musician who performs in front of thousands.
"I don't know if I can do this Nate."
"You can," I say with certainty. "Because you already did the hardest part. You're asking for help."
"Even after how shitty I've been to you and the guys?" he asks, and the vulnerability in those words costs him everything.
Here was a guy asking not to drown. And suddenly I'm back in that place—twenty-one years old and dying slowly, being pulled out of a drug den by Nick and Jay.
Being given a second chance I didn't think I deserved. Being shown that asking for help isn't weakness, it's the bravest thing you can do.
"Yeah Tommy," I say without hesitation. “We’ve all got your back. Whatever you need.”
He lets out a breath like he's been holding it for weeks, and his whole body seems to sag with relief. The armor comes down completely now.
"I know a good program with good people that saved my life."
"What if I fuck it up?"
"If you fuck up, we try again. Recovery isn't a straight line, Tommy. It's messy and hard and sometimes you take two stepsback for every one forward. But the point is you keep moving. You keep trying. And you let the people who love you hold you up when you can't stand on your own."
"You really think I can do that?" There's something fragile in the question. Like he's desperate to believe it but terrified to hope.
"Yeah, I do," I say. "Because I've watched you grow into someone your younger self would be proud of. Someone who cares about his music, his brothers, his future. That's not who your father was. That's who you are. And that person deserves a chance to heal."
"Thank you," he says into my shoulder, voice muffled.
"Always," I say, and I mean it.
"I'll uhh… I’ll see you tomorrow? For rehearsal?" he asks. There's still uncertainty there, like he's afraid I'll change my mind.
