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“Are you really clean and sober?” It’s barely a whisper over the roar of the ocean, but it’s there.
The question hits me like a freight train at midnight with no lights on. In an instant freezing panic seizes my blood before I remember that it’s not a question I need to be afraid of anymore. Old habits die hard.
“Yeah,” I answer simply. I don’t owe her anything more.
Then she looks at me, her eyes wide and hopeful. That’s the only word for it. That look shatters the stone wall I’ve been building up brick by brick since she walked out on me yesterday. The whole damn thing comes tumbling down and my breath’s stuck in my lungs.
“You promise?”
It’s such an innocent question, practically pleading with me. I figured Chelsea’s hesitation had something to do with my reputation, but this just confirms it. I’m not surprised by that, of course, but I can’t stop cursing my past self for fucking me over so badly. This is always going to be an issue. With every person in my life for as long as it keeps going. This issue is going to crop up, these doubts are going to have to be pushed away, over and over again, for the rest of my damn life. And I did it to myself, so I’m the only one I can be mad at.
“Yeah,” I say again. There’s nothing else to say. I mean it with every part of me. The guy who got wasted and wandered into strange cities for baggies of who-knows-what to shoot up is long gone. The guy who burned every bridge and nearly got one of his best friends killed is almost unrecognizable to the guy I am now. Being sober is a part of my identity now as much as being a junkie used to be.
It seems that Chelsea can tell that I’m sincere because she scoots closer on the bench and her hand reaches out to cover mine. I turn my palm upward and we sit there holding hands, staring at the ocean. I’m not sure what just happened here, but I’ll take it. For all my blustering about how I’m better off without Chelsea, the moment her hand is in mine it feels like something in my chest locks into place, never to come undone. A part of her links into me and I just know that we’re going to be connected like this forever. I hope she doesn’t walk out on me again, because I’m not sure I could take it.
After a long time of just listening to the waves and her breathing, Chelsea sighs.
“I have five siblings you know.”
“I didn’t,” I say. We’ve never really talked about our family lives. It’s all been about the music. But I suddenly realize that I want to know about her family. I want to know about her past. I want to know everything that makes this girl tick and commit it to memory.
She nods. “I do. Four brothers and a sister… Three brothers and a sister,” she corrects, shaking her head.
A frozen fist clasps around my heart, the pain in her tone so raw and open. It’s all I can do to whisper, “What happened?”
She gives a humorless laugh, now staring out toward the horizon but clearly seeing something from her past, looking into the ocean and sun to some long-ago memory. “I did.”
I don’t say anything. I feel like I just need to give her the time to get this out. Like maybe she really hasn’t had that chance. When someone’s told a story before, they almost have a script. They know how they’re going to phrase things, they know what order to put things in. Right now, I can see Chelsea trying to work that out, not sure what direction to take, so I give her time.
“I started in the business when I was just fourteen. For a few years, my parents were pretty involved in my career, but then my sister got sick. By that point I was an adult and could tour and stuff without them, but my oldest brother really wanted to be a part of things. He loved music. He loved theaters. He loved roadies and tech guys and learning about all the lighting stuff.” Her voice tightens and I squeeze her hand, reminding her I’m here for her. “By that point I was doing sold-out arena tours and would go days without seeing him. You know how that is. Press, rehearsals, show, meet and greet, try to grab a couple hours of sleep before it all starts again.”
I nod, but otherwise say nothing. I don’t need to tell her that many times in the past I exchanged sleeping for getting blitzed. She already knows, and this is her story.
“He started hanging out with some of the roadies. Someone introduced him to heroin. I don’t really know how it all happened, but it happened fast.”
Now my free hand is sweaty and I’m hoping the other one isn’t too, but I can’t really tell because I refuse to let go of hers right now. It’s a story that’s so common in our industry, one I’ve heard so many times before. One I already lived through—thankfully.
“We tried helping him to get clean. I put him in rehab once, then again. He’d stay clean for a few months, but then someone would call me, saying they found him passed out in the street. He spent every cent on that stuff. I’d get him the best suite in a hotel and he’d turn around and give the keys to someone for fifty bucks. He got arrested for living in the streets, for possession, for attempted robbery… Finally a judge ordered rehab and I sent him to that fancy place in San Diego. The one everyone seems to go to. I have to hand it to him, Eric did everything right. He was the model rehab patient. All the staff adored him, they gushed over his progress, they threw a big party for him the day he finished the program. Mom and Dad flew in for it and everything. Then we didn’t hear from him for two weeks until the cops showed up with the bad news.”
I still don’t know what to say. I want to apologize on behalf of junkies everywhere, but I don’t think it’ll actually make her feel any better. I feel the tiniest drop of water hit the back of my hand and look over to see that a tear splashed down from her cheek to her arm. It’s the only one though, and she wipes it away quickly.
“They never said it in so many words, but I know my parents blame me for Eric’s death. For introducing him to this lifestyle and not protecting him better.”
“It’s not your fault,” I say, unable to keep quiet now that I know the enormity of her guilt. Carrying that kind of thing around has to be exhausting.
She shakes her head, dismissing my reassurance, waving it off like an annoying pest. “I just…” She sighs and it seems like the weight of the world is on her shoulders. “I can’t watch someone go down that path again. I can’t bear it. After Eric… I nearly gave up. I basically quit music until…”
She looks at me, her eyes shimmering, and she doesn’t need to finish the sentence. “Until me,” I finish, blowing out a heavy breath. She just nods.
“So… If you’re lying to me, if you’re still using, if you’re still
an addict, tell me now. End this now before it starts, please.”
Her voice is so soft and broken that it nearly does me in. I drape my arm over her shoulders and pull her into my side, holding her there like I can stop her from ever leaving.
“Chelsea, I’m not going to lie to you. In rehab, they tell us that there’s no such thing as an ex-addict. There will always be that part of me in there, and it’ll always be a fight, but I swear to you it’s one I intend to win. Every day. I’ve been sober for five years now. I don’t even drink, and I can tell you that the guy I used to be… you wouldn’t even know him. I wouldn’t want you to. I don’t know what this is, or what might be starting here, but I promise you I will do everything I can not to fuck it up. And if I do fuck it up, it won’t be because of drugs. Never.”
She’s nestled into my side, her arms wrapped around me, and it’s all I need in this world. The waves crashing in the distance, this woman wrapped around me. It’s one of those perfect moments that you sear into your mind and never let go for as long as you live.
