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“You left long before I stepped one foot out the door,” I spit out.
He growls, tapping his fingers on his glass like he always does when he’s nervous or angry.
“Excuse me if I didn’t want to find you passed out again in the yard. Or locate you spaced out of your mind on the beach, howling at the freaking moon. You know you trashed the backstage room at the Ryman in Nash after I left? Or need I remind you how you fucking forced yourself on me in Richmond, high on whatever the fuck you were taking at the time?” I say.
“I paid them back,” he growls, “and I—let you go, didn’t I?”
“I couldn’t watch you destroy yourself.”
“Leaving was the only option for you? Guess those vows we took didn’t mean shit,” he says. Hurt is in his voice as he brushes an angry hand over his scruffy beard.
“I didn’t come here to fight. Have had enough of that to last a lifetime, or twenty.”
“You want the house?” he mumbles, putting the cigarette back into his mouth.
“No, damn it. I don’t want the house. This isn’t my home anymore,” I say, slamming my fist against the couch cushion.
“It’s yours. Hell, every single thing in here reminds me of you,” he goes on, clearly not registering what I’m telling him.
“Stop it,” I whisper, locking eyes with him.
“You’re the one who bolted after we lost the baby.”
“Don’t,” I tell him, standing. Tears prick my eyes.
He tries to grab my hands. I cringe back and he lets me. “We never talk about that. We should. Jack said we should.”
“Why have you been talking to Dad?”
He shakes his head, pouring himself another drink.
“Can you stop?” I ask, trying to hold in my tears.
“Don’t pretend like you care. You’re the one who left,” he states. “The guys forgave me; why can’t you?” he asks, before swigging the drink back.
“Navarone.” My voice is trembling. He isn’t paying attention, pouring himself another glass full of Grey Goose.
I want to tell him that I had trouble getting get out of bed the first month I was here, after leaving the hospital, when he was touring the UK. But I don’t.
The leather of the couch creaks under him when he slumps back. He downs another shot before pouring the next one and draining it in one gulp.
My voice is calm when I ask, “Are you going to sign the divorce papers?”
The look in his eyes is hard before a hint of vulnerability creeps over his features. It is gone by the time I blink. “I’m working on it.” His deep voice has an edge to it. He lights another cigarette. “What I can tell you is that we’re quitting,” he states, turning his glazed eyes to me.
“Who’s we?”
“Denver, George, and Paul. We’re forming our own band with Sterling.”
“What were these last years, then? A fast cash road to here?” I say, motioning around the room to the new guitars lying scattered on the floor.
The blue aquamarine Gibson Les Paul I bought him for his birthday catches my eye. I walk over to the guitar and let my fingers skim the strings. The left side is banged up, like he smashed it against something.
“What did you do?” I ask, raising my voice and looking at him. “That’s a four-thousand-dollar guitar.”
He shrugs, leaning back against the couch cushions. “So what? Still got others. Better ones. I don’t need that one.” He coughs.
I flip him off.
