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‘Drop the attitude, Tate.’ He looks at Tate’s wet clothes and shakes his head. ‘You go swimming again or is that just down to the rain?’
‘I went for a swim.’
‘In your clothes? You do realise they’ve invented these things called swimming trunks.’
‘I didn’t plan to go for a swim.’
‘You should get changed before you catch a cold. I’ll finish sorting Jove out for you.’
‘For fuck’s sake. I can manage!’ He takes a deep breath and turns back to Jove. Tate secures the lightweight rug over Jove and shuts the stable door a little harder than necessary.
‘Are you done or do you fancy going for a full-blown tantrum? You could always give the stable door a kick if you’re looking for a big finish.’
Tate turns and faces his father. The two men stare each other down until Tate finally breaks. He laughs and scrubs his hand through his wet hair. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I get it, okay. I get you’re frustrated and the last thing you want is us looking over your shoulder but cut us a little slack. You scared the hell out of us, Tate. Don’t get your nose out of joint when we show a little concern.’
‘I know and I’m really not trying to be ungrateful, but... I feel like none of us are comfortable with me being here. You’re all walking on eggshells around me and I’m—’
‘Thirty-six and back living with your parents,’ his dad interrupts. ‘Like I said, I get it. All this being fussed over isn’t doing much for your image.’
‘Oh you mean the failed rock star, junkie, alcoholic image. Think I could do with losing that one.’
Rick leans against the stable door and looks out at the beach beyond the hedge. ‘Sounds like it’s time you give them something new to talk about. Gregg mentioned you want to record the new album you were working on before you went on tour.’
Tate nods but feels less enthusiastic about that than he does about staying with his parents for another few weeks. ‘Yeah. I’m thinking about it.’
‘Well, maybe it’s time you stop thinking and actually pick up your guitar.’ He nudges him in the side and nods towards the house. ‘C’mon. I’ll make you something to eat while you get changed. If you get a cold your mother will wrap you in a blanket on the couch and force-feed you chicken soup for the next week.’
Tate follows him into the house, kicking off his wet boots at the door. Rick opens the fridge and pulls out a packet of bacon. ‘Bacon butty?’
Tate shakes his head. ‘I’m not really hungry.’
His dad peers at him around the side of the fridge. ‘Try again.’
He’s going to have to force it down whether he wants it or not. ‘Sounds great. Thanks.’
‘Better. You’ve got ten minutes.’
He leaves his dad to the breakfast and shuts the door to his room. He hurries through the bedroom conscious that his jeans are leaving a trail of wet sand on the carpet. After turning on the shower, he peels off his wet clothes and dumps them in the hamper in the corner of the bathroom. He steps into the shower, the steaming water washing the salt and sand off his skin. His arm stings as the jets beat against the open scratches, but he ignores the pain.
He knows his dad is right about getting back to work. It’s what he loves and he’s damn good at it. It’s been nearly five months since he picked up a guitar and he desperately misses it. He may have told Gregg he wants to get back in the studio but he’s not so sure he’s ready. He can’t even face their manager, Ellen.
The shame of what he did is eating him up. He’s not sure if it’s the fact he accidentally overdosed or that it’s gone public that’s giving him the most issues. It’s probably a bit of both.
Each day things were supposed to get better for him. He knew he wouldn’t get over what he did quickly, but this is getting fucking ridiculous. He’s terrified of the memories that have suddenly come to life and won’t leave him, even when he’s awake. Terrified of someone finding out how messed up he really is. Terrified he’ll never pick up a guitar again. Never sing again. Never perform again. He’s terrified this is his life now.
He scratches his arm again and winces as the water hits the raw scratch marks. The scratching is nearly worse than the addiction was. It’s becoming a habit he can’t shake, especially when he’s lost in thought.
He’s been told there’s nothing the doctors can do about the scratching. The itch isn’t actually there. It’s in his head not on his skin. His shrink was trying to help him with it, but Tate switches off more and more during the sessions. He knows he’s not doing himself any favours, but he can’t talk about it. He’d prefer just to forget about it. Apparently that’s not the way it works, or so his doctor keeps telling him.
He didn’t realise he’d zoned out until his dad shouts through the closed door, calling him for breakfast. Tate grabs a clean pair of jeans and long-sleeved t-shirt from his cupboard and makes sure the scratch marks are covered before he goes back into the main house. His mum is at the table with Rick, and, as usual, the conversation stops when he steps into the room.
‘How was your ride?’ his mum asks as he pours himself a cup of coffee.
‘Good.’
‘You’ve got your appointment at ten. You haven’t forgotten have you?’
