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“What the hell was that?” I ask, confused, still looking around to find her.
Reed shrugs, smiles, and opens his mouth like he has something to share with me, but then a strong arm is wrapping around my waist, tugging me back into a chest. I let out anoofand would normally panic, but I know that arm.
I know that chest.
I know the smell and feel, and Idefinitelyknow the rumble of Riggins’ laugh on my back.
It feels safe.
It feels like I’mhome.
Hours later, I’m sitting outside on a log around a fire, listening to the crackling of the wood and the occasional loud laugh from the house. I left the house to escape the chaos when all four of the guys huddled in a corner, and Reed started screaming at someone to take a picture for them.
Seeing him in this new frame has been a challenge, so close to how things used to be that it almost triggers a panic inside of me, something I don’t want to feel, doubts I don’t want to give air to. I don’t think he’s going to start drinking after just one party, especially not after talking to him in the woods and seeing him prove to me, again and again, he’s turned a new leaf, but I can't help but wonder how parties like this impact him, how they make him feel.
A few minutes of my staring into the crackling fire, my eyes dry from my intense stare. Someone sits down across from me at one of the six logs lining the area around the fire. When I look up, I see Beckett staring into the same fire as I am, quiet, not saying a word or looking at me.
Silence takes over, suddenly louder than when it was just me. It’s not uncomfortable, but it’s… different. It never was when it was me and Beckett. He was always the quiet, brooding type, but I liked that about him. Liked how I could sit in my own thoughts when I was with Beckett.
Riggins was always my heart, the one I could share everything with, for better or worse.
Reed was the funny one, the one who would do absolutely anything to make someone smile, the one who I could talk about dumb shit with.
Wes was the ladies man, the one who would pick up a new girl on tour every single night, and I always knew I could go to him for anything and he’d always tell me how it was.
But Beckett? Beckett was the one I could always sit in comfortable silence with. The one who punched Riggins in the face when he found out he’d made me cry, the one who I know probably gave Riggs the most shit when I was gone for good. He was also the one who, when I had a line but not a melody, I could come to him and wait for him to find the right staccato or beat for the words I wrote.
I missed them all, but I missed Beckett most, I think.
“He’s better, you know,” his deep, rumbling voice says, shocking me since he’s never been the one to speak up first. It’s not his style.
“What?”
“Riggins. He’s better. In control.”
My stomach flips, but I nod in agreement. I can see that; it’s obvious. And It’s been confirmed by the others.
“Yeah, I know. Reed told me.”
Beckett stares at me for a long beat before shaking his head. “Reed sees the best in everyone. He would tell you Riggs was better even if he slipped up a bunch just because he misses you and misses seeing you two happy together.”
He’s not wrong; Reed would do that, and I’d be lying if that voice in my head hadn’t been whispering that to me in the dark as well.
“But me, I’ll tell you like it is.” This is also true. He would. “You left; he got worse. Real bad, Stell, but I think you know that.” I nod in confirmation, but no words will leave my lips as I hold his deep brown eyes. “Got better, on and off, then his dad died, and he fucking lost it. You know that, too.” I nod again, remembering the way Riggins described it all to me.
I remember going to Riggins’ father’s funeral. Remember holding his hand even though I didn’t feel like I had the right, and I remember him disappointing me again, and I remember feeling like such a fucking idiot for believing in him, believing we could be anything.
“The label ordered him to go to rehab.” Now that, that’s news to me.
“What?” I ask, trying to place this new piece of information into the timeline I already have in my head, trying to understand where it fits.
It doesn’t, but Beckett nods. His head turns looking out to the woods behind his house, woods I once ran off into with Riggins, woods where I had my first kiss with him, woods where I’ve written more songs that I can count.
“It was kept quiet, but yeah. He went to rehab.” There’s a pause while I try and think of what to say, but he fills in the silence. I knew he went, of course, but I never really thought of the logistics or what got him to go. “It wasn’t easy; he thought he could do outpatient and get sober that way, but he needed professional help, full-time. He’d gotten too good at hiding it by then.” My gut twists. “I told him I was done with the band if he didn’t go. The music, the fame, the fans… none of it was worth it if he drank himself into a grave. The others followed eventually, and he agreed, especially after the DUI.”
“A DUI?” I ask, confused. Beckett looks at me with a similar confusion across his face.
“Well… yeah.” He says it a bit confused but keeps speaking. “I mean, it wasn’t made public, though. All of this wasn’t important for anyone else to know, but I think now… it’s important for you to know.” I stare at his profile, thinking how it would have been so much easier if it was Beckett, whom I had a crush on all those years ago.
