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Juan, that’s the name of the guy whose couch I crashed on, he let me borrow his phone and thankfully, a pair of sweatpants which for reasons I need not explain, he insisted I keep.
I called Nick, and he picked me up twenty minutes later. The car ride back to the hotel was awkward, to say the least. Nick didn’t say a word. He wouldn’t even look at me.Or couldn’t?Nick usually rants and raves, shouts until his face turns blue and the little veins in his temple look like criss-crossing roads about to cause a pile up on the I-90.
But this time was different.
I knew it was coming. Nick has warned me time and time again that if I didn’t get my shit together, I’d be kicked out of the band. For good.
Spoiler alert. I did not get my shit together.
So, when we got back to the hotel, he calmly strolled into my room, packed all my stuff into a suitcase and then booked us both on the next flight back to New York.
There was no changing his mind this time.
There was one option, and one option only.
I get sober, or I’m done. Noifs,buts, ormaybes. I do my time, or I’ll never play bass with Cold Neptune again. My entire career goes down the toilet. Everything I’ve worked my ass off to achieve over the years, gone. Done and dusted. Being in Cold Neptune is like a dream come true for me. All the years of playing shitty gigs and busking on street corners finally got me somewhere, and for the first time in my life I actually felt like I belonged. Reed didn’t sign me up because he wanted to spend his days staring at my pretty face. Most days I annoy the crap out of him. But he loves the music we make together and he loves the way I play bass.
I was checked into Rochester later that afternoon.
And now you know as much as I do.
Today is day seven. I’ve made it a week.Whoop-de-fucking-do.
There’s a knock on the door.
An orderly named Chad, a big guy with an even bigger attitude, walks into the room carrying a silver tray in his hands.
“Lunch,” he says, placing the tray down on the coffee table in front of me. “You get one personal call a week. Tomorrow is your day. Who do you want to call? I’ll make sure their number is waiting for you at reception.”
“Don’t need to talk to anyone.”
“Suit yourself.” He shrugs his enormous shoulders. It’s a quick movement, a jerky response. “How was your group session this morning? Dr. Copeland got you talking yet?”
“Nope.”
“Why are you fighting him on this?”
“Got nothing to say.”
He shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “It’ll help if you open up to him, Kael. He’s a good man. That’s what they’re here for, the doctors, the therapists, the sobriety companions. They make an amazing team, and they know what they’re doing.”
“Ask me if I care.”
He sighs softly but stands tall, arranging my meds in a little paper cup. Pouring a glass of water from the tray, he passes them over to me. “Here, take these.”
“Thanks,” I reply, taking the cup from him.
“How are your hands? Still shaking?”
“A little.”
“Nausea?”
“Mornings are the worst.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“I’m not.”
