Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Keane
Day Seventy
Yesterday, Rowan came to visit me. It’s strange—my brother and I were never this close when we were growing up. But now, it feels like we’re finally building the kind of relationship we should’ve had all along. He’s here to make sure I get the help I need, but he’s also making sure we stay connected. It’s strange that he’s no longer calling me a fucking loser that wants to be like our father. Nope, he’s making sure I don’t end up in a ditch dead because of an overdose.
During our conversation, we discussed what comes next—what my future might look like, if I even have one. The conversation felt surreal. It was as if we were talking about someone else’s life, not mine. A life I’m supposed to pick up and carry forward when all I want to do is lay it down and walk away.
We agreed I can’t stay here in the cabins for long-term patients. Not because I don’t need it—I probably do—but because my body has other demands. Physical therapy. Occupational therapy. And all those other therapies that will help me regain more of my mobility and skills. Can I play a guitar? Sure, but not the way I used to. And I need it. I need my music almost as much as I need to breathe. He mentioned there’s a center in Luna Harbor that can offer all of it, unless I want to go back to Seattle. I told Rowan I’d go.
The truth is, I don’t feel ready to leave this place. And I definitely don’t feel ready to face the world beyond these small towns.
Zeke Hutchence, the former bassist for Sinners of Seattle, offered to be my sponsor. He not only lives part time in Luna Harbor, but gets it. He knows the spiral I’ve been trapped in, the suffocating pull of addiction, and the hollow ache of trying to rebuild a life from ashes. He’s been there—looking in the mirror and seeing a stranger staring back, someone he didn’t want to be but couldn’t figure out how to change.
Zeke’s told me about his darkest days, about the nights that felt endless and the mornings that brought nothing but shame and regret. He’s been to the edge and fought his way back. He doesn’t sugarcoat it—recovery is messy, brutal even—but he’s proof that it’s possible. That there’s something worth fighting for on the other side, even when it feels impossibly far away.
Having him as my sponsor feels like having someone who truly understands. Someone who doesn’t just nod and say the right things but knows because he’s lived it. And maybe, just maybe, that makes all the difference.
I said yes because I need someone who gets it. Someone who knows the darkness I’m trying to crawl out of. Someone who can remind me why I’m even bothering.
Because right now, I don’t feel ready to life. Is that even a term? To life? To live? It doesn’t matter. The point is, I’m not ready for it.
Rowan asked if I wanted to go back to Seattle, said he could arrange for me to commute to therapy. He even offered to have someone fly me back and forth, like my broken body and shattered spirit deserved VIP treatment. But the thought of going back there—back to the city where I lost everything—makes me feel like I can’t breathe.
Seattle isn’t home anymore. It’s a graveyard.
Every street, every corner, every familiar sight is a reminder of who I was before the crash. Of the man who had a fiancée, a future, a chance to be a father. Of the man who wasn’t even sure if he wanted that life. The guy who let all of it slip through his fingers. Seattle is filled with ghosts—Ophelia’s laugh, her touch, the life we were supposed to have together.
I don’t want to be surrounded by people who will look at me and only see the man I used to be. The rock star, the lead singer, the golden boy. They’ll smile, pat me on the back, tell me how great it is to see me up and walking again. But none of them will ask the questions that matter. None of them will care if the person beneath the fame is doing okay.
And I can’t do it. I can’t pretend to be okay just to make them feel comfortable.
I want to disappear. Not in the way I used to—not in a bottle or a handful of pills. I want to fade into the kind of life where no one knows my name, where I can exist without expectations or judgment.
Luna Harbor feels like the answer. It’s small, quiet, far from everything and everyone. I could go there, focus on therapy, let myself grieve without an audience. Maybe even figure out who I am without the noise of my old life drowning me out.
But even that feels like a dream I’m too scared to reach for. Because what if I fail? What if I go there, and it’s not enough? What if the grief follows me like a shadow, no matter where I run?
Zeke says one day at a time. “You don’t have to be ready for the rest of your life,” he said. “You just have to be ready for today.”
I’m trying. I really am. But today feels impossible, and tomorrow feels like a mountain I’m not strong enough to climb.
Twenty days . . . well twenty days feels like an eternity. Yet, that’s all I have left here. Then I’ll have to figure out how to take what I’ve learned and apply it to a world that hasn’t changed, even though I have.
Honestly, I’m terrified. Not just of what’s out there, but of what’s in here. The part of me that still doesn’t know if it wants to fight.
I keep thinking about Ophelia. About how she believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Should I ask her how she did it? How can she believe in someone who, time and again, failed her?
Maybe that’s where I need to start, in believing in myself, even with my fuckups, even when the world seems so dark.