Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
DECLAN
As soon as we arrive at the park, Max runs toward the playground when her tiny feet touch the ground after Andy takes her out of her seat. She had grabbed a blanket from the back of her car, and then I helped her spread it over the grass before spreading out the food we bought.
It's obvious that Andy has never had anyone do anything for her just because. That became clear in how she reacted to me buying our food and filling her car with gas. Money isn't an issue for me. The millions I earn from Riot sit in my account and are only used for hotels. A hefty amount was once used for drugs, but not anymore.
Camille hadn't wanted anything during our divorce, so I didn't have any other payments apart from legal fees.
Apart from money from my music career, I have several investments deposited directly into a savings account, which has been accruing interest for years. I'm at a place where a price tag doesn't matter. Meanwhile, Andy is squirming over fifty dollars and a tank of gas, which I understand because I remember what it's like to be broke.
Growing up, I was a poor kid. The kid that went to school with holes in my clothes and pants that were too short for my tall frame. My mom often forgot to send me lunch money or submit the paperwork each school year to qualify for school lunch assistance. She'd always said our finances were our business, and she didn't need everyone at my school to know how much she made. Her pride was more important than her child having a hot free meal every day.
Occasionally, when she was passed out from taking too many drugs, I'd steal money from her wallet to buy myself lunch. I never took more than five dollars, but it was worth it to have at least one hot meal a day. Even if it meant having to lie and gaslight her when she asked what happened to the money. I'd tell her I didn't take it and assure her she miscounted or lost it.
After Adam and I started Riot, we struggled, taking gigs at bars and even bussing tables in exchange for a few bucks or free food.
By the time I got married, my financial situation had improved, but Camille and I struggled initially until Riot got a big break and she started her business.
The point is, I know what it's like, so I'll never fault someone for having to budget and not having anything extra.
A sandwich thrust in my direction steals my attention, suddenly bringing my focus to the woman holding the wrapped food. I take it from her just as my stomach grumbles with hunger. Quickly, I tear into the packaging and take a massive bite.
"Max! Come eat," Andy calls, opening the peanut butter and jelly she picked out for Max and the bottle of apple juice.
A disappointed child approaches, her feet shuffling in the grass as she nears us, brown eyes rolling, "But Mommy, I want to play." She groans, collapsing to the spread blanket with a small thud.
"Eat first. You can go play after." The three of us eat in silence.
When Max is done, she takes off running to the empty playground, climbing up the slide .
"So," I break the silence, hating that the woman who has never had a problem putting me in my place is suddenly silent and seemingly shy. "Come here often?" Her brown eyes look at me, and I wiggle my eyebrows.
Throwing her head back, throaty, deep laughter erupts from her. Dark curls bouncing when she shakes her head. "You're ridiculous."
"But I made you laugh, so I'd consider myself a winner."
"Do you need a prize for making me laugh?"
I think momentarily before answering, "Actually, I do."
"Alright. Pick your prize." I know exactly what I want. Just hope she gives it to me.
"Tell me why you instantly hated me. You know who I am, claim you're a fan, yet you hated me immediately." I've been wondering about it since the other night when we met. Sure, I'd understand if she hated me because I was a stranger talking to her daughter alone at night, but there seems to be more to it than that. Her feelings toward me seem personal.
Andy's shoulders rise with an inhale, her eyes shifting between her hands and Max playing on the playground.
A long moment of silence passes. She clears her throat and speaks when I think she won't answer me.
"I've already admitted the media doesn't paint the best picture of you." She chews her bottom lip, fingers nervously playing with the rose gold ring on her right index finger, "I know you're an addict." The confession hangs between us, thick in the air.
That's not a secret. Everyone knows I'm an addict and have been to rehab, but what they don't understand is accurate details or timelines of my addiction. They've labeled me a recovering addict and act as if I'm healed and am not at risk of relapse.
Considering this woman is still a stranger to me, I should protect myself and not give her any personal information, especially since she hasn't signed an NDA. Many women I've encountered have sold less to the tabloids than I'm about to tell her. But for some reason, I don't think she's that type of person to sell things she learned about me. So, I confirmed what she already knew about me.
Running a hand through my hair and tugging it gently at the roots, I shift my body until we're sitting face to face, and she has no other option than to look me in the eye, "I am, and I always will be, even if I'm no longer using or drinking. You don't stop being an addict just because you're in recovery. Addicts will always have an addiction, which means I'll live with it for the rest of my life. All I can do is wake up each morning and choose to be sober. Choose life instead of being a half-dead, drugged-out zombie." My Adam's apple bobs with my swallow, my hands resting on my bent knees.
"Are you?"
"Am I what?" She eyes me carefully, looking over my exposed skin as if she's expecting to see fresh track marks or some sign that'll reveal I'm lying.
"Are you sober? How long has it been since you've used?"
I appreciate that she asks me exactly what she wants to know instead of beating around the bush. "Yes. I have been sober for three weeks now. It's hard as fuck, but I wake up every day and choose to fight." Why does talking to this woman make me feel better than talking to a therapist ever did?
"How long are you staying here in Loganville, and why are you here?"
"Two months. The rest of the band is in Las Vegas. They think I should be here while we have some downtime, and I'm... newly sober." The admission tastes sour on my tongue, "Eventually, I'll join them and move to Vegas." Two days ago, I couldn't wait to leave this place and join my best friends, but now, since meeting this mother-daughter duo, I don't mind being here for now.
That realization shocks the fuck out of me. It makes no sense, considering I just met this woman and know nothing about her.
Maybe it's the fact that she isn't trying to hop on my dick and doesn't want anything from me. This is the first time in a long time I've been around a woman without any expectations. There's no pressure about letting her down or fulfilling a promise. I don't have to be anything other than myself.
Dare I say there's a chance I could have a friend? A friend other than Max, of course. Since, according to her, we've been best friends.
Andy stares at me, chewing her plump bottom lip. Her eyes narrow as if deep in thought, yet unsure what to say. We've been doing good so far with this whole honesty thing. I don't want her to stop now.
"So, you're only here for two months?" I nod to the confirmation she seeks.
With a heavy sigh, she brushes her curls behind her ears, and I feel I won't like whatever she has to say. I brace myself for impact when she opens her pretty little mouth to speak, "Two things will happen. I'm not sure which will come first." She shifts, sitting a little bit straighter.
"Either you'll leave and break my daughter's heart because she already considers you her best friend and will notice your absence. Or you'll relapse before you leave. It will happen one day because I know it always does." The softness from her eyes disappears as she stares at me.
What the actual fuck?
As if she hadn't twisted the knife hard enough, she opens her mouth to stab me again. "I can't allow an addict around my daughter." There's finality in her tone. It is as if she's been thinking about this for a while and has decided.
I scoff. "So much for being honest with you, right?" my jaw twitches, and I bite my tongue to keep myself from lashing out at her like I've always done whenever I'm hurt.
"Your honesty was appreciated, but I have to protect my child. You’ve only been clean for three weeks. You're dangerous for her."
She thinks I'm dangerous for Max.
Just like I was dangerous for Luca .
The backs of my eyes sting, and the way she's staring at me makes me feel even more pathetic than I already am. She looks at me as if I'm beneath her. The gum stuck on the bottom of her shoe.
It's a look I've seen many times before. A look that tells me I'm not good enough and never will be. No matter how fucking hard I try, my past will always define me. I will never be anything more than the man who used to stick needles in my veins, constantly chasing a higher high.
Worthless. So fucking worthless.
It should've been me that died.
It should've fucking been me.
Die. Make the world a better place.
Swallowing back the emotion clogging my throat, refusing to allow myself to be any more vulnerable than I've already been, I stand on shaky legs.
"Hurt people, hurt people, Andy," I manage to say through gritted teeth. "I hope one day you heal from whoever hurt you."
Emotionless brown eyes continue staring at me, but I don't spare her another glance before I turn my back on her and walk away, biting the inside of my cheeks to keep myself from displaying any emotion currently clawing its way under my skin.
"Best friend!" a small voice yells, but I don't turn around. I can't. I fucking can't.
I'm dangerous.
"Hey, best friend!" Max screams. "Wait! Best friend!"
With my hands curled in tight fists, I walk toward the hotel.
It isn't until I hear a horn and a yelled "fuck you" that I realize I've been walking in the middle of the road, but I don't care.
Maybe I'll get lucky, and one of these small-town fuckers will put me out of my misery.
When I reach the hotel, my heart is racing, and my hands are aching from where my nails cut into my palms. Bloodied crescent moons reveal how tightly I've had my hands balled into fists.
The way Andy looked at me was the same way Camille used to look at me when she'd come home to find me passed out or high out of my fucking mind. The look of disgust and resentment was evident in her eyes.
Thinking that anyone could look over my past and see me was foolish. See the man behind the addictions and demons. The man who is trying every single fucking day to do better and make up for my sins.
Am I not worthy of redemption? Do I not deserve it?
Have I fucked up so goddamn bad that I don't deserve to be given another chance?
It wasn't like I was trying to marry her. All I wanted was friendship. Someone to talk to. Someone who wouldn't judge me for my past.
It's all wishful thinking.
I'll never deserve a second chance.
This is who I am. This is all I'll ever be.
A burden for everyone.
My best friends and bandmates don't even want me around. They're the only friends and family I have.
My mother didn't want me, so what makes me think that anyone else ever will?
A humorless laugh escapes me as I stare at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Tears that I hadn't noticed streamed down my face.
Look how fucking weak you are. Crying like a little bitch.
My laughter dies down as I study myself in the mirror, staring into the eyes of my reflection.
I fucking hate what I see.
I hate it so much that I send my fist through the mirror, shattering the glass.
"You're a fuck-up!" I scream, repeatedly hitting the shattered mirror. My body is so numb that I'm unable to feel the glass shards that wedge themselves deeper into the broken skin of my bloodied knuckles.
Droplets of blood run down my hand to my elbow, dripping in the white porcelain sink.
"Fuck you! Fuck you! Fuck you!" I yell until my voice becomes hoarse and my knuckles a torn mess.
Choking on my sobs, I collapse to my knees, hugging my bloodied fist to my chest.
My fingers twitch. I need something to put me out of my misery. Maybe I'll get lucky, and the next time I shove a needle in my veins, it'll be a fatal dose.
I’m constantly torn between life and death. I don’t want to live with my sins, and I don’t deserve to live for what I’ve done to my son. But I also don’t want to die. I don’t want to float away into the abyss and disappear into the darkness of my mind and addictions.
I don’t want my loved ones to find my body and be forced to bury me.
I don’t want to look up at them from my place in hell as they wear their best Sunday clothes and speak through tears, sharing their favorite memories of me.
Luca’s face appears behind my eyelids, and then, Max’s face follows soon after.
Fuck.
No. No. No.
I refuse. I can't be that person again.
I don't want to be that person again.
I want to fucking live! I want to wake up with clear sober thoughts, feel the heat of the sun warming my skin, and breathe air into my lungs.
I'm trying so fucking hard to be better. Why can't anyone see?
Why doesn't anyone notice me? Why can't one person see that I am trying so fucking hard to be better? To do better.
With a racing heart and spiraling mind, I shuffle into the room to the nightstand, reaching for the only thing I must rely on right now to calm myself.
Opening the leather notebook to a blank page, I pull the pen cap off with my teeth and pour my heart out on the blank pages, leaving behind bloody streaks and drops of tears as I frantically write.
I am not broken beyond repair.