Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
DECLAN
Tuesday morning is here. The day I've been dreading. I've been fucking sick about having to leave ever since Benny announced that Riot would be performing a few shows in Vegas.
I'm torn between desperately wanting to get back on stage in front of a screaming crowd, seeing the faces of our fans, and pouring my heart out for them. I like the rush that performing gives. I want to create magic with my brothers by my side because it's been too damn long. But I need to figure out how to do it sober.
I've never been sober while performing.
I'm afraid of the what-ifs.
What if I become so hopped on the after-show adrenaline that I need something more substantial?
What if my nerves set in, and I need a drink to calm myself down?
What are my fans going to think of me?
It's been over a year since anything new has come from Riot or since anything positive has been reported about us. The media surrounding Riot has been one negative story after the other .
I wish I could be stronger and believe that I'd be able to get through it. Wish I wasn't so fucking weak.
Lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling, one arm around Andy and the other propped beneath my head. The last time I checked the clock it was five in the morning, but I don't know how much time has passed. It could've been twenty minutes or two hours.
Thanks to Andy's blackout curtains over her window, there's no telling if the sun is up yet or not.
I'm lost in my head, replaying moments from my life when the ethereal woman beside me stirs, groaning as she rolls onto her back and stretches her long limbs, curly hair wild from falling asleep with it wet before she had a chance to put any product in it.
"Hey." She sighs. I look over at her, watching her roll back onto her side. "Are you okay?" she asks, noticing the somber look on my face.
"My mind is pretty fucked up this morning," I admit, wanting to be honest with her rather than lie about my feelings. For too many years during my marriage, I lied about my feelings so my ex-wife wouldn't have anything else to worry about when it came to me. Looking back now, I can admit that I was a horrible husband. I lied to her too many times.
In fact, every fucking day I lied to her.
Lied about being okay.
Lied about being sober.
I don't want to lie anymore. It's too exhausting, and I am so fucking exhausted.
"Talk to me," Andy whispers, placing a hand on my chest. I put my hand on top of hers, squeezing it. Hoping the touch will provide me with some sense of comfort. Taking one last look at her, I turn my head, my gaze returning to the ceiling.
"After my son died, I went down a dark path." I inhale, allowing myself to gather my thoughts and find the courage to speak the things I've never said out loud. What I'm about to tell her, I've never told anyone. "I've always been high or drunk. Whether it was weed, pills, or coke, didn't matter. I was always on something, but I stayed away from the needle. My mother was a heroin addict, so I told myself as long as I don't become one, then I'm better than her." Andy remains silent, allowing me the time to compose myself as I begin telling her a story I know will be hard for her to hear. Especially when I know she has her own jaded feelings toward addicts, and for valid reasons, because of her mother, though she hasn't yet completely opened up and shared her story with me.
Andy turns her hand in mine to intertwine our fingers together and squeezes my hand, giving me strength to continue. "I was fucked up with grief and guilt after Luca's death. All I wanted was to be with my baby boy again. I was so fucking sick every day that I gave in to the one thing I never wanted to do." I swallow, my tongue feeling heavy in my mouth. "I left my ex-wife alone through her grief. I wasn't there for her because I was too busy hiding in the bathroom shooting up." Tears sting my eyes. Still, I force myself to continue. "I remember how it felt when I tied my belt around my bicep. I could barely see straight through the tears, but the moment the needle entered my vein, I felt free. So fucking full of relief. It didn't matter that my wife was in the next room planning our son's funeral." The first tear falls down my face, but I don't make a move to wipe it away.
"I was high on the day of the funeral. Can you believe that? I showed up to my son's funeral high as a fucking kite." I breathe out a humorless laugh. "The guilt was eating me alive, then one day, months later, while Camille was out of the house, I tried to end it all. Right there in our living room, I shot so much heroin that I overdosed. She'd buried our son that year, then came home to find her piece of shit husband dying. Turns out, she started keeping Narcan in her purse after she found out I'd been using again." Andy sniffles beside me, her grip on my hand tight.
"I'm alive because of her. She saved my fucking life that day. I went to rehab. Started seeing a therapist and going to NA meetings. I was doing good. The fog that was constantly hanging over my head was finally clear. She needed me, and it was my turn to be there for her. It took an entire year after Luca's death for me to get to that point. I was sober for nearly a year, needing to be there for Camille. Even after we decided to divorce and I moved back to New York, I was sober. She was going through some shit and went to a mental health treatment center, and I was there for her. Every fucking day. I'm ashamed to say that's the first time in our four-year marriage that I was there for her." Tears flow from my eyes, but not once do I attempt to wipe them away. Wishing they were enough to drown me, I allow myself to express the feelings of regret that I've kept to myself for far too long.
"A few months after our divorce, Riot went on tour. We had to fulfill the dates we'd postponed, so it was only a few shows. Everything was great until the last night on the road. I thought I was strong enough to have one drink. One shot, that was it. The next thing I knew, I was on a fucking two-week bender. Since then, I've been trying to get myself cleaned up." Finally, I roll over onto my side to face Andy, finding her tear-stained face staring back at me with sorrow-filled eyes.
Reaching out, I wipe the tears from her face with my thumb. "I'm trying so fucking hard. You have no idea how much I do not want to go back to being that person. I hate that version of myself. The one that is so wrecked with guilt that all I want to do is escape."
Finally, she opens her mouth and asks, "Why do you feel guilty?" The loaded question hangs between us.
Now is my chance to tell her my biggest regret. The worst thing I've ever done in my life. It'll likely mean the end of our short-lived relationship, but I need to tell someone. I've been slowly killing myself by keeping it inside.
"Because I'm the reason my son is dead," I admit, my chest constricting with the confession lingering between us. "I'd just snorted a line of coke before driving, and it must've been laced with some shit because it's never affected me the way it did that night. I was driving, it was raining, and the next thing I knew, my eyes were heavy, my vision was blurry, and then we were colliding with asemi-truck. It all happened so fast, and I don't remember everything. Just bits and pieces. I heard Camille scream for our son, and it all went dark. When I woke up in the hospital, I hated that I was alive." I've always been a fuck-up, but that was the night that changed me. The night that cemented my fate.
Andy's eyes widen in horror. Her bottom lip trembles as she abruptly sits up, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. The look she gives me is enough to slice through my heart. It's the look that I've been dreading seeing on her face.
I knew her opinion of me would change after confessing my sins, and maybe that's what I wanted. Perhaps I don't want her to look at me with hearts in her eyes like she did last night when we were dancing on the sandy shore. She looked at me like she was falling in love, and I don't deserve that.
Perhaps in my fucked-up mind, I'm only telling her these things because I need her to hate me. I need her to give up on me rather than try to save me; there’s no hope. I'll only break her heart, and I'm confident we both know it. I'd rather do it now than later.
"Declan." She says my name in a plea as if she's begging for me to tell her it was all a joke and it wasn't my actions that resulted in my son dying. Surprising the fuck out of me, she reaches for me, wraps her arms around me, and buries her face in my neck as tears coat my skin. She sobs against me, pulling back until we're face to face, and in her sad brown eyes, I see everything she's unable to say.
How could you drive while under the influence?
You're a piece of shit.
You don't deserve anything good.
Maybe those are her words, or maybe I'm imagining what I want her to say.
She was right when she said I was dangerous .
Like the selfish prick I am, I wrap my arms around her, holding her warm body tightly against mine one last time.
We both know this is it.
How would it be possible for her to carry on knowing what I've done and what I'm capable of?
We're ending before we've ever had a chance to begin.
We lie together, limbs tangled, for who knows how long.
"I don't know what to say," she confesses, and I appreciate her honesty. I'd never want her to say anything she doesn't mean.
"Don't say anything. I wanted you to know. Wanted you to see the darkest parts of me." So you can leave me without blaming yourself.
"My mom used to drive high while I was in the car," she confesses, wiping the remainder of her tears away. "When she'd start to nod off and swerve, she'd act like it was a joke and we were playing a game. It wasn't until she almost hit a car that I realized it wasn't a game." She takes a deep breath, finding her own courage before continuing. "She's an addict who was unable to take care of me, so I moved in with my grandparents, and they raised me for several years until they died. She lived there too, but she was like an absent older sister rather than my mother. The only time she was around was when she was fighting with my grandparents, begging for money. After they died, we moved into our car. We lived in it for about a week until I found an apartment and paid for it by selling my stuff. We never lived in one place very long because we were always getting evicted thanks to the company she kept." She pauses, eyes becoming unfocused as she loses herself to the past, and I get the feeling this is the first time she's been able to talk about it.
"By our third move, I stopped unpacking. I lived out of suitcases and boxes because I knew we wouldn't stay long enough to unpack. Most days, she ignored me. The only times she seemed to notice me was when she needed money. When I'd tell her no, we'd fight, and she'd tell me what a selfish, ungrateful bitch I was." She scoffs. "I paid for everything. The money she had went toward drugs, so I dropped out of school to take a full-time nanny job so I could pay the bills. I was fourteen and not old enough to have a regular job, but I did what I had to do." She brushes the loose strands of frizzy curls out of her face, tucking them behind her ears.
"I was sixteen when I got pregnant, and I knew I wasn't going to raise my daughter in that environment. Luckily, I was able to become emancipated and rented a basement apartment from a lady who also ran a daycare out of her home. She watched Max for me while I worked. We've lived there until she recently passed away, and well." She waves a hand around her bedroom. "Obviously, we moved."
"My point is, Declan, I know what it's like to watch someone you love battle addiction. We've both had a front-row seat to our mothers' struggles. The difference is you followed in your mother's footsteps. You became the person you never wanted to be." My jaw clenches, hands balling into fists at the brutal reality of her words.
I can't argue. She's right. I became the exact person I never wanted to become.
Andy continues as if her brutally honest words hadn't fazed me. "You don't have to be this person you hate. You are the only one in this world who can change. If you want to be sober, then do it. Figure out what's going to help you. Stop using guilt as an excuse."
"Do you fucking think I want to be this way?"
"You're making excuses. Figure your shit out if you want to be someone different." I sit up, my back against the headboard. "You said you've been an addict since you were thirteen, yet you're blaming it on the death of your son."
"I'm not blaming shit on him!" Who the fuck does she think she is? Angrily, I shove the blankets off me and climb to my feet. I don't fucking need this shit. I was honest with her, and now she's throwing it in my face, acting like I'm playing the victim .
"Dec, don't be mad. I'm only trying to help you."
"How the fuck do you think you're helping me?"
"Because you're not honest with yourself about when you started using drugs and why."
"Does anyone know why the fuck they do it?" I know why, but I’ll never tell.
She nods. "A lot of people do. Many people use drugs and alcohol as a coping mechanism. You started at thirteen. That's awfully young." My hands ball into fists at my sides as she stares at me, keeping her distance from me.
Without taking her eyes off me, she slowly climbs off the bed and stands before me. "What happened, Declan? What were you trying to escape?"
"What are you? My fucking therapist?" I snarl, shaking my head as I stare at her from head to toe.
Fuck her. There's no goddamn way I'm going to stand here and allow her to continue going down this path that my therapists in the past have all gone down.
My answer has always been the same. For years, I've told the lie that I became hooked on drugs at thirteen because I was experimenting and decided I liked the high. For years, all I ever did was smoke weed and drink. To many, weed isn't considered a drug, but for me, it is.
I enjoyed the way it made me happy and temporarily forgot all that was happening around me. Made me forget about the foster home I was living in.
Made me forget the sound of the old creaking mattress I slept on and how the squeaks became louder with added weight.
Whenever I'd close my eyes, I'd see those hazel eyes staring back at me. For years, weed and vodka were my escape. The only thing that could calm me when the nightmares came.
The only thing I had that was able to drown him out.
Eventually, I found myself chasing a higher high, and that led me down the path of cocaine and pills.
Then came Luca's death, and to cope, I turned to heroin .
I'm so goddamn weak. So fucking pathetic.
Andy stands before me, her warm palms against my chest. "I want to help you, Declan. I care about you, and I don't want to see you do something you'll regret."
"You care about me?" I scoff. "You barely fucking know me." Lie . We've known each other for a few weeks, yet she knows me better than anyone. I've opened up to her and told her things I've never told anyone else. "Stop trying to fix me just to make yourself feel better." I pull away from her, grab my jeans from the floor, and quickly pull them on.
"Don't leave, please."
"Instead of trying to save me, call your mom. Maybe this tough love bullshit will be enough to save her." Needing to hurt her even further, I place the final nail in our coffin. "Your love will never be enough to save anyone." She rears back as if I slapped her, but I can't bring myself to look at her any longer.
Quickly grabbing my shit, I pull my shirt on and then stomp down the hallway with my suitcase and duffle bag.
I'm standing by the door, putting on my shoes and socks, when a small figure appears in the hallway, rubbing sleep from her eyes.
"Best friend?" Max calls out, her voice soft and her eyes filled with worry. "Why are you yelling at my mommy?" she asks, her bottom lip trembling.
My heart shatters.
Staring into her innocent brown eyes, I'm reminded of all the ways I'm a piece of shit.
"Goodbye, Max," I whisper, unlocking the door and rushing out of it before she can realize what's happening.
My ears perk up at the movement behind me as I hear Andy's voice fill the cracks in my heart as she pulls her daughter away from the door.
I don't look back as I carry my bags down the three flights of stairs, the pain in my chest increasing with each step.
I don't take a breath until I'm behind the wheel of the rental I planned to leave for Andy and pulling out of her apartment complex parking lot.
All she had to do was listen. I wasn't asking for her advice or for her to try and save me.
All I wanted was to confess. To tell her what a piece of shit I am. What a waste of space I am. How it's useless for her to love me because I'll never be worthy of it.
Instead of listening and keeping her mouth shut, she tried to fix me by figuring out what happened when I was thirteen that led me to need an escape from reality.
Fuck that and fuck her.
Some secrets are better left buried.