Chapter Seven
Vic
On the sixth night, they were tangled in her sheets, sweaty and laughing about something stupid, when she suddenly went quiet.
Vic brushed a curl off her face. “You okay?”
Harper bit her lip, then sighed. “I need to tell you something.”
The shift in her tone made his stomach tighten.
“Yeah?” He aimed for casual but wasn’t sure he’d hit the right tone.
“I’m getting married in three weeks.”
Vic froze.
She continued quickly, almost apologetically. “His name’s Caleb. We’ve been together since college. Long-distance for the last two years while I chased this music thing. He proposed six months ago. The wedding’s already planned.”
Vic sat up slowly, sheets pooling around his waist. “You’re...getting married.”
“Yeah.” She looked genuinely regretful. “I should’ve told you sooner. This was never supposed to be anything serious. I just...I’ve been stressed, and you were fun, and—”
He held up a hand. “It’s fine.”
It wasn’t fine.
He dressed in silence while she tried to explain again, her words tumbling out faster and faster. He kissed her cheek at the door, told her he hoped she’d be happy, and walked out.
The night air hit him like a slap. He stood on the sidewalk for a long moment, staring at nothing, the high from the last five days collapsing in on itself like a house of cards.
He didn’t remember driving home.
He barely remembered stopping at the liquor store closest to home, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead while he grabbed the cheapest bottle of whiskey they had.
He didn’t remember the first drink.
But the blackout? That part was crystal clear in its absence.
***
He was sitting on the back porch with the bottle, staring at the stars and thinking about how stupid he’d been.
The cheap whiskey burned going down, but it didn’t burn nearly as much as the memory of Harper’s face when she told him.
The regret in her eyes. The way she’d tried to soften the blow even as she pulled the rug out from under him.
Five days. Five stupid, perfect days of laughter and easy touches and the kind of sex that made him forget he was supposed to keep things casual.
Five days where he’d let himself imagine what it might be like to stay in one place with someone who actually saw him.
How he’d let himself believe, even for a few days, that something light and easy could turn into something real.
That somehow he deserved goodness and kindness in his life, that he could reach out and touch the future.
He didn’t love Harper, but he easily could have.
He’d even imagined taking her home and introducing her to Grams.
What a fool.
He took another long pull from the bottle, the stars above him blurring slightly at the edges. The night air was cool against his overheated skin, but it did nothing to soothe the hollow ache spreading through his chest.
You knew better, he thought bitterly. You always know better. And you still let it happen.
The world went soft with a growing pocket of silence around his existence.
Then there was nothing.
***
Vic woke with a violent jolt, his body jerking like it had been electrocuted.
His head pounded with a vicious, rhythmic hammer that felt like someone was driving nails straight through his skull, the cold tile of the bathroom floor pressed against his cheek.
The taste in his mouth was vile—cheap whiskey, bile, and the heavy metallic tang of regret.
He pushed himself up on shaking arms, muscles trembling with the effort of standing, and stared at the stranger in the mirror above the sink.
Bloodshot eyes. Pale, clammy skin. Hair sticking up in every wild direction. Shame written all over him like a brand.
First time in my life, he thought, the realization hitting him along with another wave of nausea.
He’d watched his father chase oblivion for years. In bottles, pills, whatever would numb the constant hunger for something bigger. And Vic had sworn he’d never go there. He’d promised himself, over and over, that he would be different. Better. Stronger.
Yet here I am. Blackout drunk on his grandmother’s bathroom floor because a woman he’d known for around a week was marrying someone else.
He lurched towards the toilet, hovering over it just in time to spew out the contents of his stomach. The stench was abhorrent, the taste even worse.
Pathetic.
Vic leaned his forehead against the cool mirror, eyes squeezed shut as the room continued to spin slowly around him. He could still hear Harper’s voice in his head, soft and apologetic, the words looping like a broken record.
“This was never supposed to be anything serious.”
He’d known that. God, he’d told himself the same thing every single time. Casual. Easy exits. No strings. No expectations. No one getting close enough to see the mess underneath.
But for those five days, it had felt different.
Fun without the usual hollowness afterward.
Laughter that didn’t feel forced or performative.
Someone who saw him as more than just the drummer who could hold down a groove.
Harper had looked at him like he was interesting.
Like he was enough. For a few short days, he’d let himself believe that maybe, just maybe, he could have something real.
And then it was gone.
Just like that.
He slid slowly down the wall until he was sitting on the cold tile floor, head buried in his hands.
The shame burned hotter than the hangover, hotter than the whiskey still sloshing in his gut.
It clawed at him, vicious and unrelenting.
He had broken his own rule—the one he’d clung to since he was a kid watching Rosie destroy everything he touched, including himself.
Don’t become him.
Vic stayed there for what felt like hours, the sky outside the small frosted window gradually lightening from black to deep purple to pale gray. The pounding in his head slowly eased, but the shame only grew sharper with every passing minute.
Finally, when the first hints of dawn crept through the window, he dragged himself up on unsteady legs.
He splashed cold water on his face, the shock of it pulling a harsh gasp from his throat.
He stared at the stranger in the mirror again—the bloodshot eyes, the pallor, the defeated slump of his shoulders.
“Enough,” he whispered to his reflection, voice raw and cracked. “This stops now.”
***
His phone was dead.
Vic stared at the black screen for a long moment, the weight of everything pressing down on him like a physical thing.
He shuffled into his old bedroom, the floorboards creaking under his bare feet in the familiar way they always had.
The room smelled like old wood and faint laundry detergent, the same smells that had once meant safety.
Now they just felt like another reminder of how far he’d fallen.
He plugged the phone into the charger on his nightstand and sank onto the edge of the narrow twin bed, elbows braced on his knees while he waited for it to boot up. The screen finally flickered to life, the bright glow cutting through the dim morning light like an accusation.
Notifications flooded in.
Three missed calls from Grams.
One from Meg.
A knot of guilt twisted so violently in his gut that he almost threw up again. He pressed the heel of his hand against his stomach, breathing through the wave of nausea. He opened the missed calls first. Grams had left a voicemail at 11:47 p.m.
He hit Play, and her voice filled the quiet room, warm, worried, and steady as ever.
“Victor, honey, it’s nearly midnight. Just let me know you’re okay when you get in. Love you.”
Vic closed his eyes, shame burning like acid up his throat.
She must not have known he was on the back porch the whole time.
He’d walked around the side of the house instead of coming through the front, not wanting to face her.
Not wanting to explain what had happened when he wasn’t even certain of it himself.
The thought of her sitting up waiting, checking the clock, worrying about him...
it made the guilt feel like a living thing inside his chest.
He rubbed a hand roughly over his face, the stubble scraping against his palm. The shame burned hotter than the pounding headache behind his eyes. Then he tapped on Meg’s name.
She hadn’t left a voicemail, but she had sent a text twenty minutes ago.
*Hey, just checking in. You okay? You sounded off when we talked last night. Let me know if you need anything.*
He didn’t remember having a conversation with the woman who signed the checks he’d been happily cashing.
That could be problematic. Vic stared at the message for a long moment, thumbs hovering uselessly over the keyboard.
He typed, deleted, typed again. The words felt inadequate, but he forced them out anyway.
*Hey, Meg. Sorry for going dark. Rough night. I’m good. Thanks for checking.*
He hit Send, then added quickly before he could overthink it:
*Won’t happen again.*
Meg’s reply came through almost immediately, like she’d been waiting.
*Good. You’re one of the best I’ve got. Don’t make me worry. Take care of yourself, kid.*
Vic set the phone down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of his old bed, elbows on his knees, head hanging heavy between his shoulders. The room spun slowly around him, the familiar posters on the walls blurring at the edges.
He could still taste the cheap whiskey at the back of his throat, bitter and cloying.
He could still hear Harper’s quiet, apologetic voice echoing in his head.
“I’m getting married.”
Emotion tightened his throat until he couldn’t draw a full breath.
The pressure built behind his eyes, hot and stinging.
Why wouldn’t I have known? The question rolled around in his mind, louder with every repetition.
Why hadn’t he seen the signs? Why had he let himself believe, even for that short handful of days, that something real was possible?
Why did he always do this—let himself hope, only to end up exactly where he’d started?
The longer the question echoed, the more lost he felt. Lost in his own skin. Lost in the life he kept trying to build only to watch it crumble. Lost in the pattern he swore he’d never repeat.
He sat there on the edge of his childhood bed, staring at the floor until the light outside the window grew brighter, the shame and regret settling heavy in his bones like they belonged there.
***
Vic’s head felt like it had been split open and filled with broken glass.
The reminder of the cheap whiskey from the night before still sat sour in his stomach, and every heartbeat sent a fresh spike of pain behind his eyes.
He was sprawled on the old couch in Grams’ living room, one arm thrown over his face, trying to will the world to stop spinning.
His phone rang.
He almost ignored it. Almost.
But old habits died hard. He cracked one eye open, saw Meg’s name on the screen, and answered.
“Yeah?” His voice came out like gravel.
“Montrose.” Meg’s tone was crisp but kind, the way she got when she had work for him. “I’ve got a full week of tracking sessions starting tomorrow. Four different artists, good money, all at Blackbird. You in?”
Vic sat up slowly, the room tilting for a second before settling.
The idea of crawling back under a blanket and stewing in his own shame for the next seven days felt worse than the hangover.
Work meant movement. Work meant focus. Work meant he wouldn’t have to sit here replaying Harper’s words on loop.
“I’m in,” he said, already standing. “What time tomorrow?”
“Ten a.m. sharp. You sound like hell, by the way.”
“Feel like it too,” he admitted. “But I’ll be there.”
He hung up and rubbed a hand over his face. The decision felt right. Necessary.
***
Grams was in the kitchen when he walked in, stirring something on the stove that smelled like heaven.
“I got session work,” he told her, leaning against the doorframe. “Full week at Blackbird. I’ll stay in a motel for the four nights so I’m not driving back and forth exhausted. Should be home by Friday night.”
Grams turned, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She studied him for a long moment, eyes soft but knowing. “You sure you’re up for that right now, baby?”
Vic forced a small smile. “Beats sitting here feeling sorry for myself. Plus, it’s good money.”
She nodded, accepting it. “Saturday is the local firefighters’ fundraising breakfast. They do the big pancake feed every year. I was hoping you’d come with me.”
“I’ll be there,” Vic promised, crossing the room to kiss her on the cheek. “With bells on. Wouldn’t miss it.”
Grams patted his arm, her touch lingering. “Good. Now go get some rest. You still look half dead.”
***
The week started strong.
By the fourth day, Vic was deep in a long tracking session with a roots-rock band when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it at first, focused on the groove they were building. But it buzzed again. And again.
He stepped out during a break and checked the screen.
Grams.
He called her back immediately. “Hey, everything okay?”
Her voice was steady, but he heard the strain underneath. “Victor...you need to come to the hospital. It’s your dad.”
Vic froze. The noise of the studio faded into a dull roar in his ears.
“I’m on my way.”
He didn’t even wait for her to say more. He turned and walked straight back into the tracking room, already grabbing his bag.
Meg was at the console. She took one look at his face and stood up.
“Vic?”
“It’s my dad,” he said, voice tight. “I’m sorry, Meg. I’ve got to go.”
Meg didn’t hesitate. She waved a hand, already stepping in to cover. “Don’t worry about the session, honey. Go see what’s going on with Rosie. We’ll handle it here.”
He gave her a grateful nod, throat too tight to speak, and headed for the door at a run.
The drive to the hospital blurred past in a haze of fear. All he could think about was Grams’ voice on the phone.
“It’s your dad.”
And how, no matter how many times Rosie had let him down, Vic still wasn’t ready for this to be the end.