Chapter 7
The next morning, when I am in Travis’s house getting ready to talk to him, I make my choice. It isn’t because of the moment we had together, or Chief’s stern words.
No, it’s the little box of toys in the corner, packed neatly.
A box of toys gathering dust, because it has been a while since they have been pulled out.
Above it, on the fireplace, is a picture of Travis and Amber.
My heart swells as I stare at it, a feeling I can’t quite explain.
She is so beautiful, so goddamn beautiful.
She has these big blue eyes, and long blond hair, but her smile—oh, it’s his.
It’s like looking at Travis when he was younger, when that cheeky grin would get me to do just about anything he wanted.
Looking at that photo, and the joy in his eyes, I know I have to help him get her back.
I need to make the choice to put the past behind me, because if I don’t, then I can never move forward.
I need to move forward, and to do that, I can’t look back.
It feels right to stay; everything inside me is telling me it’s the right thing.
That little girl has been through enough. She deserves a stable, loving father in her life, so I’m going to give her that.
I’m going to give him his baby back.
It doesn’t take me long to figure out he isn’t here, but instead of leaving, I go around and start picking up the remnants of his night: guitar picks on the coffee table, beer cans on the kitchen counter along with an empty takeout container of sweet and sour chicken.
I sweep the floor and put a load of laundry on from his room.
There is far too much hanging over the chairs and on the floor for me to do just one load, so I keep myself busy while it washes.
I pick up a heap more guitar picks and open the drawer to his bedside table to stuff them in.
Inside is chaos, at first glance. But my eyes narrow in on something sticking out beneath a tangle of chargers, a small Ziploc bag.
It's a crumpled little thing, half the size of my palm, filled with pills—some blue, some round, some scored in thirds by a pill-splitter.
Next to it, two smaller bags filled with marijuana.
My first reaction is shock. I mean, I knew he was using again, but seeing it, really seeing it, seems to solidify something inside me.
It’s like it all just became real. I feel sad for him.
I can see him, right here, at two in the morning, swallowing a pill, thinking just one more, just until the set is over, just until the band's gone home and I can—
My fingers curl around the bag and bottles.
I can’t let him feel that way again. I sit down on the edge of the bed with them in my hand and for a minute, I can't seem to move.
Instead, I watch dust drifting in the sunlight that beams through his window, and it feels like if I just sat here long enough, maybe I'd figure out how we got here.
How normal it becomes to coexist with self-destruction.
After the longest minute of my entire life, I stand up, walk straight to the bathroom, and flush everything.
I don't even hesitate. The swirl of the water is soft, but the emptiness in the bottom of the toilet bowl when it's all gone is terrifying. I don’t know how he’ll react, but I know that I did something I hope one day he’ll thank me for.
I’m tossing the empty bottles in the bin when I hear the front door close.
I have already texted and told him I’m here, so it’s not like I’m sneaking around his house uninvited.
Heavy footsteps move through the kitchen.
I walk out into the hallway, trying to keep my face neutral, trying not to freak him out before I have the chance to explain.
Travis stands in the kitchen doorway, his hair wild and his shirt clinging to his body like he ran the last ten blocks.
There is something feral about him in the mornings, all jaw and tight muscle.
It’s gorgeous, in this masculine, sleepy kind of way, and I want to pounce on him just to taste his lips and hear his croaky voice moan my name.
Jesus.
I shake my head.
“I need you to be calm for what I’m about to tell you...”
His eyes narrow and he looks somewhat confused. “Don’t like it when you start a sentence with that...”
“Well, I couldn’t really think of another way to do it. I came here today to talk about what the future holds for us, and when I saw those toys in the corner, I knew that I couldn’t leave. Well, not just that I couldn’t, but that I didn’t want to...”
Something in his eyes makes my heart break. Like this wave of relief from a pain he didn’t even realize he had been holding so long. It makes what I’m about to say next hurt even more, but I need him to know I’m all in.
“You’re stayin’?”
His voice is rough, edgy, full of an emotion I haven’t heard in a while.
“Yes, but not without condition. I want to try and fix this, Travis, but I also want to get your daughter back in your life. Not just for you, but for her. To do that, things can’t keep going the way they are.”
His eyes move to the room I just walked out of, and back to me, as if he already knows what I’m going to say.
“I found your stash.”
He flinches, just a touch.
I just blurt the next sentence. “I flushed it. All of it.”
He takes a step towards me, then another, but stops a foot away. His hands open and close, like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Why would you do that? I—Jesus, Violet, I need those, you don’t understand—”
“Stop,” I say. “I understand perfectly. I also know it isn’t easy and I don’t pretend to know what the road ahead looks like. But, if you want me here, if you ever want Amber back in your life, you have to stop.”
He shakes his head, mouth open, the beginnings of a bitter laugh. “It’s not that simple.”
“It is. You either want this, or you don’t. I’m not doing this with you again. If you think I came back here to watch you kill yourself day by day, then you don't know me at all.”
His anger rises, I can see it flooding in, cheeks red, a flush up his neck.
But he redirects, turns, gripping the edge of the counter.
“You don’t get it,” he snaps. “I can’t even get through a fuckin’ show anymore unless I—unless I numb it a little.
I’ll quit, I swear. Just let me get through the last few shows of the season. Please.”
“No.” I’m not even shaking. It’s like the years of heartbreak have turned my nerve endings to steel.
“You quit now. Or I’m gone. And you’ll never see Amber again, but you already know that.
I know you want that baby girl in your life, Travis.
I know you want me to stay. So you have to make a decision, and you have to make it now. ”
He clenches his eyes shut, and it hurts me to see him like this, because I know it isn’t easy. “You don't know what you're asking me.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, “I do. I’m asking you not to die. I’m asking you to choose us. I’m asking you to fix what was broken and give us one more chance at making this something.”
He’s quiet.
The only sound is the buzz of the refrigerator and the washing machine humming in the laundry.
“Goddammit.” He says it soft, like the very word terrifies him. “Okay. But I don’t think you understand just how ugly things are about to get.”
I step closer, putting my hand on his back, feeling the muscles bunch. “I made a choice, and I’m not going to leave you just because it gets tough if you promise me that we’re in this together this time, for real. No more lies, no more secrets, and no more pain. Just us. You, me, and Amber.”
He stands there for a long time, watching me, his face twisting with a mix of love and fear. “You gotta promise me something, Mischief?”
“Anything.”
“Don’t leave me again.”
“I won’t,” I whisper.
And I mean it this time, I do.
Because we’re in this for the final time. How it ends will depend on him, but I intend to keep my end of the deal.
Travis
It fucking hurts.
Every single inch of my body, every muscle, my skin, every fucking strand of hair hurts.
It’s like every nerve is on fire. I’m hot and I’m cold, the blankets on my skin are a nightmare, but without them, the fan makes me want to fucking puke.
My brain feels spiked with wire, my mouth fuzzy and dry.
My whole life is condensed into a single, excruciating moment where I can’t decide if I want to vomit, scream, or die.
I can’t sleep, and I can’t stay awake either.
I just keep drifting in and out. Every time I blink, I lose an hour and every time I jerk awake, that fucking light peeking through the blinds stabs me right in the eyes.
Violet is there almost always.
But sometimes she’s gone, and I wake in a panic.
She always comes back in, as if she knows I need her.
Right now, she sits at the edge of the bed and just watches me, this look on her face that I can’t quite pinpoint.
She never asks me if I need anything, but she always seems to know just what to get.
None of it matters, anyway. Right now there is nothing except this cold sweat, the walls crawling, every bone in my body vibrating from withdrawal.
And her, in the doorway or sitting on the bed, teaching me how to not fucking die.
“You want me to call someone?” she asks, voice low, careful not to push.
I roll onto my back, sweat making the sheets far too wet for my liking. “Who, a priest?”
She snorts. “I was thinking Chief.”
“Fuck that. He’ll tell me to get up, get on with it, and to stop being such a fucking baby.”
She laughs. Full on, bright and sharp, and for a second I think maybe I could actually get through it if I just heard her laugh enough.
Then the cramp in my stomach rips through me and I curl inward, knees to my chest, face mashed into the wet pillow.
I feel the bed dip as she sits beside me, and her hand on my back is gentle, feather-light, like she’s scared of shattering what’s left.
After a minute I realize I’m crying. I didn’t even notice I was crying.
My skin’s hot, my heart is pounding, I am embarrassed and sick and so fucking tired.
Fuck this.
Fuck all of it.
“You’re doing better than you think,” she murmurs.
“Why’re you still here? Surely, you don’t want to see this.” I croak.
She doesn’t say anything for a while. “I told you. I made a choice. I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not worth it. I’m an asshole. I’m weak. I’ll just—” Another spasm of pain, worse, this time it makes me arch up off the bed and shout. “Fuck!”
She waits for the wave to pass, then wipes the sweat from my forehead like she’s done this a million times before. “You’re not weak, Travis. You just hate yourself so much, you don’t let anything in unless it’s pain.”
“That’s poetic as fuck. Write that down for the next album?” My teeth rattle from the force of my own laughter.
She laughs softly. “I think we could make a pretty epic song out of this. I think I’m doing okay at helping you, so that’s something.”
“You’re good at fixing broken things,” I mutter.
“I used to be,” she says, her voice low. “We’ll see how I am at it now.”
For a while she sits with me and neither of us says anything.
The pain moves around inside me, sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, always present.
I feel her get up, and I panic, but she’s just going to the kitchen because a second later she’s back with water and a banana and a Tylenol cradled in her palm.
She holds the cup to my lips and I drink, and I hate how much I love her for that tiny act.
The day is a loop of fever dreams and shaking and Violet, always Violet, sometimes reading from her phone but mostly just watching me, like she knows if she lets her attention slip, I’ll disappear.
The second night, when my teeth refuse to stop chattering, she slides under the covers beside me, pulls my body into hers like she can somehow take it away.
I bury my face in the hollow of her chest, and she runs her fingers through my hair.
“I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.”
She stops moving her hand, and then whispers back, “Me too.”
And for a second it’s better than any high I’ve ever chased.
The third day is the worst. My head is splitting, I can’t keep anything in, and I’m just so angry.
At everything. At the memories in this house, the way my body betrays me, at Amber’s picture on the dresser, at Violet for coming back, for leaving, fuck, for everything.
I growl at her. I say shit that she doesn’t even flinch at, even though I can see the way it hurts her.
She still doesn’t leave.
Part of me wonders if I’m pushing her, just to see if she will.
When I’m done, the poison burns itself out. I croak a sorry, and she answers simply by pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Later, after I’ve half-slept and the pain recedes to a buzz, I come to and the room is dark and quiet, except for the sound of her breathing.
She’s still here, on the floor beside the bed, knees curled to her chest, head tilted against the mattress like she tried to stay awake and lost. I ache at the love I feel for her.
I don’t deserve it, but I want to. I want to.
I don’t even have the strength to reach out and touch her, to lift her into my arms and put her into the bed.
That feels really fucking empty.
But, when the sun rises, I’m still alive.
The sheets are disgusting but I’m not shaking anymore.
I crawl from the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom, run water over my face, stare at my reflection so long it starts to look like someone else’s.
I brush my teeth. I put on a clean shirt from the pile she washed.
When I walk back to the bedroom, she’s awake, her eyes wide and hopeful that I’m moving around.
“Thank you,” I say. Two words, not even big ones, but they weigh a ton.
“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” she whispers.
“It’s a long road from here, kid. You sure you’re up for it?”
She pushes to her feet, walking over and taking my face in her hands. “I do love a challenge.”
I smile, the first real one I have given in months.
Maybe things will work out, after all.