Chapter 22
Aweek later, we had a show in Detroit. It had been over a year since we’d been here last, and I was growing to love visiting places where we’d been before, to experience audiences and their cities again.
Although Zack was maintaining on stage, it was clear that we were all wary and afraid that the next show would be the one where he’d completely crap out.
Braden and Cy already had a plan and filled me in: if Zack was ever too blitzed to play, they were prepared to take over.
They’d split the list in half and they’d both take turns singing and, for the songs where they needed two guitars, Cy would play lead—and Mick, in on the plan as well, had one of our tech guys ready to play Cy’s parts backstage for the songs where that might happen.
Of course, we didn’t let Zack in on the plan, but we all felt better knowing we could cover a show if Zack failed to perform.
It turned out that that was the least of our worries.
Like in the past, Zack had figured out how to manage keeping his shit together onstage.
Once in a while, he’d let out a comment—like “I hope you guys like this next song, even though nobody else did”—showing the rest of us that the critics’ words still stung, revealing to me just how insecure Zack was inside, how fragile his ego was.
Maybe his first stint with rehab had helped him deal with some of his demons, but he still had a lot of work to do.
After the show in Detroit, we all went to our respective dressing rooms. This tour was the first time the guys were consistently in their own rooms rather than having to share, but, thanks to Zack, we couldn’t really enjoy the fruits of our labor.
I gave Braden a kiss and told him I’d meet him in the green room later.
This particular dressing room had a shower, and I took advantage of it.
I quickly discovered that the difference between touring in the summer and winter was profound, at least in my case, because I always came off the stage feeling overheated and sweaty.
Even with a fan pointed directly at me during the show, there was no escaping the sweat—and when I could shower immediately after a show, I would.
Detroit felt humid in addition to the heat, so I did.
I’d barely stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my body and another over my hair, when there was a knock at the door.
It was either Braden or Mick—but it seemed too soon for either of them to be here.
And that was because it was.
When I opened the door, Zack stood just outside—and I was pretty sure he’d already started drinking. “Can I come in?”
I almost rolled my eyes, because it was like he hadn’t even registered that I was half naked. “Can you give me a minute first?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Closing the door, I crossed to my backpack and pulled out the fresh set of clothes inside. Without bothering with underwear, I pulled on my t-shirt and jeans, struggling to pull them up my still-damp legs. Tossing the towel on the back of a chair, I pulled the door open. “Come on in.”
While Zack entered, I pulled the towel off my head and finger-combed some of the strands. What the hell did he want?
“I know you guys are pissed at me, so I wanted to explain.”
“You don’t have to, Zack. We know you’re struggling and that you need to go to rehab again.”
“No, I don’t think so. Fat lot of good it did me.”
“It did. You were sober for over a year. I don’t think you could have done that on your own.”
“I could have—but I didn’t want to. Being sober hasn’t worked for me, Dani. I can’t handle the shit in my head.”
“Is it because you can’t talk to your therapist while we’re on the road?” I figured that would be easy to fix, especially because he had seemed to be maintaining before we’d left.
“Therapist?”
“Yeah—I thought you were seeing someone regularly since getting out of rehab.”
“I tried. But the first guy, some old fart, was a fucking quack. He had a bust of Sigmund Freud on his desk and kept asking about my relationship with my mom. He really wanted to make that happen. And then the second guy kept having me talk about stuff while following his fingers back and forth in front of my face or tapping my legs. It was some strange shit and it didn’t do me any good.
I didn’t want to pay good money just so some weirdo could get off on my pain. ”
“I’m sure that wasn’t it.”
“That’s easy for you to say. You weren’t there.”
That was true—and this conversation was leading nowhere. “What can I do for you, Zack? I’m sure you didn’t come here to tell me about your failed attempts at therapy.”
On what seemed to be sure feet, Zack walked a few paces, half-leaning and half-sitting on the counter with the mirror. “Did you know you were the only one in the band who asked about rehab?”
Was that true? “Really?”
“Yeah. Guys…sometimes have a hard time talking about their feelings. Especially, like, Cy.”
And Zack.
I said, “Braden is pretty open.”
Confirming my thoughts, he said, “Yeah. Probably with you especially—but I’m not always.”
“But you were with me.”
“Sometimes. Because you asked.”
Oh. Although I knew Braden was disappointed and worried about our mutual best friend, I didn’t know if there were any feelings that would stop him from having a conversation with Zack.
But Cy had been openly angry and resentful toward Zack for a long time—and the past few weeks had probably reopened that old wound.
“Did you want to talk about that?”
“No…just an observation.”
Near him, I leaned on the counter as well—almost like two friends sitting on the edge of a dock, looking over the water and talking without pressure, just watching the summer drift by.
Almost.
“So what is it I can do for you?”
At that, Zack’s eyes shifted to the floor and, for a second, he seemed to lose his balance, so I instinctively reached out—not that I could have actually done anything to stop him from falling. But he took my hand in his and met my eyes. “I broke up with Gabi.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. ‘Cause I’m an asshole, I think.”
“What?”
“I cut her off at the pass—broke it off before I had to listen to her nagging too.”
Oh, Zack. He’d become an expert at burning bridges. “That’s not really fair to her.”
“Life’s not fair—at least, that’s what they always fucking tell me. And better to cut her off now before she gets too serious about me.”
I felt sad for the poor girl, because I thought it was already too late for that. The times we’d seen her while making the album, she’d seemed head over heels—and Sober Zack was quite a catch.
But maybe he was right. If he couldn’t get sober and stay sober, he’d do nothing but break her heart.
“So did you want me to tell you that you did the right thing? Is that why you’re here?”
“Jesus…I don’t know why. I just thought I could talk to you. I thought I should.”
“Is that what you need?” I asked, trying to keep my voice soft. “We want to help you.”
“I don’t know about the we part. I think you do.”
“I do,” I assured him.
And then his mood seemed to shift, as if I’d pushed some button.
“You guys can help by just letting me live my life the way I see fit. I gotta do what I gotta do, and I swear I’ll keep my shit together onstage so I don’t fuck up another performance.
But you gotta understand…it helps me. I’m stronger when I drink—more confident, more in control. I need it to function properly.”
Shit. He was in fucking denial—and maybe before coming here he’d thought I would be the one in the band most easily swayed. Had he hoped I would be an accomplice, convincing Cy and Braden that drinking was a good thing for our frontman?
“I know you think that.”
“I fucking know that, Dani. I just…hoped you’d understand.”
“I understand that you’re suffering, Zack. I know things are tough right now…and I—we—want to help you get through it.”
“That’s so much fucking bullshit. You don’t want to help me through it. You just want me to stop so you don’t have to think about it.”
I was silent—because he wasn’t wrong. If he wasn’t drinking, we wouldn’t have to worry about what was going to happen next. Zack seemed to forget we had evidence to back up every fear we had.
But then he shifted gears again. “You guys just want the glory of being in this band I poured my heart and soul into.”
Were my ears betraying me? “What?”
“You especially. You think drumming is such a valuable contribution to the way we sound? I could train a fucking monkey to do what you do. I did. Hell, they even make machines that can do it.”
His words were sharper than a knife plunging into my heart.
How dare he? I wouldn’t have even been here if not for him.
At his insistence just years earlier, I’d learned to play the drums and play them well, going far beyond his basic instruction.
On this particular album, I’d been allowed to play freely, and I’d added my own touches to the rhythm, helping each song reach its natural climax, throwing in surprises for the listeners to enjoy along the way.
Could a monkey or a machine really do all that?
I almost spat out a nasty retort—but then I realized I was talking to Drunk Rock Star Zack—and I doubted anything I said at this point would even sink in.
But that didn’t make the words any less hurtful.
“I think you need to leave now.”
“What? The truth hurts, Dani?”
“No—but you’re being an asshole and—”
“Asshole?”
“—you’ve already had too much to drink.”
“Asshole?”
“Yes. And if you still want to say this shit to me when you’re sober, I’ll be happy to listen and have a conversation.”
Without warning, Zack turned. For a split second, he acted like he was going to grab me by the shoulders but he instead clenched his fists. What the fuck? Was he going to hit me?
Just because I’d reacted?
Adrenaline jolted my bloodstream and I felt that ancient emotion coursing through every nerve as I prepared to run from or fight my predator.