24. Luke #2
Dave’s expression changes, just slightly. Like he’s tired. Like he’s done pretending.
“For how long?” he asks.
I stare at him, pulse hammering.
“As long as it takes,” I growl.
Dave leans in, voice low. “She’s not waiting, Luke.”
My stomach drops.
“What did you say?”
Dave shrugs like it’s obvious. “She’s out there living. She’s smiling. She’s touring. She’s building something without you. You can either let that destroy you, or you can lean into what they already think you are.”
“I don’t care what they think,” I snap.
“You say that,” Dave replies, cold now, “but you’re still here, aren’t you?”
I shove past him.
I need air.
I need…
I stumble outside and the night hits me like a slap. Quiet compared to the club.
My hands shake.
My head swims.
I want to go home.
I want Thanksgiving at my parents’ table, Mom fussing, Dad getting everyone to try his newest experiment, Noah making jokes, Bailey sitting beside me with her knee pressed against mine under the table like a secret promise.
We always spent holidays together.
Even before Bailey’s parents died.
They were my family before the world ever knew my name.
I swallow hard.
Maybe I should go home.
Maybe I should show up.
Maybe…
I don’t even have my phone.
I walk without knowing where I am going.
I blink and I am somewhere else… a different time.
Our last thanksgiving at home, we were both 17.
Standing in the hallway of my old family home watching Bailey roll out dough, my mom teaching her how to make pie. An old country music station was playing the Judds.
Bailey is smiling singing to my mom using the rolling pin as a microphone;
I remember feeling so warm, happy, so in love.
People tell you you can’t know that young.
But I did.
I remember seeing my entire future with her at that moment.
I remember smiling so wide it hurt and then walking into the kitchen because even standing that close, it wasn’t close enough to her.
A wave of dizziness hits me and I stop, blink and notice I am outside of the studio.
Like maybe my body brought me here for a reason.
Like if I can just find Dave, get my phone, call Bailey…
Everything will shift.
Everything will…
The studio is mostly empty, a few people still inside, cleaning up, talking quietly.
I push through the door and blink at the bright lights.
“Hey,” one of the assistants says, startled. “You okay?”
“I need my phone,” I say.
“Um we don’t have your phone, Luke.”
I scrub my hand down my face, feeling agitated.
“Ok, can I use yours? Do you have Bailey’s number?”
They stare at me like I asked for something crazy.
“We don’t… have Bailey Brooks' number, bro,” the assistant says slowly, side-eyeing me.
Heat rises in my chest. Of course they don’t.
I laugh once, harsh and broken.
“Where’s Dave?” I demand.
The assistant points vaguely. “He left like a couple of hours ago.”
My pulse spikes.
He left.
With my phone.
Wait when did I see him last?
Blonde hair, eyes that aren’t gold… Dave….
I stand there swaying slightly, anger and panic mixing together until I can’t tell them apart.
Fine.
I’ll go to his place.
I’ll get it back.
I’ll call her.
I’ll…
I don’t remember deciding to drive.
I don’t even remember where my car was.
I just remember being in the car.
Hands on the wheel.
The dash lights too bright.
My body exhausted, head heavy, the pills and alcohol blending into a slow haze that makes everything feel distant.
The road stretches in front of me.
Empty.
I zone out at a red light.
Staring at the glow.
Thinking of Bailey’s smile. Her laugh. The way she used to look at me like I was worth loving even when I wasn’t.
Is she home?
Is she back in Canada?
Is she with Noah?
What if she’s home and I don’t know?
What if she is waiting for me…
The light changes.
I don’t move.
Someone honks behind me.
I blink, startled, and my foot slams the gas too hard.
The car jerks forward.
My heart is pounding.
I shouldn’t be driving.
I know that.
Somewhere deep down, past the haze, past the denial, I know…
Red and blue lights flash in my rearview mirror.
For a second, my brain doesn’t process it.
Then my stomach drops.
No.
No, not now.
I pull over automatically.
The officer approaches.
Flashlight in my window.
“Evening,” he says.
Evening.
I squint at him, trying to focus. My mouth is dry again.
“License and registration.”
I fumble. My hands don’t work right.
The officer’s light sweeps over my face.
He pauses, as recognition flickers across his expression, controlled but undeniable.
“Mr. Carter,” he says.
My shame ignites , as he says “Step out of the vehicle,”
I do.
The air feels suddenly hot. The pavement feels unsteady beneath my feet.
He asks me to follow the light with my eyes.
To walk heel-to-toe.
To say the alphabet.
I try, but the world is too bright. Too loud.
Even out here. Even in the quiet.
Why is it so hot?
A car slows down across the street.
A phone is already recording.
My hands shake as the officer turns me toward the car.
“Hands behind your back.”
The cuffs are cold against my skin.
The click is final.
I stand there on the side of the road, headlights washing over me, flashing lights painting my skin blue and red, and all I can think is…
Bailey is going to hear about this.
Bailey is going to see it.
Bailey…
Maybe she’ll call.
Maybe this will finally be enough to pull her back into my orbit.
Maybe…
They put me in the back of the cruiser and shut the door.
The sound is heavy.
And for the first time in months, there is nothing in my hands.
No bottle.
No pill.
No phone.
Just silence and the ache of her name in my throat.