Chapter 25
“Let’s take it from the top of the bridge,” Penny says through the talkback, the song coming to a screeching halt.
This is our fifth fucking take on this song. Five. And today the weak link is me. I’ve played sessions where we laid down a track in one go, and we were out the door heading home. Today I can’t get through a simple melody.
Dad glances at me from over his drum kit, one brow raised in a silent question. I attempt a half-assed smile. I’m fine. Everything’s good. Then I tuck my fiddle back under my chin.
We reach the start of the last verse when it happens again. That same damn note. It lands sour, wavering between sharp and flat. I try adjusting the bow to bring it back on pitch, but that only drags my timing a quarter beat behind the rest.
The up-and-coming country singer we’re recording with casts me a wary glance then looks over to Penny in the sound booth.
I could blame it on the long day we’ve had, but that’d be a bald-faced lie. My head’s just not in it today.
Penny’s voice comes through the monitors again, interrupting the song. “Stop, stop, stop.”
The room falls silent as the instruments stop for the sixth time now. In case anyone is counting. I sure as shit am.
“It’s been a long day, friends. What do you say we try again tomorrow?”
We all hum our agreement, the collective relief palpable. One by one, everyone drifts outside until I’m alone. Or at least I think I’m alone. I’m kneeling next to my fiddle case when a shadow falls over me. I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Everything okay, son?”
No.
“Yeah, Dad, I’m fine,” I lie, but can’t meet his eyes.
Dad can read me like a book, not one bit scared to tell it like it is. “You don’t look fine. Your Mama and I are worried about you.”
Forcing my eyes to his, I stand to my full height and will my words to sound believable. “It’s nothing. I’m handling it.”
Dad laughs, a disbelieving sound. “Handling it? Liam. You’re a breath away from landing yourself right back where you were after the wreck.”
The mention of the wreck slingshots my mind back to that night. Rain coming down in sheets, glass glittering like diamonds on the asphalt. And the lights. So many lights.
Stepping around him, I drop onto the piano bench, head falling into my hands.
I don’t wanna admit he’s right. Since returning from Nashville, I’ve thought I could fix whatever this is that’s broken inside of me.
But I know I’ve done a piss-poor job at that.
Over Thanksgiving, any time I’d enter a room, conversations would come to a halt.
And the looks. So many piteous glances my way.
I know they mean well, but being the object of their pity all the damn time is enough to drive me up the fucking wall.
I could see the wheels turning in their minds.
What can we do to fix Liam? Well, good luck with that when I’m still trying to figure it out.
And Ryan’s words that last night in Nashville ring through my mind, crystal clear.
“Have you given therapy any more thought?” I know deep down I can’t keep doing this.
Something needs to change, and that’s the one thought I keep coming back to.
“Dad,” I start, voice muffled through my hands. “What are your thoughts on therapy?”
I brace myself for the “Davis men pull themselves up from their bootstraps” speech I’ve built up in my mind, but it doesn’t come.
Why did I think it would? Greg Davis isn’t afraid to show his emotions, and he never once berated Ryan or me when we cried.
Hell, nobody cried harder than him the day Penny’s father died.
The bench creaks as he takes a seat next to me. “You can’t imagine what it does to a father, seeing his son in the shape you are in. I don’t know much about therapy, but if it brings my son back, it’s worth a shot.”
Dad puts a heavy hand on my shoulder, and we sit in silence letting those words settle.
Then a new voice joins the conversation. “I think it takes a brave man to admit when he needs some help.”
Austin steps from the sound booth and strides our way.
“I won’t apologize for eavesdropping. My sister cares for you and what affects you affects her.”
Dad looks to Austin and back to me, standing, and claps me on the back. “I think I’ll make my exit and let you two talk in private. Liam, your mama is making fried chicken. Stop by on your way home.”
The thought of eating anything turns my stomach, but I nod anyway.
“Love you, son.”
“You too,” I reply, and Dad heads for the door.
Austin drags a stool over, perching on it with his ankles crossed, like he’s settling in for a while.
“Liam, did you know I’ve been in therapy a few months now?”
My brows shoot up. “No shit?”
“Yes, shit. You don’t think Cassie James would let up until I agreed, do you?”
I smile at the mention of Cassie, but the smile slips when I think about how I promised we’d talk soon. How she texted on Thanksgiving, and I didn’t give so much as a Happy Thanksgiving in response.
The truth is, I’m terrified. If we talk, I’ll have to tell her everything. All the words I’ve kept locked up will pour out like a fire hose. All my thoughts will see the light of day and I’ll have no choice but to face them.
And not only about Julie. I’ll have to face how badly I want Cassie, how that messes with my head.
“Listen, man. I know our situations are different.” He pauses, forehead creasing. “I know.” The levity of the word hangs between us before he continues. “I put off getting help for far too long.”
“And what changed?” I ask.
Austin looks to the ceiling at length, giving my question some thought.
“At first, it was this overwhelming urge to make Penny happy. She encouraged me to make the appointment. But the more sessions I had, I realized it had to be for myself. To put it plainly, man…I wanted to live. I wanted a real life and not the half-life I’d been living. ”
Damn, I couldn’t have said it better. A half-life. That’s what this feels like. I’m thirty years old and I feel bankrupt. Empty.
“And it worked?”
Austin shrugs. “I’m better than I was. I’ll put it that way. A work in progress. Therapy only helps if you do your part, and I’m stubborn. But when I’m locked in, focusing on change, making healthy choices…yeah, it works.”
Austin pulls out his phone and seconds later mine buzzes from where it still lies on my fiddle case. “That’s his number. Just think about it.”
I glance at my phone, screen still lit, but I don’t move to pick it up. I’m still working up the nerve to ask him what’s really going through my mind.
Focusing my attention on a spot just past Austin, the words I’ve been holding in scrape out.
“What if I’m too fucked up?”
As soon as the words are out, I want to take them back.
The thought sounds pathetic spoken out loud.
But the fear is real. What if I’m so broken, not even therapy will help?
I’ll meet with whoever Austin sees and they’ll break it to me.
I’m a lost cause. What if I do the work, dig up things I’ve kept buried, and I’m still just… this?
Austin doesn’t flinch at the question. Instead, he furrows his brows and sighs.
“I won’t lie, Liam. It’s a lot of work. And you’ll have days where it’s two steps forward, three steps back.
” He leans forward, elbows on his knees and looks me in the eyes.
“The thing that was killing me wasn’t the pain itself.
It was trying to carry it alone, pretending I was fine.
Humans are social creatures. We aren’t meant to do shit alone, even the hard stuff. ”
He stands, and I realize the conversation is over.
“Anyway, you have the number when you’re ready. I hope you’ll give it some serious thought.”
The door clicks shut behind Austin and I stand, checking the unread text he just sent.
Benjamin Greene.
I’m not ready to pull the trigger, not yet. But I don’t delete the text either. Standing, I slide my phone into my pocket and pick up my fiddle.
Benjamin Green’s number is in my phone now.
That’s something, at least. A door cracked open.
Tomorrow, next week, whenever I work up the nerve, maybe I’ll open it all the way and step through.