Chapter Fifteen #3
One thing you can taste.
Death. He could taste death. The same taste from the ditch, from the pills he’d swallowed, from every moment he’d wanted to stop existing because existing meant hurting people.
The cabinet was still open.
One thing you can taste.
The Smirnoff sat there, patient and forgiving.
When his hand finally reached for the bottle, it was less of a choice and more like a drowning man grabbing for driftwood to stay afloat.
His hands shook so badly he nearly dropped it twice as he unscrewed the cap. He didn’t even bother with a glass, just tilted the bottle back and let the vodka burn down his throat. Three swallows was all he allowed even though his entire nervous system screamed for more.
The effect wasn’t immediate, but within a minute, the vise around his chest began to loosen. The lights started to fade. His breathing began to even out into something that didn’t feel like suffocation.
Jay needed to get out of there.
His hands still shook as he rubbed them over his face, trying to wipe away the evidence of his breakdown. He twisted the cap back on the Smirnoff and shoved it back into the cabinet, slamming the door shut. The glasses rattled inside, and he winced at the sound, hoping no one heard.
Straightening, he ran his hands through his hair and wiped at his face again. His shirt was damp with sweat. Would they see it on him?
His eyes caught on the clock mounted on the wall.
6:47 p.m.
Four minutes. He’d only been gone four fucking minutes.
No one would have noticed. Pop was probably still trying to get the stain out of his shirt. Ma was probably putting leftovers away. Ava was probably still dealing with the dishes.
Four minutes wasn’t suspicious. Four minutes was normal. People went to the bathroom within that amount of time. Four minutes was fine.
Jay tried to arrange his features into something that wouldn’t make anyone ask questions. Slowly, he stood, tugging his shirt down. When he took a breath, it felt too tight and shallow. But air was moving. That was enough.
The vodka had snapped him back into himself. The red and blue lights had faded to wherever they waited between episodes.
He could do this. He could walk back through the dining room, past the kitchen, out the front door. He could smoke a cigarette before coming back inside and sit through whatever was left of the evening without falling apart.
His steps were measured through the dining room even though he wanted to run. Ava’s laughter drifted from the kitchen, and it almost undid him—the sound of her joy while he was still shaking.
“I’m gonna go smoke,” he murmured as he passed the doorway, not meeting her eyes. “Be right back.”
He felt her gaze follow him anyway. That sixth sense of hers. But she didn’t stop him.
“Don’t stay out too long. It’s getting cold.”
Outside, the chill did little against the warmth burning in his veins. Three swallows was barely enough to taste but more than enough to prove that over a year of sobriety had been a lie he’d told himself.
He found the pine tree outside Ava’s old bedroom window and leaned into its rough bark, hands still unsteady as he worked the lighter. It took two tries to get the flame going.
The panic had dulled, at least. The vodka had done its job—bought him enough space from the terror to function. The shame came next alongside the certainty that this was only the beginning.
Maybe he really was turning into his father, repeating the same cycles and destruction. Maybe he was just as fucked up…just as incapable of changing.
His gaze drifted to his childhood home at last.
It looked worse than he remembered. Layers of grime coated the siding, evidence of years of neglect.
The lawn was a patchwork of overgrown weeds and dead, brown grass.
The porch was a dumping ground for forgotten things: their old orange couch with a gaping hole in the back sat beside a rusted refrigerator.
A pile of three sagging cardboard boxes balanced precariously on his mom’s weathered rocking chair—the same chair she used to sit in while he and his siblings raced down the street.
The white paint on the chair was cracked and peeling, revealing the worn wood underneath.
It all felt right, in a grim way. The house was as broken as the memories it held.
“You keep that up, and I’m gonna flick you upside the head like I used to when you pissed me off.”
Jay turned, letting out a surprised laugh that felt almost foreign after the terror of minutes ago.
Ma stood a few feet away, wrapped in a fuzzy pink robe and house shoes. Her features were all scrunched up like they used to get when she was irritated. The familiar sight was relieving, somehow, grounding him in a way the cigarette hadn’t.
“What, this?” Jay held up his cigarette before taking a slow drag.
She planted a hand on her hip. “I told you when you were in high school that you were gonna kill yourself with that shit. Lungs full of tar yet?”
Jay shrugged. “I can still sing, so I guess they’re fine.”
“Always so stubborn,” she sighed, shaking her head but walking toward him anyway.
Her shoulder brushed his as they stared across the ruined lawn.
“How’s he doing?” Jay couldn’t help but ask, nodding toward the house.
Ma sighed again, crossing her arms tightly over her chest. “Haven’t seen him in a while. Last he said, he’s got cirrhosis. Nurse has been comin’ every day for a couple of months now.”
Jay let that sit. It wasn’t surprising, but the confirmation made him ache. His father’s liver was giving out. Jay wondered how his own was holding up.
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
He shrugged. “A bit after the first album.”
Ma nodded. She didn’t speak again until Jay stubbed his cigarette out on the tree trunk.
“Roger and I tried everything, you know.”
Jay blinked, her words slowly working through the fog in his mind. “What do you mean?”
“Callin’ CPS, coming up with every excuse to get y’all over to our house…”
Jay remembered the anxiety from Child Protective Services visits, the fear of being torn from his siblings. They told so many lies to keep the caseworkers at bay.
“So you two were behind all those interviews?”
She nodded, her face hardening at the memory. “Knew somethin’ wasn’t right. Just not exactly what. But I’d see you and Ari with new bruises every damn day for a while there, and I almost went over there myself with Rog’s rifle one night when I heard ya yelling—what?”
Jay looked at her like she was a stranger.
He’d always considered Ava’s mom to have a hard side but never saying something like that.
Picturing her walking around, holding a rifle with her curlers in was enough to make him feel dizzy—or maybe that was the vodka mixed with the adrenaline crash from the panic attack.
“Don’t look so shocked,” she said, her mouth twitching into a small smile. “I’m all sweet tea and casseroles now, but I’d do worse for the people I love.”
Ma’s arm looped around him, pulling him into her side. “By the time we caught on, you and Ari were too old. And you boys handled things…but you shouldn’t have had to.” Her voice softened, but there was a soft rage beneath it, one Jay hadn’t known she carried all these years.
“Yeah, but…” His words faltered, caught in the tangle of his thoughts. He’d been so focused on surviving back then, he hadn’t realized anyone was fighting for him behind the scenes.
The front door creaked open, and they turned to see Ava sticking her head out. She glanced right before looking left and spotting them huddled by the tree. She looked intrigued but only said, “Jay, you ready to go soon? My shift got moved up to tomorrow morning so I gotta get to bed.”
“We’re coming,” he called, hoping he sounded nonchalant.
Ava gave them one last look and then disappeared back inside, the screen door squeaking shut behind her.
Ma started toward the house but paused, turning to look at him with an assessing gaze. “You gonna do it then?”
“Do what?”
“Quit that smokin’.”
Jay chuckled softly. “For you, Mama? Anything.”
“Good.” Her lips curled into a satisfied smile as she pulled him into another tight hug. “Damn good to see you holdin’ up, baby.” She patted him on the back and the guilt seeped into his bones like concrete. “I’m prayin’ for your brother every night, you know.”
“Thanks,” he murmured, swallowing the lump in his throat.
They reached the porch, but Ma stopped short, her posture stiffening with resolve. “We figured it out, by the way.”
Jay frowned. “Figured what out?”
“When Ava went off to Vandy, Rog and I redid her room. Wondered why that window screen was so damn loose. Took me a minute, but then I remembered the grass.”
“Grass?”
“That little path from your house to ours.” Her brow arched, and her tone was all southern steel. “Always thought it was something leaking from the HVAC, but no. It was your sneaky little ass, climbin’ through her window.”
Jay felt sixteen again, caught red-handed. His face flushed, and he opened his mouth to defend himself. Ma beat him to it.
She jabbed a finger at him. “You’re both full grown now, so there’s nothing I can do. But if I’d known what you were up to then, Ava would’ve had bars on her window like that Peter Parker kid did in those wizard movies y’all loved.”
Despite the tension, Jay burst out laughing. “You mean Harry Potter?”
“That’s not the point.” She flicked him upside the head, right by his ear.
He flinched, wincing from the sting. “Damn, Ma! Forgot how much that hurts.”
“You know you two were too young to be doin’ whatever you were doin’!”
Jay rubbed the side of his head, still laughing at the absurdity. It’d been thirteen years since he last snuck into Ava’s room, but this moment made it feel like it was yesterday.
“Will you take an apology now, or am I shit out of luck?”
“Too late for apologies, kid. You better be glad I’ve always loved your ass.”
Before he could respond, she surprised him with another flick to his head, then spun on her heel. As she disappeared inside, he rubbed the sore spot, figuring he had it coming. But the warmth of the moment faded quickly.
Nothing had changed. He was still the scared kid sneaking through Ava’s window, too afraid to be the man she deserved. But he couldn’t walk away again. Ava was the one thing he couldn’t give up, even if holding on risked breaking them both.
His mind was already calculating. Ari’s room. The closet where his brother had hidden everything after Jay got back from rehab. Their condo used to be full of bottles, stashed in every cabinet and drawer. There was no way it was all gone.
Maybe he could keep it controlled. Just enough to stop the panic. Just enough that she wouldn’t notice.