Only friend, really. I lost all of those a long time ago. I guess I still have my brothers. Well, brother. Somehow through it all, Blue, the middle brother, hasn’t totally given up on me. I don’t know how, seeing as from what I’ve gathered, he’s gotten pretty close to Zo. And I doubt she’s singing my praises. Nor is our oldest brother, Clay.
One of the many drawbacks of being an addict. You burn a lot of bridges all the way down to the studs, causing irreparable damage that even an HGTV fixer-upper-flip-or-flopper can’t fix. Which really fucking sucks whenever you get clean. But thankfully, my record label brought this Angel into my life, her and her beautiful family, including her grizzly mountain-man husband, Cole. He wasn’t sold on me at first, but I have a way of wearing people down. Never had a shortage of charm, even when I was as high as Snoop and Seth Rogan on 4/20. Only my drug of choice was a little bit stronger.
“She didn’t answer.”
Angel sits down next to me, nudging my shoulder with hers.
“That’s what you expected though, right?”
“Yes,” I admit, exhaling loudly, frustrated as hell. Mostly with myself. “But I was hoping she’d surprise me.”
“Look, you’ve told me a little of your history, the real stuff, not the media bullshit, but I know there is so much more to tell. Your baggage has baggage, and that baggage has a U-Haul truck full of even more baggage. You know some of mine, so you know I can recognize pain when I see it. It’s rooted deep in those brown eyes. It’s in every word that meets your battered notebook and falls soulfully from that charming mouth of yours. And I have an inkling most of that pain stems from her. Which means she’s probably feeling that same pain, and has for as long as you have.
“You fucked up, Del, a lot. The whole country knows this, unfortunately. You’ve made mistakes, and I’m willing to bet many of those mistakes were at her expense. But you’re working your ass off to repent and own up to those mistakes. You’re doing the work. You’re showing up. I know this. You know this. But she doesn’t. Yet. So give her a breath or two to get her bearings, and then show her the man you’re striving to be. The man you were, underneath the drugs, alcohol, and all that damn baggage. Show her the man I’ve come to know and adore. Make her see you, Del. Because once you do, I think you might get that surprise you were hoping for. And more.”
“Damn, Angel. That was…damn, thank you.”
“Just keeping it real. I got you, babe,” she says as she bumps my shoulder with hers, a beaming smile illuminating her face. “Now, let’s sink our claws into all of those emotions that are sprinting through you right now and put them to paper.”
“All right, boss.”
♫♬♫
Angel and I spend the next two hours bouncing around ideas, scribbling words, experimenting with chords, and unpacking at least two-thirds of a single piece of my baggage. Angel leaves me feeling as close to calm as I can get. Calmer than I’ve felt since I moved back here a few weeks ago. Calm enough to write a few more bars and unpack a few more boxes before stupidly picking up my phone and dialing Zoe’s number one more time.
She still doesn’t answer.
I leave her another voicemail. Only sounding slightly less terrified than the last one. I’m claiming the small victory.
Feeling restless, I leave my small studio space that I finished setting up last week in what would be the guest bedroom of my new place. And since I have close to zero people visiting these days, it was easy to give up. I walk through the barren hallway, past the open concept kitchen-dining-living room that has barely been touched in the last week and is also devoid of any personal touches and head straight for my favorite spot in the modest home I bought for nearly nothing compared to my house in L.A. and penthouse in Brooklyn.
The front porch.
Or rather, the front porch swing.
My new house sits at the very end of Cherry Point Lane. There are massive Evergreens separating my house from the empty home on my right and even more on my left, which just leads to an empty field of forestry. Cherry Point Lane is in a quiet neighborhood. Mostly made up of elderly people, much to my delight. Except for one navy blue craftsman home with white trim, massive bay windows, mahogany shutters, and a matching front door. Residing in any other spot on the porch, I can’t spot the house five down on the right from mine. But, if I sit at the very edge of the left side of my swing and ever so slightly lean forward, I can see it.
Most importantly, I can see her.
I may have left out an important piece of information on Zoey’s voicemail.
Not only am I back in town, but I’m her new neighbor.
Stalker territory? Yeah, kind of.
But in my defense, I didn’t know she lived here when I bought the house.
Okay, that’s a lie. My mom may have spilled the tea a little bit. It was just dumb luck this house was actually for sale. And even dumber luck, when after the walkthrough, I spotted Zoey sitting on her own porch swing, immersed in a book I desperately wanted to know about and made a mental note to ask her. You know, once she talks to me.
I offered the sellers fifty grand over the asking price, in cash, before Zoey even turned the next page. Moved in two days later. And I’ve been low-key hiding from her while simultaneously trying to steal a glance and glimmer of her life post-us.
I’ve gathered a few things over the years, plying bits and pieces from Blue and my mom. She went to the University of Oregon, graduating with honors. She’s getting her master’s in education and is currently teaching kindergarten at our old elementary school.
She’s single.
At least that’s what Blue says.
I have yet to see a man come in or out of her house. Of course, that means jack shit. She could be going to his. But Blue’s word is as good as gold, even if he was hesitant to tell me. I don’t blame him. I’ve done nothing but harm to her in the last six years. He’s looking out for her, and I am incredibly grateful for that.
It also makes me want to put him in a sleeper hold before body slamming him onto the couch like he used to do to me when we were kids.
The way he talks about her… It makes me wonder. And I don’t like where my mind takes me. I asked him once—or more like accused him, before screaming hysterically and most likely incoherently after washing down a few Oxies with a good ten fingers of Maker’s Mark.
Blue hung up on me after that. I shattered my phone against the exposed brick fireplace I never used. And we never spoke of it again. But fuck, the thought of them, together, it never passed. In fact, it just continued to take root. Seedlings of doubt lay scattered through my mind, growing with each year. With each hit, drink, low, and high. Every mention of her name from his lips. His voice changes when he talks about her. It’s lighter. Happy. Prideful even. I can hear his smile over the phone, and don’t even get me started on face-to-face interactions. I know he tries to pull back, to hold on to that mask, to wade in his denial, but you can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I’m an addict, we moonlight in bullshit. Whether they’ve hooked up before remains to be seen, but one thing is crystal fucking clear: Blue wants Zo.
I don’t know if it’s love, a crush, or if he just wants to sleep with her. But whatever it is, I really don’t give a fuck what he wants or how he feels. I know, I’m being an asshole, but I’m being an honest asshole. Blue is my brother and I love him. I’m lucky to have him in my life. In my corner. Believing in me, in my sobriety. But I would sooner cut off my right hand, the hand that has won and held many Grammys, before I sit back and watch him take my girl.