Rehabilitation. The word tastes like metal in my mouth, cold and unfamiliar.

It’s where addicts go to die.

I just hope I can make it through the next ninety days. Sobriety is my only hope. My hands tremble as I hang up, receiver slipping in my sweaty grasp. My message echoes in my mind.

“Please answer when I call tomorrow, baby.”

I hate the desperation in my voice.

My legs give out as I collapse into the metal chair. Reality washes over me, and each wave is worse than the last. Rhea changed her voicemail and obliterated every connection to Case in Point. She’s not just taking a break from me. She’s erasing me.

“Fuck.” I run my hands through my hair.

I want to smash shit and reach for a bottle to let it pull me under until the pain fades. But all I have is this flimsy plastic phone, and even now, I’m not reckless enough to trash rehab property on day one.

Instead, I bury my face in my hands and let the flood of memories crash through me, because there’s nothing else left to hold onto.

Rhea laughs at a joke I told on our first date at this diner outside of Denver, her laughter ringing above the jukebox as she leans her honey-blonde head back. Her green eyes sparkled, making me feel like I was a person worth loving, instead of just another burned-out musician with an addiction problem.

Her small hands were working on my shoulders after a brutal show, the gentle pressure of her fingers working out the stress knotted in the muscles. The care she puts into every single task she completes, even loving a man as fucked up as me.

I’ll never forget waking up one quiet morning to the smell of coffee and seeing Rhea in my kitchen, wearing an old Case in Point tour shirt and humming as she stirred scrambled eggs in my battered skillet. When I asked about her song, she blushed and admitted she’d made it up about us and how happy she was with me.

My hand twitches, reaching for the ghost of her, hoping my fingers might still find the warmth she left behind. But there’s only chilly, empty air. That small emptiness aches more than any words ever could.

“You okay in there, brother?” The voice of my peer support specialist, Randy, cuts through my self-loathing.

I look up to find him standing at the entrance to the phone booth, his weathered face creased with concern. “Yeah. Peachy.”

He doesn’t buy my lie. “Do you want to take a walk? The facility features several trails. It might help clear your head.”

Relief washes through me. I’m tired of pretending I’m fine. I want to say no, and wallow in my misery, but there’s a familiarity in Randy’s eyes. They’re patient and kind, like Rhea’s, willing to extend grace, even if it’s not deserved.

“Sure.” I finally give in and take the walk to clear my head.

We fall into a comfortable silence for the first few minutes, following a winding path through towering pines. The needles from the trees above have fallen and crunch beneath my feet. The air isn’t hot like I thought it’d be in September in Georgia, but it’s uncharacteristically cool all over the South before autumn is officially upon us. After a while, the Georgia mountains stretch out around us, morning mist covering their peaks.

“Is this your first time in rehab?” Randy’s voice is full of curiosity.

“Fourth. You’d think I’d have figured it out by now.” The weight of this truth lingers in the air between us, a silent testament to my repeated failure.

Randy chuckles. “It took me six tries. Many of us are slower learners than others.”

“What made the difference on the sixth time?” I secretly hope this man has all the answers to help me find a cleaner path.

His voice is rough with emotion, like the words scratch his throat on the way out. “I lost my daughter. She stopped taking my calls, inviting me to birthdays and school plays, and all those little moments that make up a life. One day, I realized I’d become a stranger to the person I loved most in the world. That’s when I knew I had to choose the bottle or her. Couldn’t have both anymore.” He kicks at a pinecone in our path.

The parallel to my own situation isn’t lost on me. Rhea walked away for the same reason Randy’s daughter did. Loving an addict means watching them choose their poison repeatedly, until you finally get tired of coming in second place.

“Did she forgive you? Your daughter?” It’s important to me that Rhea forgives me, whether she still loves me or not. If Randy’s daughter can forgive him, then there might be hope for me.

“It took two years of sobriety and a lot of groveling, but yeah. She forgave me. But I had to forgive myself first. That’s the hardest part.” Randy’s salt and pepper hair begins to blow all over the place as a huge gust of cool wind blows through my cotton t-shirt.

Forgiving myself. The idea feels empty. How do I find absolution after destroying the only good thing I had? Still, maybe seeing my flaws clearly is a step toward repairing what’s left. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“It takes practice, time, and a shit ton of therapy. You’re in the right place for all three.” Randy reminds me in a gentle way.

We reach a clearing with a wooden bench by a small pond. Randy sits with a sigh, and I join him. I’m grateful to rest. My ribs still ache, and the walk has left me winded.

“Tell me about your girl.” He makes it easy to talk to him. Hell, he makes it easy to want to share.

Being in a band doesn’t often afford me the opportunity to confide in others. My circle is small and doesn’t extend beyond the band very much or often. “Her name’s Rhea. She was the band’s assistant. Rhea’s smart as hell, funny, and beautiful with this thick head of blonde hair. She’s gorgeous in this way that just gets under your skin. She’s got this laugh that sounds like music, and she makes these little humming noises when she’s concentrating that drives me crazy in the best way.” I find myself smiling despite knowing I tainted every single memory we ever made.

“You’re in love with her.” It’s not hard for Randy to deduce after my description of her.

“Pathetically in love with her. She saved my life, man. Not in some dramatic, pull-me-from-a-burning-building way, but in all the small ways that matter. She made me want to be better.” The admission comes more easily than I expect.

“What happened?” His question is loaded with the weight of three years of my fuck-ups.

The question hangs between us for a long moment.

What happened? Everything and nothing. You know, it’s a thousand small betrayals, broken promises, and hungover mornings when I’d always swear it would be the last time. “I kept choosing the bottle over her, disappointing her, breaking promises I meant to keep. She held on longer than anyone should’ve. I kept giving her reasons to leave until she finally did.”

When I was a child, I hid under the dining table while my mom and Richard shouted. Their voices were a storm. But the opening of a bottle always brought quiet. Alcohol promised refuge and a silence I understood.

The night Rhea left flashes through my mind in a succession of blurred images, fractured by my constant intoxication. I piece together the hazy, frightening, sharp pieces of memory that still cut like glass.

Rhea’s suitcase is by the door. The look on her face isn’t angry, just tired. So fucking tired. I was screaming at her to leave, throwing her things like a spoiled child having a tantrum. My brother and bandmates should’ve whooped my ass for treating her that way because her pain-filled green eyes haunt me with every passing second.

Andrew and the guys showed up, probably called by Rhea because she knew I’d lose my shit when she left me. I want to crawl under a rock just thinking about her not being able to leave without the backup of my own brother and band.

The sound of the door closing behind her was so final it might as well have been a gunshot.

“I don’t even remember all of her leaving,” I admit, my voice cracking. Shame threatens, but the truth pushes through. “I was too drunk for the moment that mattered. She walked out, and I was too wasted to properly ask her to stay.”

Randy doesn’t say anything, just lets me sit with the weight of the truth. It’s one thing to know you messed up, but it’s another thing entirely to voice it out loud, hearing your own voice admit the depth of your failures.

“I threw her suitcase across the room. The woman I love is leaving me, and instead of begging her to stay or promising to change, I throw her things. What kind of man does that?” I scoff. I hate who I’ve become.

“An addict.” Randy’s right, but it doesn’t make it any easier to hear.

His words should feel like absolution, but they don’t. They feel like an explanation, not an excuse, and I’m not sure I deserve even that much grace.

“I called her a bitch. When she said she was leaving, when she tried to explain why, I called her a fucking bitch and told her to get out.” Tears well in my blue eyes, and the more I think about how I treated her the last night we shared a life together, the quicker they are to fall.

The admission hangs between us, ugly and unforgivable. I’ve never spoken those words aloud. Here, surrounded by peaceful beauty, I can’t hide from what I did.

I double over as it hits me, gasping for air for a few seconds before I push the words out in an emotional dump on Randy. “She loved me with everything, and I called her a bitch for trying to save herself from me.” My tears come hot and fast.

Randy’s hand lands on my shoulder. He doesn’t placate me or minimize what I’ve done to make me feel better. He just sits with me while I fall apart, offering the kind of silent support I never gave Rhea when she needed it.

“I have to get her back and find a way to make this right.” I don’t want to live any more of this life without her.

“Maybe. But first, you have to get yourself back. You can’t love someone else when you’re this broken. Trust me.” Randy continues with his sage advice.

I know he’s right. But focusing on myself while Rhea is out there, trying to forget me, makes my skin crawl. I fidget and feel the jagged edge of a broken guitar pick. It’s a reminder of what I’m fighting for, a marker for who I want to become.

“What if it’s too late by the time I get out of here?” God, how would I survive in a world where she doesn’t exist?

“Then you’ll have to live with that. But you’ll live with it sober.” Randy’s confidence in my ability to live in that world is lost on me.

We sit in silence for a while longer, watching the sun climb higher over the lake. Birds call to each other across the water, and in the distance, I can hear other people living their lives -laughing, talking, and existing in a world that doesn’t revolve around my pain.

“I used to write songs about her. Back then, when things were good, melodies came to me just by watching her sleep. The happy tunes I hadn’t played with since I was a kid came back. She always has this way of bringing out the best in me.”

“What made you stop writing for her?” He doesn’t hide his curiosity.

I think about his question for a moment. “I got scared. Happiness felt unreal. I waited for her to leave, so I drank more and pushed her away. Self-fulfilling prophecy.” I roll my eyes at myself because I sound like an asshole.

“Fear’s a motherfucker. It makes us do all kinds of stupid shit in the name of self-protection.” Randy hits the nail on the head.

“I pushed away the best thing that ever happened to me because I was afraid of losing her. How fucked up is that?” I’m an idiot.

“Pretty fucked up. But understandable. Doesn’t make it right, but it makes it human.” At least, he thinks it’s human and not my full character.

We head back toward the main buildings. My ribs throb with every step. The ache in my body is nothing next to the raw misery squeezing my chest, but it’s a reminder of how far I’ve crashed. Two weeks ago, I was Gray Garrison, frontman of Case in Point. Now I’m just another broken soul in rehab.

Part of our walk back is silent, as I sift through the wreckage of what I ruined.

“Can I ask you a question?” I don’t know why I ask permission, but maybe it’s because I don’t want to take advantage of the kindness he’s showing me by offering his wisdom.

“Sure, you can always ask.” Randy’s calm and easygoing.

“Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?”

Randy turns to face me. His eyes are kind but honest, and I brace myself for an answer I might not want to hear. “I don’t know. But I know that if you get clean and stay clean, do the work and become the man she deserved all along, then you’ll have given her the best gift you possibly can.”

It’s not the reassurance I was hoping for, but it’s a thread of possibility.

“Even if she doesn’t take me back, she should know that loving me mattered because it changed me?” It feels like a profound epiphany.

“Now you’re getting it.” He smiles.

As I step into the dining hall, my reflection stares back at me from the entrance door’s glass.

Hollow-eyed.

Unshaven.

Wrecked in ways no bruise can show.

I try my best to remember when I began to look so fucking old. A memory–one I’m not proud of–resurfaces.

The hotel bar in Austin glows amber in the dim lighting, all polished wood and leather that costs more per square foot than most people make in a month. I shouldn’t be here. I know I shouldn’t be here. But my feet carried me down from our room anyway, drawn by something I don’t want to name.

One hundred eighty-three days sober.

Six months and two days since I met Rhea in that bathroom at Requiem Records. Six months of waking up clear-headed, of actually remembering every conversation, every kiss, every whispered promise in the dark. Six months of being the man she deserves instead of the disaster I’d been for so long.

But tonight, something cracked.

The show was perfect—a sold out crowd and our best performance of the tour. The kind of night that used to end with me drowning in celebration, using alcohol to somehow make the high last longer. Except it never made anything last. It only made me forget.

I should be upstairs with Rhea right now. She’s probably asleep in our bed, her dark hair spread across the pillow, one hand tucked under her cheek the way she always does. She looked so proud of me tonight, standing side stage with that smile that makes my chest ache with how much I love her.

That’s the problem, isn’t it? Loving her this much terrifies me.

“What can I get you?” The bartender materializes in front of me, a professional smile in place. He doesn’t recognize me—or if he does, he’s good at hiding it. The late shift at a hotel bar probably means he’s seen everything.

I should say “club soda.” I should order coffee. I should walk away.

“Whiskey,” I hear myself say instead. “Jack Daniel’s. Neat.”

The words taste wrong in my mouth, like a betrayal of every promise I’ve made. To my therapist from my last stint in rehab. To Andrew, who’s sacrificed so much to keep me alive. To the band, who’ve watched me nearly destroy everything we built together.

To Rhea, who looks at me like I hung the moon and personally arranged the stars.

The bartender pours two fingers of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler and slides it across the bar. It sits there between us, catching the low light, looking deceptively harmless for something that’s ruined so many parts of my life.

I tell myself I’m just going to look at it. Maybe hold the glass, feel the weight of it in my hand, remind myself why I stopped.

But my fingers are already wrapping around the cool crystal.

Just one, the voice in my head whispers. One drink to take the edge off. You’ve been doing so well. You deserve to relax. It’s not like you’re going to spiral from one drink.

Except I know better. I’ve always known better.

The first time I drank, I was fourteen years old, raiding my adoptive father’s liquor cabinet because the nightmares about Mom’s death were getting worse. That first sip of whiskey burned going down, but it made everything softer. Quieter. Bearable.

It also started a pattern that nearly killed me multiple times over the next sixteen years.

I lift the glass to my lips, and the smell hits me first—that distinctive Jack Daniel’s scent that used to mean relief, oblivion, escape. My hand trembles slightly, and I’m not sure if it’s from wanting this or from being terrified of wanting it.

Rhea wouldn’t leave you over one drink, the voice argues. She’s not like that. She loves you. She understands the pressure you’re under.

But that’s a lie, and I know it. It’s not about whether she’d leave me. It’s about whether I’m the man I promised her I’d be. The man I promised myself I’d be.

The whiskey touches my tongue.

It’s like coming home to a place you swore you’d never return to. The burn, the heat, the way it seems to quiet all the noise in my head for just a moment. One moment of peace in a brain that never stops moving, questioning, or being afraid.

I drain the glass in two swallows.

“Another,” I tell the bartender, and I don’t even recognize my own voice.

He pours without comment, probably used to watching people make terrible decisions at two in the morning.

This one goes down easier. It always does.

By the time I head back upstairs, I’ve had four. Not enough to be drunk—I’ve built up too much tolerance over the years for four drinks to do much—but enough that I can’t lie to myself anymore about what this means.

The hotel room is dark when I slip inside, moving as quietly as possible. Rhea is exactly where I pictured her, curled on her side, breathing deep and even. Beautiful and trusting and completely unaware that I just shattered something we can’t repair.

I should wake her up. I should tell her what I did. Get ahead of the lie before it has a chance to grow.

Instead, I brush my teeth twice, change into sleeping clothes, and slide into bed beside her. She shifts in her sleep, automatically curling into my side, her hand coming to rest over my heart.

“Love you,” she mumbles, mostly asleep.

“Love you too, baby,” I whisper back, and the words feel like ashes in my mouth.

She’ll find out eventually. Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not next week, but eventually the truth always surfaces. The drinks will become a regular thing. One will become two, two will become six, six will become however many it takes to stop feeling everything so intensely.

And Rhea, my sweet, patient, endlessly forgiving Rhea, will watch me disappear one drink at a time until I’m nothing but a ghost wearing the face of the man she fell in love with.

But that’s future Gray’s problem.

Tonight, I just hold her close and try to memorize what it feels like to be the man she believes I am. Because part of me knows, even now, that I’m already losing that man.

The whiskey sits warm in my stomach, and for the first time in six months, the voice in my head finally goes quiet.

I fall asleep thinking that maybe, just maybe, I can control this.

I’m wrong.

I’m always wrong about this.

But I won’t admit that for another two and a half years, not until I wake up in that Atlanta alley with no memory of how I got there and Rhea’s voicemail telling me she’s gone.

I look back at my reflection one last time and notice that for the first time in months, there’s the faintest flicker of hope in my eyes.

The road ahead stretches for ninety days and beyond. If I’m lucky, it will be years of sobriety and a lifetime spent carrying the weight of my choices, no matter where they lead.

Rhea is out there in the world, living her life without me. Maybe she’s curled up with a book on a sunny porch, laughing with friends, or learning, bit by bit, how to be happy without me. If getting clean means she never has to fear my self-destruction again, if it lets her move forward free from the shadow of my addiction, then maybe that’s enough.

It has to be because real love means wanting her happiness, even if that happiness unfolds in a world without me.

And for the first time in my adult life, I’m going to try to love her the way she deserves. But what does loving the right way even look like? Is it sacrifice, understanding, or the strength to let her chase happiness on her own terms?