He falls into the pool chair next to me. “Relax. It’s empty.”
Even worse.
Zane sounded determined to stay away from booze and not spiral, but tonight is an indication that he’s not as impenetrable as he thinks.
Some patterns are hard to shake.
Today, the wine bottle is empty.
Tomorrow, it won’t be.
The day after that, he’ll find a reason to drink.
It’s a slippery slope. The mind never truly forgets, even after years of making different choices. It’s easy to make excuses, especially when familiar patterns are more comfortable than taking the hard road.
“I’m not going to fall apart,” Zane says, as if he can read my mind. He sets the bottle on the ground. With his uninjured hand, he twirls his drumstick around.
“How’s the wrist?” I ask, nodding to the brace.
He shrugs.
“I haven’t heard you practicing lately.”
He shakes his head. “Haven’t felt like playing.”
That’s a really bad sign.
Even after Zane’s wrist was cruelly snapped in a fight after the winter dance, he didn’t lose his drive for music.
When the doctor said he could never play again, Zane grinned and told us that he would.
He went faithfully to physical therapy, got a brace for the pain, and he’s been learning new techniques to play drums in a way that won’t flare up his injury.
“Maybe we should practice a set. Just to get it off our chests,” I offer, watching him.
Zane shakes his head. “Not right now, Finn.”
The uneasy feeling I’ve been having since the girls were kidnapped multiplies. On the surface, Dutch and Zane are keeping it together.
But below the surface, the water is boiling.
When Dutch isn’t beating the pavement, chasing leads, and hassling the detective in charge of the case, he’s walking around in a daze, unable to sleep.
And Zane…
Zane is like a rubber band being stretched farther and farther and farther…
The longer it goes, the harder it’ll snap.
Dutch returns wearing a hoodie, and he takes a seat next to Zane. The moment he sees the wine bottle, he immediately reaches for it.
Zane pulls it back. “Get your own. This is mine.”
Dutch growls. “Share the booze.”
“It’s empty,” I inform him.
Dutch’s eyes flicker over Zane. “Smart. The last time he drank, he started crying.”
