“You still there, Wilder?”
“Hey,” I mumble, throat dry.My voice cracks from more than just nerves—it’s the shame, the uncertainty, the million fucking things I’ve done wrong with no idea how to start undoing them.
This is my lifeline, and if he says no, I don’t know what I’m going to do with my life.
He pauses, tone shifting.“You okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just ...”My fingers curl into a fist.“You told me once that if I ever decided to get clean, you’d help.”
There’s a beat of silence.I hear him say something muffled—probably to someone nearby.“I’ll be back.It’s going to be fine.We’ll get to him.”
It’s like I’m interrupting something, and I should hang up, but he asks, “Didn’t you just get out of rehab?”The background rustles.A door slams, shutting the world out.
“Yeah.I’ve been out for a little over a month.”I sigh, because it feels like it’s been forever and not long enough since I walked out of the center.“I don’t think that’s the point.I’ve been out and my life is still in shambles.I haven’t done anything that screams, ‘this asshole is really trying.’”
“You’re clean?”he asks again, and this time his voice is sharper—focused.
“Yes, for sixty-two days, but that’s not?—”
“Wilder,” he cuts me off, firm and unflinching, “I need you to stop right there.The fact that you’ve been clean for sixty-something days?That’s already a win.I don’t care what else you think you’ve failed at—this matters.You hear me?”
I press my palm to my forehead, closing my eyes.It doesn’t feel like much though.
“Have you talked to your sponsor lately?”he asks.
“There’s not much to say.”I shrug even though he can’t see it, that same shrug I’ve given a hundred times to anyone who ever tried to care.
“What about meetings?”
“Do I have to go?”I sigh, then rattle off my schedule since I got out.Therapy.Reading.The occasional run when my knees don’t hate me.Trying to write.Mostly failing.Mostly avoiding.
“Ah, okay,” he says slowly.“So we haven’t done anything.You’ve just been going through the motions.”
“You make it sound like I’m a loser.”
“You are,” he says, not even trying to soften it.“But not because of what you’re doing right now.”
A bitter laugh bubbles up.“I tried to see if I could get my career back.”I tell him about the agent who wouldn’t take my call, about Connor and the stroke, and how everything just ...fell apart again.
“Kit told me?—”
That’s when he snaps.
“Wait—you went looking for Kit?”His voice drops an octave and sharpens like a knife.“What the fuck were you thinking?”
“No,” I say quickly, guilt flaring hot and fast under my skin.“I didn’t.She took Connor’s place ...the two times I’ve seen her have been a coincidence.Not because I was looking for her.I wasn’t ready—I’m not ready.And of course I fucked it all up.”
“Of course you aren’t ready—and fucked things up,” Eddie growls.“Listen, I’m out of town this weekend.Can you sit tight until Monday?We’ll start figuring out what the fuck we’re doing with you then.”
“I just ...I need some direction.”The words feel like they’re made of glass and barbed wire as they leave my throat.“You don’t?—”
“You need someone to lean on,” he cuts in, no hesitation, like he’s been holding that line in his back pocket, just waiting for me to finally admit it.“And I know your brothers won’t touch you right now.”
“I could call the band,” I say.
“No.Barret’s barely keeping it together even when he swears that he is doing great.Dexter’s hanging on by threads of his own.And Alec ...”He exhales—it’s long, almost desperate.“You know damn well that’s a fuse you don’t want to light.Not right now.”
I close my eyes and let a slow breath out through my nose.My mouth is dry and all I want is something—someone—that makes this feel less impossible.Someone I can talk to.
