She went to Juilliard.Me?At the age of sixteen, I was dragged into dive bars with a guitar and a bleeding throat, chasing distortion and swallowing down every lie the industry fed me with a shot of tequila.Yes, Connor Dempsey told us to drink before we performed.It helped with the ambiance, he said.
Fucking asshole, he should be in jail for everything he made us do.
I just followed him because my father said I should start early.“You don’t need school or a degree when you’ve already got a destiny.”I believed him.“You’ve been performing from a young age.”
Which was partially true.Matinees with the Seattle Philharmonic since I was six is not the same, is it?That was just a dress rehearsal.
I was born to be a rockstar.At least, that’s what they told me.But no one tells you what to do when the lights go out.They just throw you more drugs to keep you happy—or sedated long enough that you don’t realize your life is a fucking dumpster and there’s no way out.
“Then music is your foundation,” Eddie continues.“But not the version of it that nearly killed you.Not the noise and lights and nights you don’t remember.I mean the part of it that’s just you and the music.That gut-level need to tell a fucking story.That thing that used to pour out of you like blood.”
Something in my chest pulls tight.The way he says it—it doesn’t feel like some motivational speech.It feels like a mirror.One I’ve been avoiding for years.
“But you don’t get to just pick up a guitar and pretend none of the other shit happened,” he continues.“You need structure.You need a plan.You need to do the work.”
I scrub a hand down my jaw, the stubble grating against my palm.“Okay.So, what does that look like?”
He sits back, folds his arms, studies me like he’s trying to decide how much truth I can handle before I break.Then he says, “You need to create again.Not perform.Not sell.Create.We’ll find a studio.You show up there three times a week.No audience.No engineers.Just you and the instruments.You write.You figure out what the fuck is still in there worth saving.”
“And if there’s nothing left?”I ask, hating how small my voice sounds when I say it.
“Then we dig,” he says, eyes narrowing.“Until there is.Or until you bleed enough on the page that something takes root.”
I swallow hard, pulse thudding in my throat.“And if I fall off?”
“You won’t,” he says.“Because I’ll fucking drag you back myself if I have to.We’ll go together to meetings, and if you can’t find a sponsor who you can trust, I’m here for you.”
There’s something building inside me.It thrums low, insistent, like purpose waking up after too long underground.Not fully formed, but alive enough to make my pulse drag and my breath catch like my body remembers what it’s like to want something that doesn’t end in ruin.
Eddie stands, grabs a folder off his desk, and tosses it onto the table like it’s both a challenge and a fucking link to my salvation.The papers flutter.The tension doesn’t.
“Here’s a rough schedule.Therapy—twice a week.Studio time, if you want it—three.Daily meetings.And if you can manage six weeks of actually showing the fuck up, then we’ll talk about what comes next.”
“Six weeks,” I repeat, dragging my finger along the edge of the folder like it might bite me.Like maybe I want it to.“Of what, penance?”
“No,” he says.“Of proving you’re done circling the drain.”
My mouth opens, then closes.No comeback.Just silence.The air hums with this low, mechanical wheeze—whatever ancient unit keeps this place from suffocating.He doesn’t sit.Doesn’t ease the tension.He just leans back against the desk, arms crossed, gaze locked on me.Like he’s daring me to either bolt or fucking lean in.
Then, he adds, “I’ve got ideas.Schools need music, art programs ...sports.You could help me with that—after studying for a degree, of course.”
“School?”I say it like a joke, but it lands flat.
He shrugs, casual, but there’s nothing casual in the way he watches me.“It’s a thought.”
“I dropped out of high school,” I remind him, voice quiet now.Defensive.Maybe ashamed.
He was there.He and Rita, his mother, told me I shouldn’t.I needed to study.Did I listen?Nope, because why would I think that the maid knows better than my parents?Confession time: she did.
“Then you get a GED and go to college ...unless you don’t want to try.”
I bristle, but only for a second.“I do want to try,” I say, almost before I know I’m saying it.“But what about the music?”
“You’re not ready for a stage,” he says, and it doesn’t sting.It should, but it doesn’t.There’s no bite, just truth.Like he’s laying me bare and wrapping the raw pieces in something I’m afraid to call mercy.
“But maybe it’s time you learned how to build something off of it.You can help me create the Eddie Music Foundation.We’ll help public school programs, fund instruments, lessons, mentorship.You show up, and maybe you become the guy some scared kid actually needs.”
And, fuck, the way he says it.Like he sees that guy already—beneath the wreckage I’ve made of myself.His words should feel like pressure, like obligation, but they don’t.They feel like a pulse, a charge in the center of my chest.
