She laughs.“Like I would send you to Cali to live with Mom or Dad.”She presses her lips together and glances at me in the light.“Did you even have a plan?”
“I thought I would get a hotel room for a few nights while I looked for a place,” I mumble, because she’s right.I don’t plan to live with either of our parents, nor in California.I’m not even sure if I want to see Mom or Dad.Not after everything.Not after hours of therapy peeling back the layers of childhood I used to think were normal but turned out to be more like barbed wire disguised as tinsel.
I’m still bleeding.
Could I go back to my old place?There’s no old place anymore since the band broke up.I was kicked out of the house we shared, and I’ve been living out of my suitcase ever since.Fuck, I really think I’ve hit the bottom of the barrel.I’m at my lowest.Well, not now.I was when I almost died.Today ...I don’t know what’s up or down, but I hope I can survive it all.
“Well, lucky for you, I found you something livable,” she says, like it’s no big deal.“It’s manageable.Second floor.Locks work.Windows open.I even got you curtains.You’re welcome.”
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t say anything.
Seattle blurs past us in wet grays and rusted signs.Cleo navigates like someone who knows exactly where she’s going and doesn’t care how many potholes she hits along the way.Ouch.
Me?I care.I care too much.But I won’t say a word about her driving.Not today.
She’s probably the only one in our family who gives two fucks about me.
“Here we are,” Cleo says as she pulls up to the curb.I expect some boxy little walk-up with peeling paint and a questionable smell.But what I see isn’t just some place.It’s ...
ChapterThree
Roderick
“This isn’t just livable,” I murmur.
She smirks, cutting the engine.“Right?I lied.At first, I was going to go low-key, but then I thought—why drag my famous brother into some dump where many of your neighbors might still have your old mug—” She clears her throat— “I mean, poster in their room?”
She nods toward the entrance.“My therapist said you needed a secure place to heal.Privacy.Stability.So, I found it for you.I paid the deposit, first and last month of rent.You owe me.”
The building stands tall and crisp against the drizzle, red brick polished clean and framed by black wrought iron.The canopied entrance is dry, elegant, and there’s someone in a trim uniform who gives Cleo a nod like he’s seen her a hundred times.
“Ms.Cleo.Everything is ready upstairs.”
“Thank you, Leonard.This is my brother,” she smiles, “and your future pain in the ass, Roderick.”
He nods at me.“Welcome, sir.Let us know if you need anything.”
“Nice to meet you, Leonard.”I try to smile, but it probably lands somewhere between worn out and I’m-lost-don’t-judge-me.
Inside, the lobby feels quietly upscale—cream marble floors, hunter green accents, and a concierge desk with a corded phone mounted on the wall.Real plants in terra cotta pots line the windows, thriving in the soft glow from recessed ceiling lights.It doesn’t scream wealth, but it hums it.
The elevator creaks slightly as we step in, brass paneling reflecting my tired face.Cleo presses the button for the fourth floor.
“No penthouse?”I joke.
She rolls her eyes.“You want a view.You can open the fridge and stare at your orange juice.You need peace and quiet.Not a skyline.”
The elevator eases to a stop, its motion smooth and almost soundless.The doors part with a quiet glide, revealing a hallway carpeted in soft maroon, with sconces casting just enough light to feel lived-in.
We walk toward 4B.Cleo unlocks it with a key from her hoodie pocket and pushes the door open with the side of her foot, as if she’s done this before.Inside, it’s quiet.Sparse, but intentional.
Hardwood floors extend beneath a worn but decent area rug—navy with a faded geometric pattern.A low, dark wood coffee table sits in front of a boxy two-seater couch upholstered in charcoal gray tweed.Against the far wall, a small TV sits on a metal stand, flanked by a stack of VHS tapes and a chunky remote.
I should tell her I don’t have time to watch anything.Next week, I’m talking with my agent.Sure, I fucked up, but I need my career back.I need my music.Since I ended up in rehab, I haven’t touched my guitar.Haven’t even hummed a tune, for that matter.
“Not sure where your vinyl collection is, but I got you that.”She points to a stereo system resting on a nearby shelf, with twin speakers wired and angled as if someone knew what they were doing.
My collection is ...well, at the house, and I don’t think I have the balls to get it back anytime soon.“Barret might know,” I mumble.“But that’s a problem for another day.”
