When I got back to my room, I checked my phone, expecting something from Braden.
What I got was from Zack.Hey, can I come over?
Jesus. Why? It was like he just couldn’t let me be happy.
But something deep inside compelled me to be nice.What’s up?
My grandpa died yesterday.As I absorbed the shock of that revelation—I’d just seen him days ago—Zack sent another text.I need someone to talk to.
I texted back:Yeah, of course. Would you rather I come over there?
No, I need to get out of here. My mom’s family and friends are too much right now.
I didn’t think I could continue focusing on the drums, but I was wrong. I found it to be soothing—and it was much better than pacing the floor, waiting for his arrival.
Not fifteen minutes later, there was a knock at the door that quickly turned to pounding.Why didn’t he use the doorbell like normal people?But, of course, I reminded myself, he wasn’t thinking.
I ran to the front door, pulling it open quickly.
God, he looked like hell—but it wasn’t from drinking, even though I saw the bottle of vodka in his hand. He’d clearly been crying, and his eyes were puffy and red, his expression distraught like I’d never seen him before.
And he just pulled me into a suffocating embrace, clinging to me as if I were a piece of driftwood and he was being pulled under by the current. I held him close, sensing the profound sadness inside him.
Finally, I was able to get him into the house and we sat on the couch in the living room. Softly, I asked, “Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”
But he already had the lid off the vodka, pouring the clear liquid down his throat. “I was such a dick to him, Dani.”
“What do you mean?”
“The last time I saw my grandpa. I was a Grade A asshole.”
I thought back to the birthday barbecue and hoped my words would be some comfort. “After you left that night, he and your mom were talking about how stubborn you were—but it sounded loving. He loved you.”
With closed eyes, Zack shook his head slightly. “No, I’m not talking about that. Two days ago, Gramps asked me to come over for coffee and an omelet like we used to do—and he started lecturing me about drinking. I told him I had it under control and he said, ‘Spoken like a true alcoholic.’ I lost my shit and said some pretty mean things.”
Oh.I’d been on the receiving end of Drunk Rock Star Zack’s cruel words. Still, as much as it had stung, I also knew where it was coming from—and had I been his grandfather, Imight have viewed it even more differently. “Yeah, but your grandpa loved you unconditionally. I’m sure he knew you didn’t mean the things you said.”
“But Idid. I—” He grabbed his face, covering the onslaught of tears erupting from his eyes, the sobs from his mouth, and I wrapped an arm around his shoulder. It wasn’t long before I was crying along with him, knowing that my own grandparents wouldn’t last forever and understanding how alone Zack must have felt.
Although he stopped crying shortly after, he still held me, possibly wanting to regain control. I needed a few tissues and I was sure he did too, so I unwound myself from his arms and said, “Be right back.” My mom used to keep a box of tissues in the living room, but there weren’t any to be seen, so I went to the hallway closet where she often kept extras. While I got one and pulled off the paperboard over the plastic opening, I wondered something I should have asked myself earlier: why had Zack reached out tomeand not to Braden, his oldest friend? I knew some guys wouldn’t have been able to deal with Zack’s display of emotion, but I knew Braden likely could have.
Then again, Zack had damaged that relationship as well. Maybe Braden wasn’t as forgiving as I—even though I didn’t feel that way at all.
By the time I returned, Zack was taking another swig of the vodka, trying to wash down his sorrows. After taking out a tissue, I set the box next to his bottle on the coffee table. As I dabbed at my eyes and nose, I felt a little relief that at least the bottle was almost full, meaning he probably hadn’t driven drunk.
My voice as gentle as could be, I said, “That could make it worse.”
“It won’t.” After taking another swig, he looked at me. “Itmakes everything quieter. Like…you know all the sounds of summer? Birds, cicadas, crickets, frogs, the occasional airplane overhead, semis driving down the highway, kids playing. But when the snow starts falling, everything gets quiet. There’s still sound, but it’s muted somehow.” Picking up his bottle, he tilted the bottom toward me slightly. “That’s what this does for my mind.”
“I get that, but—”
“So it’s still there. I can hear it. I can feel it—but I candealwith it. When it’s summer in my brain, I can’t handle all the noise. I don’t know how…and the older I get, the louder the noise grows.”
Oh, shit. Did Zack have undiagnosed mental problems that none of us had noticed? That sure sounded similar to something I’d learned about in psychology. So I would apply what little I remembered.
“But do you think maybe the drinking makes it worse long-term—because you’re not dealing with everything?”
He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head gently. When he looked at me again, he said, “Maybe. But it’s too fuckin’ loud right now and I can’t handle it. If you want me to go—”
