Well, whathadI wanted? I began to question myself. Had I wanted Braden to be aware of Zack’s state of mind or had I instead desired an emotional reaction?
Finally, he said, “We’re gonna have to make him go to rehab again.”
“Yeah,” I agreed—but Zack had already said he wasn’t going to do it. Delusional, he felt like he was better under the influence. I was certain that was just the addiction talking—but maybe he really believed it.
Would he have to nearly die again?
Over the next few days, I believed that was what it would take—but I couldn’t let Zack do that again. My heart couldn’t take it…and I didn’t want him to almost die to experience another wake-up call.
In Washington, DC, we had just a few days left to the first leg of our tour. We were already scheduled to play at a festival followed by a second leg. In a way, we’d all become pros on the road—but Zack wasn’t sober enough to enjoy our success. A shame, because the label told us we’d be co-headliners on our second leg.
But we knew we couldn’t really call ourselvesheadlinersuntil we were the last band of the evening to play. Still, in our new ranking, we’d be making more money than ever before—and Zack was blowing his share on alcohol.
I hoped that was all he was spending his money on.
While Braden and Cy practiced in secret for what we figured would be the inevitable, I decided to confront Zack once and for all on a rare day off. It was a testament to just how jaded and worn out we’d become: in a city full of history and amazing sights to see, two bandmates were working their asses off to save the band while I was trying to do the same thing from a different angle.
And the person who seemed the most hellbent on fucking it all up probably was working on doing just that—but I wouldn’t know until I asked. It was after lunch, probably the best time for something like this—and I knocked on his hotel room door.
When he answered the door, his shirt was off—nothing unusual, because he’d been taking it off every night for our shows—and I could see up close that he was starting to lose weight again. It wasn’t anything the audience would be able to see, but it was obvious to me.
“What’s up?” he asked. Searching his eyes, I tried to assess his level of sobriety and figured he was probably at his peak. As the day went on, the more he’d drink.
“Can I talk to you for a few minutes?”
Even numb, he caught the concern in my voice, and I could see it in his eyes. “Yeah, sure.” Opening the door wide, he stepped back so I could enter. When I walked in, though, he seemed to hesitate: should he shut the door? But it wasn’t like he had a choice. Finally, he allowed the door to close and then turned to face me. “What’s up?”
“I just…wanted to check in with you. I—we—are all worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“We can’t just turn off our feelings, Zack. And you might not be able to see it, but you’re doing what you didon our last tour: drinking yourself into oblivion, cutting—”
“That’s not true. On our last tour, I was out of control. I’m not this time.”
Jesus, he was frustrating. I had to fight to keep my voice steady. “You might believe that, but you arenotin control. If you were, you’d stop drinking.”
“Again, not true. I’mchoosingto drink because it makes me feel better. And if I feel better, I perform better. I don’t see why that’s such a problem.”
Already I could see that this was going nowhere—but I still felt compelled to try. I knew deep down in my heart that if he didn’t quit, he would absolutely kill himself. Maybe not tomorrow or this year or the next, but it would happen…and if I didn’t try my hardest to get him to see that, I would always blame myself. “Youdon’tperform better. You justthinkyou do.”
“Then why the hell does the crowd yell so loudly? Why do they act like they’re having a good time? Is all that in my imagination, Dani?”
“Are you kidding? The band isn’t justyou. Did you ever stop to realize that some of those cheers might be for Cy? Or maybe all of us together?” Remembering his nasty comment about training a monkey to take my place just days ago, I couldn’t help the anger as it simmered in my belly.
“Yeah, I’m not stupid. I know you guys exist—but, at its heart, it’smyband and the audience knows that.”
Christ. How had I forgotten that Drunk Rock Star Zack had an ego the size of Texas? And, again, this line of reasoning wasn’t going anywhere. “How much have you had to drink?”
“Why do you care? We don’t have a show tonight.”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“I’ve had a few drinks—but I’m still in complete control:lucid, fast reflexes, my brain’s sharp. I could play an entire show right now—or I could drive the bus home.”
That thought sent a shiver up my spine. “I’m not going to argue about your abilities—but here’s a challenge: can you go a day without drinking?”
“You’re missing the goddamned point, Dani. I don’twantto. I don’thaveto.”
