Why am I even bothering anymore?
The thought follows me into the office of my agent, Carter Buckley. When I step into the room, I’m immediately hit with the scent of expensive cologne layered over burnt coffee and polished wood. None of it masks the pungent smell of ambition, money, and pressure.
Carter is pacing in front of the windows behind his desk. His blazer is unbuttoned, and his tie is hanging loosely around his neck. He combs his fingers through his already disheveled hair, only mussing it further.This is not a good meeting.The last time I saw him this much of a mess was when production had to push my album back a few years ago.
He quickly ends his call when he sees me. “Easton,” he greets, his voice tight as he sets the phone on his desk. “We need to talk.”
“Yeah… Then talk,” I exhale, dropping into the chair beside me. The leather creaks under my weight as I slump into it.
“Fuck…” he mutters. “About last night’s show, Easton, playing off-key and forgetting arrangements that you fucking wrote. Hell, showing up drunk to practice… when you bother to show up at all. The band is worried.I’mworried.” He plants the palm of his hand against the desk, not hard, but deliberate enough to garner my attention. “The label is worried.”
Worried.The word rattles around my messy thoughts, because their worry is the least of my problems. A short, humorous laugh billows out of me. “Yeah? And?”
His brows drawn down, he stares back at me from across the desk. “And? This can’t keep happening.”
“And what if it does?” I snap, like an insolent teenager.
“Easton… don’t.”
“Don’t, what?” I shoot back, my voice louder than I mean it to. “Don’t fall apart? Don’t tell the truth? Don’t let you know I actually don’t give a shit anymore? Don’t—” I stop myself and take a deep breath, finding my chest tight.
No one knows what this is like. How it feels to wake up every day and feel like part of you is gone, having the person you love most ripped from the world in an instant. None of them has experienced the pain of having to realizeshe’s goneevery morning before you even open your eyes. They don’t know what it’s like to want to crawl into a hole and never come out.
Carter takes the seat beside me, his hands clasped together so tightly in his lap that his knuckles are white. “I get it, Easton. I get that you’re grieving,” he states carefully. “I really do. But the label… This is about so much more than issues with the band practice. They’re talking about pulling your tour funding, canceling most of the shows, and even indefinitely postponing albums. They’re on the verge of cutting their losses. This is your career. Yourlivelihood. You can’t just throw it all away.”
I stare past him to the framed gold record hanging on the wall. The gold record I won for Rosie’s song. My fingertips drum mindlessly against my knees, wishing desperately there was a bottle to wrap them around instead. “My livelihood?” I scoff. “Rosiewas my livelihood. None of this matters without her.Nothingmatters without her.”
Carter exhales, long and slow, like he’s biding time to find the right words. “People love you, Easton. People love your music. You have fans and more opportunities than I can count. You’ve built something incredible. But you’re self-destructing, man. And the worst part… you’re dragging your band—everyone—down with you, and you don’t even care.”
I want to tell him to shut up, because he doesn’t get it. My hands itch for the bottle, and I drag my palms over my thighs as I think about storming out of his office. But I don’t. I sit there, almost numb, listening to his admonishment.
“Easton,” Carter tries again, his voice softer. “Look at me.” I don’t, because I can’t. I know exactly what I’m going to find when I meet his gaze. “Every time you stumble in drunk, you’re giving them a reason to walk away. One day, you’re going to wake up and everything is going to be gone.Allof it.”
I suck in a deep breath and let out a heavy sigh.
“If that’s not enough… You’re killing yourself.” He shakes his head, then adds, “And Rosie… She wouldn’t want this.”
“Don’t you dare say her name,” I grit through my teeth.
“Rosie wouldhatethis,” Carter continues anyway, leaning back in his chair and combing his fingers through his hair. “Rosie would fucking hate what you’re doing to yourself. She would hate watching you drink yourself into nothing as your life burns to the ground.”
My body folds over itself, and I drop forward with my elbows on my knees and my head in my hands. The room spins, and my heart is pounding so hard that it hurts.
“I… I can’t,” I mutter into my palms. “I can’t do this without her. I can’t play the shows. I can’t write. Fuck, I can’t fuckingbreathewithout her.”
He leans forward, gripping both of my shoulders and forcing me to give him my attention. When I look up, he’s staring back at me, waiting for a reaction. There’s fear and frustration behind his eyes, hoping that I’ll snap out of this before it’s too late.
“No one is asking you to stop loving her,” he insists. “We all just want you to stop letting the grief kill you. Stop destroying everything she loved about you and your life.”
The bottle in my car is calling to me, promising numbness, escape, and a fleeting, temporary moment of much-needed relief. Just one sip. Just enough to stop my heart from hurting.
“You can’t keep going like this,” Carter adds softly. “You’ve got to get help. Real help. Therapy. Rehab. The band will wait. The label… maybe, maybe not.”
Rehab…
The word twists in my gut like an accusation, like he has already decided what I am—broken and weak. Just another artist who needs to be locked away until I can return—manageable, clean, and easier to deal with.
“No!” I shove his hands off my shoulders and stand so abruptly that the chair scrapes against the hardwood floor. “No. Absolutely fucking not!”
