Something was different about Paul. I studied him instead of joking it off. Wait—was he sober? Or just better at hiding it than usual?
“You seem, uh… sharper tonight,” I said. “Like you’re using sentences with a beginning, middle, and end.”
Paul’s smile faded. He looked away. “Trying something new.”
I nodded once. “And how’s that going?”
“I’ll let you know after the show tonight.” He hesitated. “Honestly, bro… it might be my last.”
“Your last show?”
“The band’s threatened to fire me,” he went on, shrugging like it didn’t matter. “I wish they’d get on with it.”
“They want you sober?”
“No. Functioning.” He lifted his hand. It was shaking.
“You’re in withdrawal?” I said.
He nodded.
“Can I do anything to help?”
“Nah. Just gotta make it through the night.”
“And then what?”
A long beat. Then he sighed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? I don’t think I wanna do this anymore.”
“Do what?”
“Music. I’m just spinning my wheels, not getting anywhere. I think it’s time for me to grow up, little bro.”
I gasped. “Paul, no.”
He smiled but it came slow. “My dream’s turned into a nightmare. I gotta get sober for real this time, and then…” He trailed off.
“And then what?” I asked again.
“I honestly don’t know. I just know I can’t keep doing this.”
It was one of those rare moments of clarity with Paul, and they were always fleeting. I didn’t want to waste it.
“Whatever I can do to help you,” I said, gripping his shoulder, “just ask.”
He stared at his shoes, then cleared his throat. “So… where’s the preppy chick with the smart mouth?”
“Michelle.”
“Right. What’s her deal? How’d you even meet?”
I gave him the rundown, not holding anything back. Paul listened—an unexpected side effect of sobriety—nodding slowly.
“So?” I said. “What should I do?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “You’re already doing everything perfectly.”
I laughed, even though I was dying a little inside.
