Page 51 of Sweet Distraction

I step out of the room, into the hallway, and away from all of it. I lean against the wall and drag a hand down my face.

It’s all perfect.

Too perfect.

And I don’t know how to exist inside perfect without breaking something.

I need air. To get out of here. To . . . get some space. I head toward the garage, slam the door behind me, and do the only thing I can—I drive.

Through the Hollywood Hills, past the winding streets that know me too well. I roll the windows down and blast music loud enough to drown out the voice in my head in an attempt to make my own rhythm in its place.

My fingers tap against the steering wheel—a chord, a beat, a melody I don’t understand that’s inside of me, fighting its way out.

I drive until the traffic fades and the chaos dies down. Until the ache in my chest eases and doesn’t feel like it’s going to suffocate me.

I hit the Pacific Coast Highway and head for Santa Monica where the sun’s dipping now and will soon cast its colors over the horizon. The beach has always held peace for me so I’m grateful that I find an empty spot to pull into amid the grifters, the diehard surfers, and the tourists.

The beach is a place where everybody belongs, regardless of how fucked up their life is, and right now I feel that more than anything.

But my life isn’t fucked up. That’s the catch, isn’t it? It’s just . . . changed at the drop of a dime. How do you adjust and adapt to something you never saw coming? How do you look at something you unknowingly created and try to love it when you’ve always felt that part of you was broken?

Fuck, man.

I take in everything around me. The waves crashing in the distance. The tourists strolling along the boardwalk and taking pictures of the sunset. And I just sit in my car and breathe.

But my heartbeat doesn’t go back to normal.

I don’t think it ever will.

My phone buzzes against the console. I expect it to be Willow. It’s Vince. I’m not sure if that’s better or worse.

Vince can read me like a book. There’s no hiding anything from him, and no doubt he’ll most likely hand me my ass. Motherfucker.

I sigh and answer.

“Hey. You good, man?” he asks.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you missed our call with the label.”

“Fuck.” Shit. I could blame it on the wives coming over, but I don’t even try. I tell him the truth. “It slipped my mind. I have a lot going on. I didn’t—”

“Fine. Whatever. We covered for you, but . . . you don’t miss shit like that.” He pauses and lets the concern loaded in his voice wash over me. “You okay?”

I open my mouth to speak, but words don’t come out—just a strangled sound instead.

“You’re spiraling. Nothing else needs to be said. Where are you?” he asks.

“The piano bar.”

He chuckles at our inside joke that this is where I write my best music. “I should’ve assumed. The waves big?”

“Can’t say I’m paying attention,” I say, eyes fixed on the stretch of Pacific outside my windshield.

“Valid.” He pauses. “You working your shit out? You writing music? Did our wives drive you to walk into the ocean and never come back?”

I chuckle at that.