Page 135 of Finding Storm

And now, I’m here. In LA. Alone. Without her.

I pull open the door to the building and walk inside. I wave to Patty as I walk through reception, heading for the elevator.

I take the elevator up to the top floor where Jake’s office is.

The door pings my arrival, and I step out into the foyer.

There’s only Jake’s and Zane’s offices up here.

There’s an empty office up here too. It was Jonny’s office.

They’ve never reused it.

It’s been sitting there empty for nineteen fucking years.

I glance down the hall in the direction of it.

My feet are moving toward Jonny’s office before I even realize I’m moving. But when I do realize, I don’t stop walking. I keep going.

I push the door open and walk inside.

It doesn’t smell stale in here, like some offices do when left for a while. Jake probably has it cleaned regularly.

It still looks the same as I remember. Just less stuff.

I came in here once years ago when I first moved to LA. Jake brought me in to show me where Jonny had spent his days when he wasn’t in the studio or on the road, touring.

There’s nothing particularly special about it. It’s just an office.

All that’s in here now is an empty desk and a chair. Some discs hanging on the wall and pictures of Jonny, Jake, Tom, and Denny. And a couple of other pictures of him with famous people.

The only other thing still in here is his guitar, sitting on its stand.

That guitar would be worth a lot of money to people.

But not to me. To me, it’s just another thing that Jonny left behind when he died.

I remember running my fingers over the strings that day when I was a kid and wishing I could have met him. Wishing I could be a great guitarist like him.

How fucking laughable.

Because I am a great guitarist.

I know I am. It’s just a shame no one else fucking sees it.

Well, except Raze, Cash, and Levi, that is.

And probably Stevie if she ever heard me play. Although she’d probably give me shit about it first.

I wonder if Jonny would have thought I was good.

He was coming for me that night. He wanted me. He wanted to know me.

That’s the first time I’ve let that actually sink in.

All this anger I’ve felt toward him over the years for dying, for getting in his car when he was high. And he did that because he wanted to meet me.

I don’t feel responsible for his death. Rationally, I knew I never was.