Page 163 of Graves

She hands me a plastic bag. “Freshen up. There’s soap and deodorant in there.”

On the other couch, Liam tries to stand. His blond mop looks like he stuck his finger in a socket. He’s chalk-white and can barely keep his eyes open. I’m surprised he hasn’t already done another line—probably nothing left after last night.

I push myself up from the coffee table and have to stop when the room starts to spin. My legs barely hold me as I stagger upstairs to the bathroom.

The mirror confirms my worst fears. I look like a zombie. And yet I had a moment of clarity on stage last night—an actual epiphany.

Was that just my addiction talking?

Am I really not as healed as I thought after five years in prison?

Sam’s words from our conversation float into my pounding head.

Do I need therapy?

I push the thought away.

Why does it always have to be therapy? I survived the last five years without it.

I stick my whole head under the freezing water and drink in big gulps. It works a small miracle—the pain eases a little. A tiny spark of hope that I might rejoin the living. I haven’t been this dehydrated in a long time.

Behind me, the door opens and Liam stumbles in.

“Give me a gun,” he groans. “I’ll shoot myself.”

“And what happens to Alex then?” I ask, slicking my wet hair back. “That kid worships you.”

“Fuck, man.” Liam steps up to the sink next to me and sticks his head under the water too. “At least it was worth it. The party was legendary.”

“Yeah,” I admit, but I can’t help wondering if we went a little too far.

A fresh breeze blows through the rehearsal room when we return to Leslie. She’s opened the windows and is sitting stiffly on the arm of the chair. She definitely doesn’t want to know what happened on that piece of furniture last night.

“Ready?” she asks, pocketing her phone.

“As ready as I’ll ever be,” Liam mutters, tying his hair back with a hair tie.

She throws us each a fresh T-shirt. “Put these on. You’re lucky I take such good care of you.”

“How are we ever going to survive without you?”

Liam’s sarcasm bounces right off her. She’s in full strict-mom mode and gestures for us to follow. I toss my smelly shirt on the couch and put on the clean one—a faded black Rise Against shirt. When I see Liam in a Misfits shirt, I pause.

“Are those mine?” I ask as we head out the back door to the parking lot.

“I took those from your luggage after you were arrested,” Leslie says, opening the car and motioning for us to get into the back seat.

My head is still spinning, but it’s strangely touching that these shirts found their way back to me.

“Where are we going?” Liam asks.

“To the label office. The press conference is in the conference room.”

Fifteen minutes later, as we drive into the underground garage, nerves start creeping in.

“I have no idea what to tell them.”

“You’ll figure it out. You did pretty well last night.”