Page 50 of The Fix

Plucking a few notes after replacing the string I’d popped, I rotate the tuning pegs until the sound is just right, the melody already playing in my head. I follow its lead, my raw fingers moving on their own, the song filling the space.

Calmness washes over me, smoothing against my skin and easing the tension in my muscles. A warmth fills my veins when I let my body go, my mind clear, my head bobbing along with the beat.

It’s peaceful for a moment. Tranquil for a few more beats.

Like the cabin always used to be.

Used to.

Then the tension bleeds back into my chest as memories crash into me, my mind flashing, and my throat closes in on itself.

My strums become aggressive, the cords reverberating back an angry strain in a sound that’s way too decent for what I’m doing to the instrument.

It only pisses me off even more.

I wrap my hands around the neck of the guitar, preparing to destroy the last worldly possession my pops left me against the marble counter, when my eyes fly open and a stunned Anna fills my vision.

“Jeffers …”

My ears ring with the sudden silence, and my heart pinches in my chest at the look staring back at me.

“Don’t,” I growl.

Her intense gaze is enough to bring me to my knees.

I’m shaking.

That warmth I was feeling becomes almost boiling beneath my skin and a bead of sweat rolls down my temple.

“We need to flush your system.” The words are cold, distant, and everything that her eyes aren’t. “Drink this.”

Did she have that in her hand the whole time?

Gone is Anna’s phone and tablet, replaced by a sports drink she thrusts in my direction. I’m shaking my head when my vision decides that it would prefer the vignette filter, the edges darkening until all I can see is her.

“Toby. You’re gonna need this.” The chilled bottle is pressed into my bare sternum until I accept it, the other clutching the last lifeline I have left of my dad. “Slow sips.”

When did I end up on the couch?

My stomach rolls when I lift the sugary drink to my lips and catch a whiff. “There’s no alcohol in this.”

Anna scoffs, her deft fingers tipping the bottle close enough that my only options are to drink or wear it. I take a sip and almost spit it right back out.

“Hair of the dog works better,” I grunt.

“That’s exactly what has gotten you into this mess, Toby. Jesus.” She mumbles something else I can’t make out but then says, “How many times have you felt like this?”

I snort. “Every twelfth hour I don’t have whiskey in my hand.”

She lifts my trembling arm until the plastic hits my lips again. I swallow down the berry-flavored shit even when my stomach wants to reject it and tightens against the way the air has changed.

Even sick, I can sense it. Just like I did that night.

Except, Anna doesn’t say anything like my bandmates did. She doesn’t tell me it’s just stage jitters or adrenaline. She doesn’t dismiss it with a back pat and a ‘go get ’em’.

She doesn’t hand me a shot and tell me bottom’s up.

No, her reaction is far worse.

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