Page 53 of Giving Chase

I push through the front door. They're in the living room – Justin standing between Chase and the door, Chase swaying on his feet, looking like hell warmed over. His clothes are wrinkled, hair wild, eyes bloodshot.

"Justin," I say quietly. "Give us a minute."

"Mom—"

"Please."

He hesitates, then nods. Squeezes my shoulder as he passes. The front door closes behind him with a soft click.

Chase laughs. The sound is all broken glass. "Sent your guard dog away?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Ojai was bullshit." He runs a hand through his hair, leaving it standing even more on end. "All that... that mindfulness crap. Journaling. Group therapy. Couldn't think straight. Couldn'twrite. Couldn't—" He stumbles, catches himself on the back of the couch. "Couldn't breathe."

"So you thought driving drunk to my house at noon was the answer?"

"Needed to see you." His eyes find mine, glazed but desperate. "You didn't visit. Not once."

"Because you needed to focus on getting better. Plus, you took me off the fucking visitors list! You promised me, Chase. You promised the whole band you'd stay clean for the farewell tour. Then Chicago happened. You nearly died in that ambulance. Three days I sat in that hospital, watching you breathe, and the minute you got out, you checked yourself into Ojai. I thought... I really thought this time..."

"Better?" Another laugh, sharper this time. "Thisis better. This is... this is clarity. This is seeing everything exactly how it is. You and your... your perfect house and your perfect son and your perfect fucking life?—"

"Stop it."

"Why? Because it hurts? Because you can't fix this with your corporate credit card and your industry connections?"

"Because this isn't you!" My voice cracks. "This isn't the man who promised me he was ready to get clean. This isn't the man I sat with in that hospital. This isn't—" I break off, really looking at him. His hands are shaking. His skin's ashen under the alcohol flush. "When's the last time you ate anything?"

The question seems to throw him. "What?"

"Food, Chase. When did you last eat?"

He sways again, frowning like he's trying to remember. "Yesterday? Maybe?"

"Sit down before you fall down. I'm making coffee."

"'Eliza—"

"Sit. Down."

He collapses onto the couch while I head for the kitchen. I can feel him watching me as I move around the space, muscle memory taking over – coffee, mugs, the bread I know he can keep down even hungover. My hands are amazingly steady as I work, even though I want to jump out of my skin.

When I come back, he's got his head in his hands.

"Here." I set coffee and toast in front of him. "Small sips."

He looks up at me, and for the first time today, I see clarity fighting through the haze. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you." The words come easily, even now. Especially now. "Because I've loved you for fifteen years, through every disaster and every triumph. And because I need you to really hear me right now."

I sit beside him, not touching, but close enough to catch him if he falls.

"Do you know what it was like?" My voice is quiet. "Watching you spiral through that tour? Every night, wondering if this would be the one where you finally went too far? Then Chicago happened, and I... I had to watch you die, Chase. Three times in that ambulance. Do you have any idea what that did to me?"

He stares into his coffee. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But sorry isn't enough anymore. When you checked into Ojai, I thought... I let myself hope. Five weeks, Chase. Five weeks of thinking maybe this time it would stick. And now you're here, drunk at noon, wrapped around my tree."

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