Page 55 of Giving Chase

"I'm tired," he says finally, voice cracking. "I'm so fucking tired, Eliza."

Something breaks in my chest. Maybe in both of us. Because suddenly he's crying – real tears, not the drunk, maudlin kind. The kind he's probably been holding back for years.

"Come here," I whisper, and he folds into my arms like a collapsing star.

We sit there, tangled together on my couch, both of us breaking apart. His body shakes against mine as years of damage pours out of him. I hold him through it, my own tears falling into his hair, one hand curved around the back of his neck like I used to do when he was strong and brilliant and not yet scarred by all of this.

"I don't know how to do this," he mumbles against my shoulder. "I don't know how to be clean and still be me."

"You are not your addiction." I press my lips to his temple. "The man I love – the real Chase – he's still in there. The one who wroteOff the Recordin one night because the melody wouldn't let him sleep. The one who spent three hours teaching Justin power chords when he was nine. The one who sees music in everything. That's who you are."

He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes red but clearer than they've been all day. "Help me?" The words are barely a whisper. "Please? Not... not like before. But help me find somewhere I actually want to go? Somewhere that might work?"

"Of course." I brush his hair back from his face, the gesture as natural as breathing. "We'll research facilities together. Find one that feels right to you. And when you're ready – really ready – I'll take you there myself."

"You'd do that? After everything?"

"Oh, baby." I rest my forehead against his. "I'd walk through fire for you. I always have. I just can't walk through it for you anymore."

He nods, understanding finally reaching through the haze. The emotional toll of the day crashes over us both, and I feel him growing heavier against me. I should move us to separate rooms. Should maintain those careful boundaries we've drawn in the sand.

Instead, I let him sink deeper into my embrace as we both slide into exhaustion. His breathing steadies against my collar bone. My fingers card through his hair on autopilot. The afternoon sun paints warm stripes across us through the windows.

Just before sleep takes me, I feel him mumble against my neck, "Will you help me make some calls tomorrow? When I'm sober?"

"Yes," I whisper into his hair, knowing this isn't the end of his struggle. That there's still more darkness to come before he finds his way out. But for now, for this moment, he's safe in my arms. We both are.

I drift off to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, proof that he's still alive, still here, still fighting.

It has to be enough.

Justin finds us hours later, when the sun has shifted to early evening. He doesn't wake us. Just drapes a blanket over us both and quietly cleans up the broken glass in the driveway.

Some things don't need words.

Better Days

ELIZA

Dear Eliza,

Twenty years ago, you saved my life by believing in our music. Five years ago, you saved it again by forcing me to face myself and driving me to rehab yourself, even after everything I'd said and done.

My hands trembleas I read, the paper catching the last rays of sunset through Chase's windows. He's hovering in the doorway, silent, watching.

I've written this letter twenty-three times. Each version tries to explain, to apologize, to make sense of what I did to us. But the truth is simple: I was the coward. Not just during the addiction, but after. Especially after.

Do you remember that afternoon we fell asleep on your couch? After I crashed into your tree? After I spewed a shit ton of venom at you that wasn’t true, you held me while I cried, and for the first time in years, I felt safe. Ready to get help. Ready to change. And the next morning, you helped me find a place, and packed a bag for me. Even drove me to the facility yourself. Stayed until I was checked in.

I close my eyes, remembering. The long drive. The way his hand shook in mine as we pulled up to the gates. The last look we shared before the doors closed between us.

I'd like to say I blocked your number because I was focusing on recovery. That I was following the counselors' advice about cutting ties. But that's another lie to add to my collection. I blocked you because I was ashamed. Because the man you believed in had turned into someone who drove drunk into your tree at noon. Someone who'd nearly died in Chicago. Someone who'd blamed you for his own destruction.

Then COVID hit, and isolation made it easy to convince myself that silence was better. That you were better off without me in your life at all. I told myself I was giving you peace. Really, I was protecting myself from facing what I'd done.

The words blur. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

Will kept me updated about you. Told me about your promotion to President. About Justin's band. I read every industry article that mentioned you. Watched every interview. Convinced myself that keeping this distance was my last gift to you. That I'd burned too many bridges. Caused too much pain.

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