Page 48 of Giving Chase

A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Am I okay? You're ending the band, Chase. After twenty years. And you couldn't even look at me while telling me."

"It's not like that," he starts, taking a step toward me. "This is... it's better this way. Ending it right, you know?"

I force myself to really look at him. His skin is waxy under the fluorescent lights, and he can't seem to stand still. "Are you clean?" I ask quietly.

"Of course," he says, too quickly. "I promised the guys, didn't I? Totally clean."

Lie. God, such an obvious lie. But he's gotten better at hiding it, or maybe I've gotten too tired to fight.

"Chase..."

"Listen," he cuts me off, moving closer. "I've been thinking. Once this is done - the album, the tour, all of it - we won't be working together anymore. No more professional complications."

My heart stutters. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he reaches for my hand, and I try not to notice how his fingers tremble, "maybe we could finally stop pretending. Be together for real."

For a moment, I let myself imagine it. Chase and me, no contracts or careers between us. No more hiding, no more pretending.

But then I see the signs I've been trying to ignore - the slight shake in his hands, the too-bright eyes, the restless energy radiating off him in waves. Whatever he's on, it's not just alcohol anymore.

"Chase," I say carefully, pulling my hand away, "let's... let's focus on the album first. Make sure this farewell is everything it should be."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt? Anger? - but it's gone so quickly I might have imagined it. "Right," he says, his voice hardening slightly. "Always the professional."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" He steps back, and I feel the distance like a physical thing. "Twenty years, Eliza. Twenty years of 'not the right time' and 'too complicated.' When is it going to be simple enough for you?"

When you're really clean, I want to say.When I'm not terrified that loving you means watching you destroy yourself.

Instead, I say, "We should focus on the band right now. Everything else... we can figure that out later."

He laughs, but there's no warmth in it. "Later. Right. There's always later with you, isn't there?"

Before I can respond, he's gone, the door clicking shut behind him with devastating finality.

I sink into my chair, the professional mask finally cracking. Tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back. Not here. Not now.

My phone buzzes - a text from Will.

WILL: Keep an eye on him, okay? He's not as fine as he wants us to think.

I stare at the message, my vision blurring. Oh, Will. If only you knew how hard that is to do when someone's determined to destroy themselves.

My gaze falls on a framed photo on my desk - the band's first gold record celebration. We're all so young, so full of hope. Chase has his arm around my waist, both of us laughing at something off-camera.

I turn the frame face-down. I can't look at that Chase right now, can't reconcile him with the man who just left my office, vibrating with barely controlled chaos.

One last album. One last tour.

Please, I think, though I'm not sure who I'm praying to, don't let it be the end of him too.

The Road to Hell

CHASE

I've rewrittenthis letter at least seventeen times. The latest version sits on my desk, coffee rings staining the corners, words crossed out and rewritten until the paper's nearly transparent in spots. Dr. Hendricks says writing it is part of my recovery, even if I never give it to her. Will thinks I should focus on getting through the ceremony first. Mark just handed me his guitar yesterday and said "Write a fucking song instead."

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