Page 51 of Giving Chase

"Get help," she whispers. "Really get help this time. Please."

I watch her walk away, my vision blurring at the edges from exhaustion and withdrawal. The sound of her heels on linoleum echoes in my head long after she's gone.

When I wake up again, she's gone. The nurses have left my personal effects in a clear plastic bag: wallet, phone, keys... and the silver guitar pick she gave me at our ten-year anniversary party. Even high out of my mind, I'd kept it in my pocket. Always do.

I close my fingers around it, feeling the edges bite into my palm. One more chance. One more rehab. One more promise I'm not sure I can keep.

Can U See Me in the Dark?

ELIZA

I've drivenpast his Malibu house at least a dozen times in the last five years. Never stopped. Never called. Just the occasional slow drive-by, checking for signs of life. Making sure the lights were still on.

Today, I park in his driveway.

The sun's setting over the Pacific, painting everything in shades of gold and pink. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I can see him pacing in his living room, phone to his ear. Even from here, I recognize his "talking to Will" posture – one hand raking through his hair, messing up that undercut that's been haunting my dreams since the photo shoot.

God, those photos.

Michelle forwarded them to me this morning with a single comment:We need to talk about this before the ceremony.

She was right. The chemistry radiating from every shot was undeniable. Professional distance crumbling with every frame. By the final set, we might as well have been the only two people in the room.

I press the doorbell before I can talk myself out of it.

Chase opens the door mid-laugh at something Will must have said. The sound dies in his throat when he sees me.

"I'll call you back," he says into the phone, never taking his eyes off mine.

I've seen him in various states over twenty years – drunk, high, sober, everything in between. But this... this clear-eyed intensity is something new. Something real.

"The photos?" he asks, stepping back to let me in.

"The photos." I move past him, catching his scent – coffee and whatever expensive shampoo he uses now. No alcohol. No cigarettes. Nothing artificial. Just Chase. "Michelle thinks we need to talk about them before Cleveland."

"Michelle needs to mind her own business." But there's no heat in his words. He follows me into the living room, keeping a careful distance. "You want coffee? Water? I think I have some of that herbal tea you like."

"You remember my tea preference?"

"I remember everything about you, Eliza."

I pull up short at his words before carefully turning away to hide my reaction, trying to regain my composure.

He must see something in my expression because he backs off, heading for the kitchen. "Tea it is."

While he's gone, I study his space. Guitar collection on the wall. Piano by the windows. Writing desk covered in scattered papers. One sheet catches my eye – handwritten, coffee-stained, crossed out words everywhere.

"Here," he says behind me, and I turn too quickly, guilty at almost snooping. He hands me a mug – the same one I used to drink from when I'd visit during writing sessions. Another thing he's kept.

"How are you?" I ask, really looking at him. "Really?"

His hand goes to the back of his neck – a tell I've known for two decades. "Shouldn't I be asking you that? You're the one who drove out here."

"Chase."

He sighs, sinking onto the couch. After a moment's hesitation, I join him, leaving enough space between us for our history.

"I'm okay," he says finally. "Nervous about Cleveland. Terrified of performingWhispered Truthssober. But okay." His eyes find mine. "The photos scared the hell out of me."

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