Page 56 of One Last Verse

He was unhinged. Completely lost in his pain and devastation.

“So you destroy your house because of some asshole who’s not worth one second of your time?” I was doing my best to keep my raging emotions under control. Someone needed to stay calm, and it looked as if that person had to be me. Frank had been balancing on a slack wire for far too long. Apparently, it had snapped today.

“It’s my fucking house. I’ll demolish it if I want to,” he growled.

“That’s not what we agreed on!” I cried out. “We’re supposed to talk about things, Frank. Like adults! Instead of driving off without a word or breaking shit.” I motioned at the mess on the floor and his hand.

“They’re going on a fucking tour while I’m wasting away.”

“You’re not wasting away. You’re about to record a single.”

“I can’t fucking do anything with one arm.”

“Well, you’ll never get to use your second one if you keep hurting yourself.”

Eyes wide, mouth twisted, he pushed past me and walked out of the studio.

I followed.

When we reached the living room, Frank shifted gears and halted in front of the bar. He pulled out a clean glass and a bottle of liquor and poured himself a shot.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice wobbly.

“Silently, he brought the drink to his mouth and took a sip.

My heart sobbed in frustration. “Frank.” I moved closer and held out my hand in hopes he’d surrender the glass. “Please.”

No reaction.

“I’m serious.” I took another step. The inches of space between us that was poisoned with ugliness shrunk.

My heartbeats were fast and shallow.

Tossing his head back, Frank swallowed down the rest and gave me the empty glass. “Here.”

I glared at him, fury boiling in my chest.

“Take it or leave it, doll.” His deep whiskey voice was filled with defiance. It sounded a lot like an ultimatum.

Leave,my pride and my common sense whispered. But instead, I grabbed the glass. My hand shook. A thousand bitter words crammed my throat and threatened to come out, but I willed my tongue to remain quiet. There was no point in talking to him when he was completely out of his mind like this.

His loud footsteps boomed through the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.

At first, I couldn’t move. A wave of unpleasant memories of my father swept me under. They were a dark vortex of fragments of my broken childhood and they made me wonder if my mother had tried hard enough and if I was wrong to think about leaving this house and the man who lived here. They made me wonder if I was a quitter too, if I was a bad girlfriend, ready to desert a person at his worst. The thought was like a hot flash. It hit me the instant Frank touched the drink and now it refused to go away.

Minutes passed before I finally gathered enough courage to move. Every muscle in my body was tight with worry. Confusion and anger brewed in my stomach. My fingers felt clammy and foreign as I went through the bar and emptied every single bottle that had alcohol in it.

Part of me expected to find more wreckage in the bedroom when I went to check on Frank, but there was none. Shoulders slumped, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his knuckles. Silent and still. A shimmering streak of moonlight spilled across the floor, slicing the room in half.

The night was almost perfect. Except for the faint smell of broken promises and alcohol in the air.

“I’m going to work for a bit,” I said calmly and returned to the den to finish my pitch. Three hours later, when I slid under the blankets, Frank was passed out.

“Didn’t he have a therapy session today?” Brooklyn muttered, checking Frank’s calendar on her iPad as we surveyed the gruesome results of his outburst inside the studio.

He was still asleep and I didn’t dare wake him. As a matter of fact, I wasn’t certain if I could face him just yet. Last night’s fight only strengthened my belief that Frank was spiraling out of control. He was falling and he was taking me along for the ride, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to go.

“Yep.” Brooklyn’s voice dragged me back to the studio. “Looks like he’s missing his 11 a.m.”

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