Page 82 of Deliverance

“Hey, man”—Toby lowers his voice to a whisper—“I’ll talk to him. He’s been clean for years. I’m sure this is just a one-time thing.”

“There’s no such thing as one time,” I counter. “And I can’t be around it. I won’t.”

Not because I’m scared to get addicted. What really terrifies me is getting close to someone and losing that someone to substance. And Leo, with all his enthusiasm and all his quirks, is a likable guy. A guy I could be friends with. A guy I don’t trust myself to save, just like I couldn’t save Chance.

Dark emotions begin to clog my throat.

“I’ll talk to him,” Toby repeats, obviously sensing the shift. “I give you my word.”

“You do that.”

I leave for Laguna ten minutes later. I drive with the top down, welcoming the harsh wind that batters my skin and slaps my hair into my face. Buildings, trees, and other cars whip by in a grimy blur as if they aren’t even real.

My hand reaches for my phone several times to call Drew, but I decide against it. Maybe it’s best we leave things the way they are. Unresolved. Bitter. Convoluted. Maybe it’s best I don’t seek her out.

Maybe our worlds were never meant to collide.

The next few days are devoid of major drama.

Leo doesn’t show up at the studio until Sunday evening, and when he finally does, he’s sober and in his right mind, which I’m grateful for. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal with more of his juvenile bullshit.

And since I’m not scheduled to be back until Stevie and Toby finish tracking guitars, I use the opportunity to work on the song Leo believes is going to be the next “November Rain.”

What do I think? Well, I think he’s a moron.

It’s not the 90s. People don’t care about long intros or ten-minute music videos. As a matter of fact, the attention span of the average person diminished to less than ten seconds over the past decade.

But as the decent guy I hope I am, I give this undertaking an honest shot. I follow Toby’s advice and strip the composition to the very bones, then spend four days torturing my keyboard. Sadly, getting this song into shape is like running backwards up a hill—exhausting and non-productive.

“That’s not bad,” Leo declares when I bring my version to the table.

We’re back at the studio. Jacob and Stevie are there too. They exchange puzzled glances but don’t say anything, which I hate because I’m starting to get a strange vibe.

I have a strong feeling there’s something going on behind the scenes, something I should probably know about.

“I mean, I can make adjustments,” I tell Leo, hoping he’ll come to his senses and see the absurdity of the whole idea.

But he’s a stubborn bastard who doesn’t want to quit. “Let’s get together tomorrow and jam. See if something clicks?”

Everyone nods. I don’t sense much enthusiasm, though.

But after three nights of tinkering with the track, Leo’s verdict is still the same.

It’s not what I’m looking for.

That evening, we make the collective decision to scrap the song. Or more like, we pressure Leo into giving it up for now, because he’s wasting studio time the label is paying for so we can record the album. There’s an actual deadline hanging over everyone’s heads and this abomination of a track would be our goddamned undoing.

When I walk out of the building to head home, I feel relieved for the first time in over a week. It’s late, almost midnight, and the distant hum of the city hovers in the air like a butterfly over a flower. Soft. Modest. Barely there.

I pat my pockets, checking for my keys, and head over to my car.

Leo’s sitting in his GMC Sierra with what looks like tears in his eyes as clouds of smoke fill the cab and stream outside through the cracked window. On stage, he’s a screaming, spitting, raging hurricane. Off stage, he’s a simple guy. He drives the same type of car an average American his age would drive and he probably buys his everyday clothes at Target. Fame has a funny way of picking its victims. It strikes at random. It turns some of us into entitled assholes. But not Leo.

I approach his truck and rest both palms on the roof. “You okay, man?”

He plucks the cigarette from his mouth and, sniffing loudly, runs the back of his hand against his cheek. “Yeah. I’m good.”

He’s a shit liar. Although it’s dark outside, I can still see the red veins traversing his eyes. “You need anything?”Is he fucking crying because of the song?That’s the first thing that crosses my mind, anyway, but I don’t know how to ask about it. I was the one who pushed the hardest for shelving the project. For Leo’s own good.

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