Page 21 of Shattered Chords

At six foot four, with the impressive frame of a bodybuilder and a vicious stare that matched his intimidating looks, Malik Dixon, a former Jamaican football star, definitely stood out.

We met at Passages the day after I finished detox. It was the last week of his second stay. Six years ago, a knee injury had prematurely ended his promising sports career and he’d gotten addicted to Demerol. His manager flew him to California from Miami in 2014 after he drunk-drove his Hummer into the patio of a Cuban restaurant and almost killed two people.

Malik never went back, and L.A. had been his home ever since. He got his shit together. Opened a gym. Launched his own clothing line. Got married… He relapsed shortly after his wife filed for divorce, but relapses happened to a lot of addicts. It was just a temporary setback.

“What up, brother?” Malik gave me a once-over as I climbed into his Jeep. “You ready for the mother of all trails?” A grin spread to his cheeks.

I scrambled for the seat belt and buckled up. “I was born ready.”

Laughing inaudibly, he hit the gas. The engine revved, its roar rumbling and spilling through the quiet street like an earthquake. “Let’s do this.”

If there was one thing to take away from the shitshow my life once was, it was the fact that Malik and I had met in the right place at the right time. He’d already gone through recovery once and knew how to stay afloat.

Having a friend who was determined to beat this bitch meant a lot since the tension between Frank and me was still a thing. Malik and I had a lot in common. Past, present, and future. A desire to get clean once and for all.

None of that sex, drugs, and band bullshit.

“You been practicing?” he asked as we cruised down the hill.

“Yeah.” The wind dancing across my face was warm. Maybe too warm for this hour—the first sign of the famous SoCal heat wave.

“Thought about getting back on stage?”

“Eh, not yet.” I didn’t trust my head and my fingers enough to return to the music scene just yet. Frankie-boy had tried that trick once. And now the band was in fucking ruins. Not that some of it wasn’t my fault, but still.

“It’ll happen when the time is right,” Malik said with forced encouragement in his voice. “If God spared your skinny ass, then he has a plan for you, brother.”

The man had found Jesus during his first stay at Passages. He’d attempted to turn me too by dropping casual invites to Sunday mass at this church, but I’d kept refusing politely.

I had my reasons not to give into faith blindly.

My parents had considered themselves Catholics. Funny, but they’d only practiced it once a week. They didn’t shy away from making my life a living hell outside the walls of God’s house.

Fuck double standards.

“Just be patient,” Malik said.

I nodded in agreement. There was no rush. I didn’t really care about sold-out arenas or screaming fans at this point in my life. I was on a path of self-rediscovery. I needed to find my groove first.

One step at a time, Dante,the voice in my head said.Walking before running.

Usually, we hiked twice a week. On Tuesdays and Fridays. Malik always picked the routes. He’d been doing this way longer than me and knew all the cool spots in L.A. and Ventura counties. Today, we drove to Malibu to hit a four-mile-long trail near Solstice Canyon.

“Should have left earlier,” Malik muttered as we maneuvered through the parking area, looking for a spot. “Gonna be toasty before you know it.”

The sun was ruthless. I felt its wrath on my skin the moment we scrambled out of the Jeep. The air smelled like dry grass and sweat. Insects and birds hummed in the background.

We started at the bottom of a hill and slowly made our way up.

This—being out in the wild and listening to the sounds of nature—was no longer uncharted territory, but the views still took my breath away. During my first post-rehab hike, I got dizzy from the overload of oxygen and scents. My initial thought was that I was having another stroke.

It’s all in your head, man, Malik had said.

My body ached pleasantly as we continued the climb until the path finally hit flat ground. Malik marched a few feet ahead, the back of his jersey drenched. He always brought a gallon of water with him to stay hydrated. I was a weasel, probably half his size with barely developing stamina, and two bottles were enough for me. I couldn’t fathom carrying anything heavier than that.

We stopped for a short break at the overlook and stared down at the canyons carved into the crest of the mountains. The dull green and the bleached blue clashed far off on the horizon.

“Shanice wants the house,” Malik said.

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