Page 68 of Beneath the Stain

Trav made a considering kind of sound. “You promise?”

“I can’t promise that bullshit—hell, have you never seenThe Buddy Holly Story?”

“We can’t control helicopters and ice, Mackey, but wecancontrol your damned suicidal impulses. Promise, or I’m driving down there and sleeping onyourfloor for a change.”

Mackey shifted uncomfortably. He gave up showering three days ago and he’d spent the past four days in his pajama bottoms with his hair in a pile on top of his head. It was nice—no dressing up for stage, for press conferences, for shuttling from one place to the next—but he knew he stretched the boundaries of casual, and he liked it that way. It sort of helped him relax if he thought of this whole thing as one big vegetation day on the couch. He really hadn’t gotten any of those when they’d been on tour.

“I, uh, I don’t know, Trav. I sort of don’t want you to see me this way.” Oh God. How did that sound? Did it sound as bad as he thought it sounded? “I mean, you know. I just… it’d be nice if you saw me… not awful, sometime. You know?”

“I don’t think you’re awful.” Trav’s voice in the dark suddenly doubled up on the shiver quotient. “I think you’re a great kid—”

“I’m not a kid.”Crap. Crap crap crap crap crap.

“No.” Trav sighed heavily. “No, but you’re—”

“I can be a grown-up, Trav. I mean, I can do rehab and get clean, if that’s what it takes to be grown up—”

“Lots of people who don’t get clean are still grown-ups. I just think I’m a little old for what—”

“Not old. Not too old. I’m not a kid and you’re not too old, okay? Just, you know. I’m in rehab. See? We’re talking on the phone. It’s not a thousand miles away. Just don’t write me off as a kid, okay?”

God. Because he sounded like such a man here, didn’t he? Oh hell. Texting had beensucha better option.

“Lights out, Mackey!”

Mackey looked up at the orderly—a sweet-faced little guy who liked to bottom, if the adventures in the broom closet were anything to judge by—and nodded, smiling. “I gotta go, Trav. I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, text you tomorrow.”

“When I’ll be older.”

Trav’s laugh was nice. Low, growly, grumbly. Mackey was suddenly a fan for life.

“So will I,” he said.

Mackey stuck his tongue out at the phone and then hung up.

Trav’s text buzzed not ten seconds later.

I saw that.

That was a very adult reaction to an irritating person, Mackey texted primly.

Goodnight, Mackey.

Night, Trav.

Mackey wanted to say something else. Something deep and profound and at least more attached than “Night, Trav.”

But he couldn’t think of a thing that didn’t scare him silly. And would probably make Trav quit.

He fell asleep thinking about it, and hadn’t reached a solution in the morning.

THENEXTday, during his individual session with Doc Cambridge, he thought Trav really might have to come out and camp on his floor to get him to stay.

“You want me to….” He squinted, and Doc Cambridge helped him finish his sentence.

“Write letters, yes.”