Page 13 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

We order – beers for everyone except me.

I stick to water, knowing alcohol won't mix well with what's already in my system.

The guys dive into conversation about tomorrow's show in Kansas, discussing if we should change up our set list while I push food around my plate and check my phone for messages from Montgomery.

Nothing yet. She's probably still in the air, or maybe dealing with the time change. I try to calculate where she'd be by now, but my brain feels foggy, sluggish. I need something. That pill is burning a fucking hole in my pocket.

The thought hits me like a slap. I took my regular dose this morning, then another one before the interview because I was nervous. I shouldn't need more for hours yet. But my hands are starting to shake slightly, and that familiar anxiety is creeping up my throat like bile.

"Earth to RJ," Jake says, waving a hand in front of my face. "You with us, man?"

"Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?"

"The Kansas venue. Remember? We played there last year and the acoustics were shit on stage left."

I nod like I remember, but honestly, all the venues are starting to blur together. Same crowds, same screaming, same feeling like I'm watching my life happen to someone else.

Dinner drags on forever. By the time we pay the check and head back to our bus, waiting for us to hop on so we can head to tomorrow night's show, I'm practically vibrating with the need to be alone.

The guys are still talking, voices carrying in the cool night air, but it sounds like they're underwater.

The bus is our home away from home – six bunks, a small living area, and a bathroom barely big enough to turn around in. It smells like coffee, stale air freshener, and the particular mixture of four guys living in close quarters for weeks at a time.

"I'm gonna crash," I announce, not waiting for responses before climbing into my bunk.

It's the bottom one on the left side, chosen specifically because it's the furthest from the living area and offers the most privacy.

Montgomery stays with me a lot, and we've done so many things together in this bunk that it makes me hard just thinking about it.

I pull the curtain shut and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling that's maybe two feet from my face. My phone shows 11:47 PM. Montgomery should be home by now, probably getting ready for bed, three time zones away. I text her anyway: Hope you made it home okay. Miss you already.

Then I wait. And wait. The bus starts moving, the gentle rocking motion that usually soothes me, tonight just makes me feel more restless. I can hear the guys talking quietly in the living area, their voices mixing with the hum of tires on asphalt.

My phone stays silent.

I know she's probably asleep, or at least trying to be.

She has an early class tomorrow, something about Victorian literature that she's passionate about in the way only Montgomery can be passionate about things.

I love watching her talk about her classes, the way her whole face lights up when she shares that creative part of herself with me.

Most people would know a creative writing major won't get you many places these days, but not her.

She's getting the degree, and I know she'll use it.

But right now, lying alone in my bunk while the miles roll by beneath us, I just need to hear her voice. Need her to tell me everything's going to be okay, even though we both know these separations are getting harder instead of easier.

I text again: Can't sleep. Wish you were here.

Still nothing.

The pill container in my jacket pocket seems to be calling to me, teasing me with the artificial calm it'll give me.

I know it's a fucking placebo affect this soon from taking the last one.

I know I shouldn't. I know I already took more than I should have today.

But my thoughts are racing, jumping from the interview to Montgomery to tomorrow's show to the way EJ handled every question with such natural ease while I stumbled through my responses like a goddamn newbie.

I fish the container out of my pocket and stare at it in the dim light filtering through my curtain.

Such small things to have such power over me.

When did I become the kind of person who relies on medication in a way he shouldn't?

Has it really only been a couple of days?

But then I think back to when I was a teenager, how quickly I got swept up by the fighting, the drinking.

It took one fight, and that was it. I obviously have a very addictive personality.

Probably something I should talk to Jared about.

The rational part of my brain – the part that's getting smaller every day – knows I should put the bottle away and try to sleep naturally. Maybe do some of those breathing exercises Montgomery taught me, or listen to one of those meditation apps she's always recommending.

But the other part, the part that's tired of being tired, that's sick of feeling like I'm always one step behind everyone else, that part whispers that just one more won't hurt. Just enough to quiet the noise in my head so I can get a few hours of peace before we roll into Kansas.

My phone buzzes. Finally. But when I look at the screen, it's not Montgomery.

It's a news alert about Grey Skies, something about our album hitting a new milestone.

The kind of success that should make me happy but instead just feels like more pressure, more expectations I'm not sure I can meet. It's almost hollow.

I dry-swallow the pill before I can talk myself out of it.

The shame hits immediately, hot and familiar in my chest. This isn't who I wanted to be. This isn't the life I imagined when we first started the band, when music was pure joy instead of performance anxiety and fake energy.

But even as the shame burns through me, I feel the edges of my thoughts starting to soften, the racing in my mind beginning to slow.

Soon, the bus's rocking motion will actually be soothing instead of agitating.

Soon, I'll be able to close my eyes without seeing every mistake I made today playing on repeat.

I put my phone on silent and close my eyes, welcoming the peace even as I hate myself for needing it. Tomorrow I'll do better. Tomorrow I'll try harder.

Tomorrow I'll be the person Montgomery thinks I am, instead of the mess I'm becoming.

But tonight, in the darkness of my bunk with the miles rolling by beneath us and Kansas waiting ahead, I let the pill do what I can't manage on my own.

I let it give me peace.