Page 17 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

RJ

W hy did I fucking do that? Why did I say those words to Montgomery? She's the one thing I've always been able to count on in my life, even over my parents and brother. Why am I acting like this?

Rolling the events of the past month to month and a half in my life I struggle to figure out what the difference is. And it hits me like a shot between the eyes. It's me abusing the Adderall.

Rage roars through my body. My hands shake as I get up from the counter and go over to where my medications are.

Grabbing the pill bottle, I open it, and then open my trash can.

It would fix everything if I just threw them away, and went back to the doctor, telling them that I can't handle this anymore.

But as I'm about to pour it out, I can't bring myself to do it.

And I know without a doubt that even though I just got back into town today, I also can't sit here in this house all day. Grabbing my phone, I fire off a text to a group of friends I tend to write and play with, while I'm in Nashville to see if they're meeting.

R: Hey! Just rolled into town last night, and not interested in spending the day by myself. Y'all writing?

M: Yeah, come on down. We're getting started now.

R: See you soon

Micah is the son of Black Friday and Grey Skies' main producer. He's the same age as me and EJ, we've grown up together, but instead of joining the stage side of things, he's as gifted as his dad.

There's no telling who all else is with him, or maybe it's just him.

Either way, I'd prefer not to be by myself.

Not after the arguments Montgomery and I have had.

Taking the stairs two at a time, I throw on a pair of clothes, and then jog out to my truck.

When I get in and head toward Nashville, I feel the anxiety fading away.

The drive to Micah's studio gives me time to breathe even though Nashville traffic sucks dick on a good day, but not enough time to think too hard about everything that feels like it's been spiraling out of control.

When I pull up to the familiar building tucked away in Music Row, I can already hear the faint sound of a guitar through the walls.

I knock twice and let myself in, finding Micah alone in the main room, his acoustic guitar resting across his lap as he scribbles something in a notebook. He's always got a notebook, I've never known someone who writes as much as he does.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," he says, grinning up at me. "Thought you might show up looking like hell after that tour, but you actually look... well, you still look like hell, but in a different way."

"Thanks for the pep talk," I mutter, but I'm smiling despite everything. This is what I needed—someone who's known me long enough to call me on my shit without making it weird.

"Where's everyone else?"

"Canceled. Sarah's got food poisoning, and Phoenix is dealing with some family drama. So it's just us today." He gestures to the chair across from him. "Grab a guitar. I've got this melody that's been haunting me all week. Help me work it out."

I settle into the chair I prefer in the studio, tuning the guitar while Micah plays the progression he's been working on. It's melancholy but with an edge, the kind of thing that makes you want to lean into the sadness instead of running from it.

"That's beautiful, man. What's the story?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out." He plays it again, slower this time. "It feels like... like that moment when you realize you've been lying to yourself about something important."

The words hit too close to home, but maybe that's exactly what I need right now. We spend the next hour building the song, trading verses, finding the rhythm that makes the melody catchy and memorable. It's the first time in weeks I've felt like myself.

We're working on a second song when Micah sets his guitar aside and really looks at me.

"So how are things with Montgomery?"

The question catches me off guard, even though I should have seen it coming. Micah's always been observant, and Montgomery's been part of our circle since we were born.

"Why do you ask?"

"Because you look sad, man. And I know that look. It's the same one you had when your mom was going through her cancer scare sophomore year." He leans forward, elbows on his knees. "Plus, you've been texting me more in the past few weeks than you have in months. Something's up."

I strum a few random chords, buying time.

But sitting here, in this space where I've always felt safe and not judged, the words start spilling out before I can stop them.

I need to get them out, not only because he asked, but because I need to get this shit off my chest. It's tight and uncomfortable.

"I've been taking extra pills," I say quietly, shame causes my face to burn. "The Adderall. Just... a couple extra a day. Maybe three or four sometimes."

Micah doesn't say anything right away, which I appreciate. He's not the type to jump in with immediate judgment or advice. It's probably why I'm telling him.

"How long?" he finally asks.

"Month and a half, maybe two months. It started when tour got crazy, and I needed to stay focused. But now..." I set my guitar down and run my hands through my hair. "Now I'm saying things to Montgomery that I don't mean. I'm picking fights with her over nothing. And I can't seem to stop."

It feels good to say it out loud. Like some of the pressure that's been building in my chest finally has somewhere to go. But even as relief washes over me, I'm hit with a new realization that makes my stomach drop.

If I'm admitting this to someone, that means I know it's a problem. And if I know it's a problem but I still couldn't throw those pills away this morning...

"RJ." Micah's voice is serious now. "You need to be careful, man. That shit doesn't mess around. It won't take long to get completely addicted if you're not already walking that line."

The words hang in the air between us, and I feel cold settle in my gut.

"I need to use the bathroom," I say, standing up too quickly.

"Down the hall, you know where it is."

I make my way to the small bathroom at the back of the studio, flipping on the harsh fluorescent light.

When I look at myself in the mirror, I barely recognize the person staring back at me.

My eyes are too bright, too intense. There are dark circles underneath them that I've been telling myself are just from touring, but now I'm not so sure.

My jaw is clenched even though I'm not trying to clench it.

I grip the edges of the sink and force myself to really look. To see what Micah sees. What Montgomery probably sees, but doesn't realize what it is.

Am I already there?

The question echoes in my mind as I stare at my reflection, and for the first time in weeks, I don't like the answer I'm afraid of finding.