Page 21 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

RJ

S he's not going to answer me, I might as well face facts.

I fucked up, and I fucked up big time. Part of me wonders if I'm doing this to myself for a particular reason, or if this is just who I am.

Mom always preached to us about her eating disorder, and how it's easy to fall into the trap of I've done this once, I have to do it my whole life.

Mom's clear message was you can change. No matter when it is, no matter the circumstances, you can change.

And I want to. I don't want to sit around and count pills, or the hours until I can take the next one. That's not who I ever wanted to be, and definitely not who I was before I started playing around with my medications.

Looking around my house, all I can think about is the good times I've spent with Montgomery. She's most of the memories I have in this house, really anything that's not connected to Grey Skies, is just her. Since I was sixteen and she was fifteen, it's always been her.

"Fuck my life. If I stay here, I'm going to take the whole fuckin' bottle," I mumble.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I type a quick message off to Micah.

R: What's going on today? Any writing?

M: Yeah, just me and Evan. Wanna come join us?

It's better than anything else I have going on.

R: Be right there.

It takes extreme effort, but as I'm grabbing my wallet, keys, and phone, I leave the pills. For once I need to let them go.

The drive into downtown Nashville feels longer than usual, every red light dragging on for what feels like hours.

My hands are already starting to shake slightly on the steering wheel, and I grip it tighter.

The city sprawls out before me as I navigate through the familiar streets, past the honky-tonks and tourist traps that make Nashville what it is on the surface.

But underneath all that glitter and neon, there's the real music scene—the one where we've been grinding for years.

It's the one I love, the one that I'd do anything to stay a part of.

I park my truck next to Evan's beat-up Honda and take a deep breath before getting out. The late afternoon sun beats down on the asphalt. Nashville heat is brutal, especially September. We're so close to fall, but not far enough away from summer.

The studio door is propped open with a brick, and I can hear the low rumble of conversation and the occasional strum of a guitar coming from inside.

I push through the entrance, past the small lobby area with its mismatched furniture and walls covered in framed photos of bands that have recorded here over the years.

Some made it big, some didn't, but they're all part of the story this place tells.

"RJ!" Micah calls out from behind the mixing board as I walk into the main room. He's got his usual uniform on—black jeans, vintage band t-shirt, and a backwards baseball cap that's seen better days. "About time, man. We've been waiting for your sorry ass."

Evan looks up from where he's tuning his bass, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He throws me a wave.

Micah gives me a sympathetic smile. "Figured you'd be wallowing at home," he says with a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Yeah, well, wallowing wasn't getting me anywhere," I reply, grabbing the guitar I use when I'm in studio with them.

He spins around in his chair, a beer already in his hand even though it's barely four in the afternoon. "We've been working on that bridge you started last time. Want to hear what we've got?"

I nod, propping the guitar on my knee, ready to pop in when I can. It almost feels like everything is normal. Almost.

They play through what they've been working on, and I have to admit it sounds good.

Better than good, actually. There's something about it that cuts through all the bullshit and gets right to the heart of what music should be about.

It's the type of shit I lived for when I was a teenager, looking for someone to understand me.

"That's solid," I tell them, already sure of where the lead guitar should go. "Let me try something."

I start playing, letting my fingers find their way across the fretboard without really thinking about it.

The melody that comes out is darker than what they were playing, probably more to do with my mental state than anything.

It's Montgomery's face in my mind, from the cookout.

When I'm pretty sure she got a good idea of what's been going on.

We fall into a rhythm, the three of us locked into the creative flow that every artist aims to achieve. Hours pass without me noticing, the sun setting outside the small windows near the ceiling, casting long shadows across the room.

Micah keeps the beers coming, and before long there's a small pyramid of empty bottles on the floor in front of us. The nicotine from our cigarettes creates a haze in the air, mixing with the smell of beer. It's all so familiar, it's been the backdrop to some of the best nights of my life.

But as the evening wears on, I can feel myself starting to fade. The clarity I had earlier begins to slip away, replaced by a jittery restlessness that makes it hard to focus on the music. My fingers stumble over chord changes, and I catch myself staring off into space mid-song.

"You alright, man?" Micah asks during a break, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

"Yeah, just tired," I lie, taking a long pull from my beer. The alcohol helps a little, smoothing out some of the rough edges, but it's not enough. Nothing ever feels like enough anymore.

Evan gives me a look from across the room, his dark eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me uncomfortable. He's always been good at reading people, picking up on things that others miss. It's part of what makes him such a good writer—he notices every single detail.

My phone buzzes on the chair beside me, and for a split second my heart jumps, hoping it might be Montgomery. But it's just a notification from some app I don't remember downloading. The disappointment hits harder than it should, and I have to set my guitar down to collect myself.

"I'm starving," Micah announces, scrolling through his phone. "Anyone want to split some Thai food? That place on Music Row delivers."

We all agree, and he puts in an order for enough food to feed a small army.

"I'm gonna go grab some cash from the ATM while we wait," Micah says, stubbing out his cigarette in an ashtray. "There's one right around the corner. Be back in like ten minutes."

And then it's just me and Evan, the silence stretching between us. He lights another cigarette, the flame from his lighter illuminating his face for just a moment before plunging us back into the dim glow of the studio's overhead lights.

"So," he says, exhaling smoke through his nose, "how long has it been?"

"How long has what been?" I ask.

"Come on, RJ. I've been where you are. I can see it in your eyes, the way your hands are shaking, how you keep checking your phone like you're expecting some kind of salvation to come through the screen."

I want to deny it, to tell him he's wrong, but the words stick in my throat. There's no point in lying to someone who can see it so clearly.

"A few hours," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper. "Maybe six, seven hours since my last dose."

Evan nods like he expected as much. He reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a small plastic baggie. Inside is a white powder that catches the light.

"This'll help," he says simply, setting the bag on the coffee table between us. "Just until you can figure out how to get more of what you really want."

I stare at the bag, my heart pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears. I know what it is, know what it means, know that crossing this line is different from everything I've done before. Pills are medicine, even when you abuse them. This is something else entirely.

"I can't," I say, but my voice lacks conviction.

"You can't what? Feel better? Stop hurting? Man, I've been watching you all afternoon. You can barely hold your guitar steady the longer we're here."

He's right, and we both know it. My hands are trembling now, and there's a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead despite the warmth of the room. The familiar ache is starting to build in my chest, that gnawing emptiness that no amount of beer or music can fill.

"Montgomery would never forgive me," I whisper, more to myself than to him.

Evan laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Montgomery's not here, is she?"

The words hit like a physical blow, mainly because there's truth in them. She hasn't answered my calls, hasn't responded to my texts.

"Besides," Evan continues, dumping a small amount of the powder onto the glass surface of the coffee table, "nobody stays with their high school sweetheart anyway. You think you're gonna be different? You think love conquers all and shit like that?"

He uses a credit card to form the powder into a thin line, his movements practiced and efficient. The sight of it makes my mouth go dry and my pulse quicken, two competing responses warring in my chest.

"This is temporary," he says, rolling up a twenty-dollar bill. "Just something to get you through until you can figure out your next move."

I think about Mom's words, about how you can change no matter when it is, no matter the circumstances. But right now, change feels impossible. Right now, all I can think about is the burning in my veins and the way my skin feels like it's crawling with invisible insects.

"One time," I hear myself saying, and I barely recognize my own voice.

Evan hands me the rolled-up bill, and I take it with fingers that are steadier than they have any right to be. The powder disappears in one quick motion, burning like fire as it hits my sinuses, and then?—

Relief. Pure relief spreads through my body like warm honey, chasing away the shakes and the cold sweat and the gnawing anxiety that's been my constant companion for hours. My heart rate picks up, but in a good way, like I've just stepped onto a stage in front of thousands of screaming fans.

I lean back in my chair, closing my eyes for a moment as the drug works its way through my system. For the first time in what feels like days, I can breathe properly. The weight that's been sitting on my chest lifts, and suddenly everything feels lighter again.

"Better?" Evan asks, cleaning up the remaining powder and tucking the baggie back into his pocket.

"Yeah," I say, and I mean it. "Much better."

But even as the words leave my mouth, I know I've crossed a line I can't uncross. This isn't like taking an extra pill or two. This is something else entirely, something that changes the equation in ways I'm only beginning to understand.

I think about Montgomery, about the way she used to look at me like I hung the moon and painted the stars. Would she even recognize the person I'm becoming? Would she want to?

The rational part of my brain, the part that's still clinging to some semblance of the person I used to be, knows that this is the beginning of the end. That I'm choosing the easy path, the one that leads nowhere good. But the larger part of me, doesn't care about consequences.

I was bad for her anyway, for everyone, I tell myself.

She deserves someone better, someone who doesn't count pills or snort powder off coffee tables in recording studios.

Someone who can give her the life she's dreamed of since we were kids, full of love and stability and all the things I seem incapable of providing.

The studio door opens, and Micah walks back in, carrying several plastic bags that smell amazing. My stomach growls.

"Food's here!" he announces cheerfully, seemingly oblivious to what just transpired in his absence. "Hope you guys are hungry, because I may have gone a little overboard."

Evan and I exchange a look, a silent understanding passing between us. This stays between us, the look says. This is just two friends helping each other get through another night.

"Starving," I say, and for the first time in hours, I actually mean it. The energy coursing through my veins has awakened an appetite I'd forgotten I had. Everything feels sharper, clearer, more intense than it did just minutes ago.

As we dig into the food, spreading containers across the coffee table like we're having some kind of twisted picnic, I try not to think about what I've just done. Try not to think about the fact that I've added another secret to a collection that I'm already struggling to carry.

Instead, I focus on the burn in my sinuses, the way my heart is beating like a drum solo, the confidence flooding my system. For now, this moment, I feel like I can handle anything.

Even if deep down, I know that's just another lie I'm telling myself.