Page 29 of Unholy Confessions (The Paper Rings Trilogy #1)

RJ

A Few Hours Earlier

I've got what Evan delivered on the table in front of me. I've divided it into small lines, and the pristine snow look of it is taunting me. Now that it's here though, I'm not sure I can do it. Not after everything that's happened in the past few hours.

The memory of Montgomery walking out hits me like a knife in the chest, and a broken sob escapes my throat.

Grabbing my phone with shaking hands, I flip through my contacts until I get to the group chat with my brother and dad in it. Knowing I can't call and put into words what's going on, that I'll chicken out, I take a picture of what's in front of me, and send a text.

R: I think I need help.

What I think will be hours before I hear anything from either one of them is so wrong. Almost immediately a FaceTime request comes through from EJ, and a phone call from my dad. Overwhelmed, I decline them both, and wonder what the fuck I've just done.

My phone immediately starts buzzing again. Text after text flooding in.

EJ: Don't you dare touch that shit

EJ: We're coming over

Dad: Son, stay right where you are

EJ: 20 minutes

Dad: Do NOT use

EJ: I'm serious RJ, step away from the table

I stare at the messages, my vision blurring with tears I didn't realize were falling. The cocaine is still there, perfectly arranged, waiting for me to make a choice that will either save me or destroy me completely.

Twenty minutes feels like twenty hours. I can't sit still, can't stop pacing around my living room, can't stop looking at the drugs on my coffee table.

Every few seconds, I pick up my phone to call Montgomery, then remember the look on her face when she walked out. The disappointment. The finality of it.

She's done with me. And honestly, I can't blame her.

I found a few pills that I took earlier, and it's making my heart race, mixing with the adrenaline and panic in a way that makes me feel like I'm going to crawl out of my own skin.

I can't afford to fall apart.

Except I'm falling apart anyway.

I'm staring at the cocaine, my hands shaking so badly I can barely hold my phone, when the pounding on my door starts.

"RJ! Open the door!" EJ's voice carries through the wood, urgent and commanding.

I don't move. I can't move. The rational part of my brain knows I should let him in, that I asked for the help.

But there's another part of me, the part that's been spiraling for months, that wants to tell him to go away.

That wants to do the lines on the table and forget that text message ever happened.

"RJ, I swear to God, if you don't open this door in the next ten seconds, I'm breaking it down!" EJ shouts.

"Go away," I croak, but my voice is so weak I doubt he can hear me.

The pounding gets louder, more insistent. "Son, please," my dad's voice joins in. "We're here to help. Just open the door."

Closing my eyes, the tears come harder as I hear him.

Dad came. When I asked for help, he came.

I look at the cocaine again. It would be so easy.

Two minutes, and all of this pain would disappear.

The memory of Montgomery's face, the crushing weight of disappointing everyone who's ever cared about me, the constant pressure to be someone I'm not sure I actually am anymore—all of it could just fade away.

But then I remember the photo I sent them. The text message. I think I need help.

Do I want help? Or do I just want someone to witness my destruction?

"I'm coming in!" EJ yells, and I hear something slam against the door. "RJ, get away from whatever you're about to do!"

The door frame cracks on the second hit, and on the third, my brother and father burst through like some kind of intervention SWAT team. They both freeze when they see me sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table, the drugs laid out, ready for me to take them.

"Jesus Christ," Dad breathes, taking in the scene.

EJ moves first, quickly sweeping the cocaine off the table and onto the floor, grinding it into the carpet with his boot. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

I can't answer. I can't do anything but sit there and cry, these horrible, gut-wrenching sobs that sound like they're being torn out of me.

"How long?" Dad asks, sitting down on the floor next to me. His voice is gentler than EJ's, but I can hear the fear underneath it.

"I don't know," I choke out. "The Adderall... a few months? The other stuff... a few weeks. Maybe longer. Time doesn't... I can't keep track anymore."

"A few weeks?" EJ runs his hands through his hair, pacing behind the couch. "RJ, you've been acting strange for months. Don't lie to us now."

"I'm not lying!" The words come out as a shout, surprising all of us. "I don't know, okay? I don't know when it started or when it got bad or when I stopped being able to control it. I just know that I can't... I can't do this anymore."

The admission hangs in the air between us, and I feel simultaneously relieved and terrified to have said it out loud.

"What happened?" Dad asks. "What made you send that picture?"

"Montgomery left me." The words taste disgusting in my mouth. "She came over and I was... God, I was so fucked up. I said terrible things to her. She told me she was done, and she walked out."

"And?" EJ prompts, though his voice has lost some of its edge.

"And Jared came over, yelling that I need help.

That I'm going to kill myself if I keep going like this.

But I didn't listen because I thought I could handle it.

I thought if I could just make it through the tour, if I could just hold it together a little longer.

.." I trail off, because even to me, it sounds insane.

"But you can't hold it together," Dad says, and it's not accusatory. It's just a fact.

"No," I whisper. "I can't. I don't know how to change, and I don't know how to stop, and I'm so fucking scared all the time that I can barely breathe."

EJ stops pacing and crouches down in front of me. "Scared of what?"

"Everything." The word comes out broken.

"Failing. Disappointing everyone. Not being good enough.

Being found out as a fraud. Montgomery realizing she's too good for someone like me.

The music not meaning anything. The tour being a disaster.

Letting down the fans. Letting down the band.

Letting you down." I take a shuddering breath.

"Dying alone because I pushed away everyone who ever cared about me. "

The silence that follows is deafening. I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the distant sound of traffic outside, can hear my father's slightly labored breathing.

"You're not going to die alone," EJ says finally. "But you might die if you keep doing this to yourself."

"I know." The words are barely audible. "I know, but I don't know how to stop.

I've tried to cut back on the pills, tried to tell myself I don't want the other stuff anymore, but then I have a bad day or Montgomery looks at me like she doesn't recognize me, and I just..

. I can't handle the feelings. I can't handle being in my own head. "

Dad reaches over and puts his hand on my shoulder. "That's what treatment is for, son. To teach you how to handle those feelings without destroying yourself."

"What if it doesn't work?" I ask, looking up at him. "What if I'm just broken? What if this is who I am now?"

"Then we'll figure it out together," he says simply. "But you have to try. You have to want to get better. You know your mom and I will always be here for you."

"I do want to get better," I say, and I'm surprised to realize I mean it.

"I want to be the person Montgomery fell in love with.

I want to be someone the band can count on.

I want to be someone I can actually live with.

I want to be the person you and mom can be proud of.

" My mom…shit. "I don't want her to see me like this, please don't let her see me like this. "

EJ pulls out his phone. "I'm calling Dr. Tate. He helped a friend find a good facility when he needed treatment."

"Now?" I ask, panic fluttering in my chest. "Like, right now?"

"Right now," Dad confirms. "Before you change your mind. Before you convince yourself you can handle this on your own."

While EJ makes the call, Dad helps me up off the floor and guides me to the couch. I feel weak, wrung out, like I've been running for miles. The pills are still in my system, making my thoughts race even as my body wants to collapse.

"There's a place in Malibu," EJ says, hanging up. "They have a bed available, and they specialize in addiction treatment for musicians and performers. Dr. Tate says it's one of the best facilities in the country."

"How long?" I ask.

"Minimum thirty days. Recommended sixty to ninety."

The thought of being away for that long makes my chest tight. "But the European tour?—"

"Fuck the European tour," EJ says bluntly. "RJ, you're talking about your life here. Your actual life. The tour will happen with or without you, but we can't replace you."

Dad nods in agreement. "The label will understand. The fans will understand. And if they don't, that's their problem, not yours."

I want to argue, want to insist that I can't let everyone down, but the fight has gone out of me. I'm so tired of carrying this weight, so tired of pretending I'm okay when I'm anything but.

"What about Montgomery?" I ask quietly.

EJ and Dad exchange a look. "What about her?" EJ asks.

"Will she... do you think she'll wait? Do you think there's any chance she'll forgive me for all of this?"

"I don't know," Dad says honestly. "But I know that if you don't get clean, if you don't get your life together, it won't matter. You can't love someone else when you're destroying yourself."

The truth of it hits me like a physical blow. All this time, I've been so afraid of losing Montgomery that I've been pushing her away. I've been so afraid of not being good enough for her that I've become someone who definitely isn't good enough for her.

"Okay," I say, my voice stronger than it's been all night. "Okay, let's do it. Let's plan for five weeks, and if I need more time, then I'll do it."

EJ is already back on the phone, talking to someone about intake procedures and insurance authorization. Dad is gathering things from around my house—clothes, toiletries, my guitar.

"Can I bring my guitar?" I ask.

"Dr. Tate says music therapy is a big part of their program," EJ tells me when he gets off the phone. "So yes, but it'll be supervised at first."

I nod, trying to process everything that's happening. In a matter of hours, I've gone from almost doing cocaine in my living room to preparing to check into rehab. It feels surreal, like it's happening to someone else.

But it's not happening to someone else. It's happening to me, and for the first time in months, that doesn't feel like a death sentence.

"The car will be here in twenty minutes," EJ announces. "We need to get your shit together and get you out of here before you change your mind."

As I pack the few things I'm allowed to bring, I think about Montgomery. About the look on her face when she walked out. About whether she'll even care that I'm getting help, or if it's too little, too late.

I think about the band, about the tour, about all the people I'm letting down by admitting I can't handle my life. Pulling my phone over to me, I pull up Montgomery's info and do the one thing I can right now.

RJ: I'm sorry.

Then I turn my phone off, and think about what my life is going to be like without her.

But mostly, I think about the cocaine on the coffee table, and how close I came to choosing it over everything else that matters.

Twenty minutes later, I'm in the back seat of a black car, driving toward the airport and the scariest thing I've ever done. But also, maybe, the most important. My dad sits in the back with him. He'll fly with me to Malibu, and then he'll come back home.

Dad squeezes my hand as we pull away from my house. "I'm proud of you," he says.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I think I might be proud of me too.

Just a little bit. But it's a start.