Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

16. Don’t Let It End – Chase

Don’t Let It End

CHASE

The coffee shop is quiet for a weekday afternoon. Will's already at our usual corner table, two steaming mugs waiting. Some things never change - he still remembers how I take my coffee, even if these days it's accompanied by pastries instead of hair of the dog.

"You look like shit," Will says by way of greeting, but there's warmth in his smile.

"Thanks. Always good to hear from my number one fan." I slide into the seat across from him, wrapping my hands around the mug. "How are the kids?"

"Good. Maya just made junior partner at her firm," Will grins with obvious pride. "And Lucas’s band is finally getting some decent gigs. Though he still refuses to admit that his old man might know a thing or two about the industry."

We share a laugh, falling into the easy rhythm that comes with decades of friendship. But there's an undercurrent of tension - Will knows I didn't ask him here just to catch up.

"So," he says after a moment, "want to tell me what's really on your mind?"

I stare into my coffee, gathering my thoughts. "It's the ceremony. Performing Whispered Truths ... I've never done it for an audience sober before. Not once in twenty years."

Will's expression softens with understanding. "That's what's got you tied up in knots? Not the whole Eliza situation?"

"That's part of it. It’s... complicated. But this?" I run a hand through my hair. "Every time we rehearse it, I feel like I'm going to crawl out of my skin. It's different now. Rawer. Like there's nowhere to hide."

"Maybe that's not a bad thing," Will suggests. "Your voice is stronger than ever these days. Clear. Present."

"Yeah, well, being present is exactly what scares the shit out of me." I pause, searching for the right words. "That song... it was always easier to perform when I could blur the edges, you know? Take the edge off. Now I have to feel every word."

Will nods slowly. "I remember the farewell tour. After Chicago..."

"Christ," I exhale heavily. "That was a wake-up call. Or it should have been."

"You tried after that," Will reminds me. "Did the whole rehab thing."

"For about six months," I say bitterly. "Then convinced myself I could handle just one drink. One line. We both know how that turned out."

Will's quiet for a moment, studying me. "But this time's different. Five years, man. That's real."

"Yeah." I trace the rim of my mug. "My therapist wants me to write Eliza a letter. A real apology, for everything. Not just the final spiral, but all of it."

"About time," Will says bluntly. "Though I'm pretty sure she'd rather hear it in person."

I shake my head. "It's complicated."

"It's really not." Will leans forward. "Look, we all knew about you two. The stolen moments, the lingering looks, the tension you could cut with a knife. Hell, Mark and I used to have a bet going about when you'd finally get your shit together."

"Really?" I can't help but ask. "Who won?"

"Neither of us. We never thought you'd both be so damn stubborn for so long." Will sighs. "You're sober now. Really sober, not just playing at it. You've done the work. She's not your manager anymore, not really - that's just a title she keeps because she can't let go either. So, what's stopping you?"

"Fear," I admit after a long moment. "Not just of messing things up with her again. But of doing this - performing, feeling, living - without any cushion. Without anything to take the edge off. Some days I wake up and I'm not sure I know how to be Chase Avery without chemical assistance."

"You're doing it right now," Will points out. "Have been for five years."

"Yeah, but this is different. That song... it's everything I never had the courage to say to her face. And now I have to say it in front of thousands of people, stone cold sober."

Will's expression turns serious. "Maybe that's exactly why you need to do it. Show her - and yourself - that you can feel it all and still stay standing."

I let his words sink in, feeling their weight. "When did you get so wise?"

"Probably around the same time you got your head out of your ass," he grins. Then his expression softens. "The song's always been about Eliza, Chase. But maybe this time, it needs to be about you too. About who you are now, not who you were then."

As we say goodbye outside the coffee shop, I feel lighter somehow. Maybe it's having finally voiced my fears. Maybe it's Will's unwavering support. Or maybe it's just knowing that someone else understands the magnitude of what I'm facing.

I pull out my phone and open a blank document.

Dear Eliza,

I type, then pause. After a moment, I delete it and start again.

Eliza, I remember the night you saved me in Chicago...

The words start to flow, and this time, I let them come without trying to blur their edges.

November 15, 2018

Will's new house in the Hills still feels strange. Too clean, too organized. Nothing like the chaotic crash pad we shared in our twenties, with its perpetually sticky floors and walls plastered in band posters. But the view of the city is killer, I'll give him that.

I pace the length of his deck, fingers drumming an anxious rhythm against my thigh as I wait for Mark to arrive. Band meeting . The words leave a sour taste in my mouth, or maybe that's just the remnants of last night's binge. My hands shake slightly as I light a cigarette, and I tell myself it's just the wind.

"That's your fourth one since you got here," Will says from behind me. I turn to find him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed. He looks tired. We all do these days.

"You counting my smokes now?" I try for levity, but it falls flat. "What are you, my mother?"

Will doesn't smile. "No, but I am counting the empty bottles in your recycling bin. And the missed rehearsals. And the times you've shown up too wasted to play."

Something hot and defensive rises in my chest. "I've never missed a show."

"No," Will agrees quietly. "But how long until you do?"

Before I can respond, the glass door slides open and Mark steps out. His blue hair is more grey than electric these days, but he still moves with that languid grace that made him our resident heartbreaker back in the day.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, though his tone suggests he's anything but. "Traffic was a bitch."

We settle into the outdoor furniture - expensive teak that probably cost more than our first tour van. For a moment, none of us speaks. Countless years of history hangs in the air between us, heavy with things unsaid.

"So," I break the silence, aiming for casual. "What's so important it couldn't wait until rehearsal?"

Will and Mark exchange a look that makes my stomach clench.

"We think it's time," Will says finally. "To end it. Go out while we're still on top."

The words hit me like a physical blow, even though part of me has been expecting them. "You're joking, right?"

"Chase," Mark leans forward, his voice gentle in a way that makes me want to scream. "We're pushing forty. The industry's changing. And you're..."

"I'm what?" I challenge, heat rising in my voice. "Come on, say it."

"You're killing yourself," Will cuts in bluntly. "And we're not going to stick around and watch."

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "So that's it? Twenty years of brotherhood, and you're just gonna walk away?"

"Brotherhood?" Mark's voice cracks slightly. "Is that what you call showing up three hours late to rehearsal, high out of your mind? Missing recording sessions because you're too hungover to function? Disappearing for days with no word, while we're left wondering if this time you've finally OD'd?"

His words cut deep, mostly because I know they're true. But I can't face that right now. Can't face any of it.

"I'm fine," I insist, even as my hands shake so badly I have to clasp them together. "I've got it under control."

"Like you had it under control in Sydney?" Will asks quietly. "Or Tokyo? Or that night in Madrid when Eliza had to talk the hotel out of calling the cops?"

The mention of Eliza's name sends a fresh wave of shame through me. She's been conspicuously absent lately, sending her assistant to deal with band matters. I tell myself it's because she's busy with her VP duties, but I know better.

"One more album," I say suddenly, the idea forming as I speak. "One final tour. Go out in style, give the fans what they deserve."

Will shakes his head. "Chase..."

"No, listen," I lean forward, the desperation I'm feeling channeling into enthusiasm. "We've got the songs. That stuff I showed you last month? It's good. You know it's good. We do it right - take our time in the studio, plan a proper farewell tour. End it on our terms."

I can see them wavering. Over two decades, I've learned exactly how to play them, how to appeal to their sense of artistry and loyalty. The guilt of manipulating them like this is just one more thing I'll drink away later.

"What about you?" Mark asks. "Can you keep it together long enough to do this right?"

"Yes," I lie, meeting his eyes steadily. "I swear. No more missed sessions, no more showing up late. I'll do whatever it takes."

Another look passes between them, loaded with twenty years of friendship and worry and love.

"One condition," Will says finally. "You get clean. Really clean. No half-measures this time."

I nod quickly, already calculating how many pills I have stashed at home. "Of course. Whatever you need."

"We mean it, Chase," Mark adds. "First slip-up, first missed rehearsal because you're too fucked up to play, and we pull the plug. No arguments."

"Deal," I agree, even as part of me knows I'm making promises I can't keep. But I'll worry about that later. Right now, I just need to keep the band together, keep the music going. It's all I have left.

Will stands, running a hand through his hair - a gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache. "Alright. One last album. One last tour. Then we're done."

As we head inside to hash out the details, I catch my reflection in Will's sliding glass door. For a moment, I barely recognize myself - the shadows under my eyes, the tension in my jaw, the slight tremor in my hands that never quite goes away these days.

I look away quickly. One last album. One last tour. One last chance to prove to everyone - to Eliza, to the band, to myself - that I'm not as far gone as they think.

I can do this. I have to.

But even as I make plans with Will and Mark, part of me knows I'm lying. To them, to myself, to everyone. Because the truth is, I don't know how to make music sober anymore. Don't know how to feel anything without chemical assistance. Don't know who Chase Avery is without the buzz of alcohol in his veins or powder in his nose.

I guess we'll all find out soon enough.