Giving Chase (Incendiary Ink #1)

20. Better Days – Eliza

Better Days

ELIZA

Dear Eliza,

Twenty years ago, you saved my life by believing in our music. Five years ago, you saved it again by forcing me to face myself and driving me to rehab yourself, even after everything I'd said and done.

My hands tremble as I read, the paper catching the last rays of sunset through Chase's windows. He's hovering in the doorway, silent, watching.

I've written this letter twenty-three times. Each version tries to explain, to apologize, to make sense of what I did to us. But the truth is simple: I was the coward. Not just during the addiction, but after. Especially after.

Do you remember that afternoon we fell asleep on your couch? After I crashed into your tree? After I spewed a shit ton of venom at you that wasn’t true, you held me while I cried, and for the first time in years, I felt safe. Ready to get help. Ready to change. And the next morning, you helped me find a place, and packed a bag for me. Even drove me to the facility yourself. Stayed until I was checked in.

I close my eyes, remembering. The long drive. The way his hand shook in mine as we pulled up to the gates. The last look we shared before the doors closed between us.

I'd like to say I blocked your number because I was focusing on recovery. That I was following the counselors' advice about cutting ties. But that's another lie to add to my collection. I blocked you because I was ashamed. Because the man you believed in had turned into someone who drove drunk into your tree at noon. Someone who'd nearly died in Chicago. Someone who'd blamed you for his own destruction.

Then COVID hit, and isolation made it easy to convince myself that silence was better. That you were better off without me in your life at all. I told myself I was giving you peace. Really, I was protecting myself from facing what I'd done.

The words blur. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.

Will kept me updated about you. Told me about your promotion to President. About Justin's band. I read every industry article that mentioned you. Watched every interview. Convinced myself that keeping this distance was my last gift to you. That I'd burned too many bridges. Caused too much pain.

You spent fifteen years watching me try to kill myself. Fifteen years cleaning up my messes. Protecting me. Believing in me. Loving me despite everything. And how did I repay that love? By disappearing. By watching your life from a safe distance, too cowardly to even tell you I was finally the man you always believed I could be.

Chase shifts in the doorway. I can feel his eyes on me, but I keep reading.

The truth? You were the bravest person in my story. You loved me enough to drive me to those gates. To let me go. To say 'enough.'

I'd like to say getting clean was about you. That I did it to win you back. But that would be another lie. I got clean because you were right – I had to do it for me. Had to find out who Chase was without the drugs. Without the drama. Without using you as a safety net.

Five years sober, and I'm finally facing some hard truths:

I hid behind our 'no strings' rule because commitment terrified me more than addiction.

I used our history as an excuse to avoid dealing with my present.

I hurt you. Repeatedly. Deliberately. Unforgivably.

And even after getting clean, I was too much of a coward to face you.

So I'm saying it now: I'm sorry, Eliza. For the rehabs that didn't stick. For Chicago. For your tree. For every time I made you choose between loving me and saving yourself. For five years of silence when you deserved so much more.

The tears fall freely now, dropping onto the paper. The ink smears under them.

I convinced myself we were over. That too much pain lived in our history. I watched you build your empire from afar and told myself it was better this way. Safer. Cleaner.

Then I saw you at that photo shoot, and every lie I'd told myself about being over you shattered in an instant.

I'm not asking for another chance. I haven't earned that. But I need you to know that the man you see now – the one who's been clean for five years, who can finally look himself in the mirror – he exists because you were strong enough to take me to those gates. To let me walk through them alone.

You once told me I was stronger than my addiction. You believed that even when I didn't. Even when I couldn't. Thank you for that belief. For every time you held me together. For every time you let me fall. For that final drive that saved my life.

I love you. I've loved you for twenty years. But for the first time, I love you without needing you to save me.

Always, Chase

The paper slips from my fingers, landing silently on the hardwood floor. Chase hasn't moved from the doorway, giving me space I'm not sure I want anymore.

"Eliza?" His voice is barely a whisper.

I turn to look at him. Really look at him. The silver threading his beard. The clear green eyes. The steady hands that haven't shaken in five years.

"You read my interviews?"

A small smile tugs at his mouth. "Every one. Will says it was masochistic."

"You could have called. After the first year. After COVID. Any time."

"I know." He takes a careful step forward. "I thought... I really thought I'd lost the right to be in your life. That staying away was the only gift I had left to give you."

I stand, my legs steadier than they should be. "Twenty-three versions?"

He nods.

"And in every single one, you thought I needed your apology?"

"I—what?"

I close the distance between us, stopping just short of touching. "I never needed you to apologize, Chase. I needed you to live. That's all I've ever needed."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by something that looks a lot like hope.

The sun sets behind the Pacific, painting us both in shades of gold and shadow. Twenty years of history pulse in the space between us.

His hands don't shake when he reaches for mine.

Neither do mine when I let him.

The Past Five Years

The first year after I dropped Chase at rehab, I threw myself into work. Fourteen-hour days, back-to-back meetings, endless contract negotiations. When COVID hit, I was already operating at full throttle.

But this? This was where I excelled. While other labels floundered, I created virtual concert platforms, innovative streaming solutions, remote recording setups. Built a pandemic survival strategy that became industry standard. The board noticed.

The promotion to President came faster than anyone expected. November 2020, in the middle of another COVID surge. The PR photos show me in my signature look – platinum hair with purple ends, steel grey power suit that matched my eyes. The industry papers called it a "meteoric rise."

They didn't see me almost call Chase that night. Almost text: I did it. I finally did it.

I deleted his number instead. Again.

"You need to date," Michelle insisted, eighteen months into my self-imposed isolation. "I know this great guy?—"

"I'm fine."

But she persisted. So did Justin. So, I went on the dates. The investment banker who talked about his portfolio all through dinner. The producer who spent the whole night pitching his "innovative new sound" (it wasn't). The session musician who looked nothing like Chase but played bass, and that was enough to end that experiment.

"Mom." Justin sprawled across my office couch, fresh from his own band's rehearsal. "When's the last time you did something just for you?"

"I just signed three new artists."

"That's work."

"I bought new shoes."

"To wear to work."

I did know what he meant. But I also knew that I had everything I needed. Great friends. A talented son whose band was making waves in the indie scene (without any help from his mother, thank you very much). A career I'd built through talent and hard work. The respect of an entire industry.

So what if I still changed radio stations when Off the Record came on? So what if I took the long way around the building to avoid the recording studio where...

I was fine.

Really.

"There's this guy in A&R," Michelle tried again in 2022. "Really nice. Totally your type."

"I don't have a type."

She gave me a look. "Tall. Musical. Green eyes?—"

"Meeting," I said, standing abruptly. "Very important meeting."

"It's seven PM."

"Did I mention it's important?"

I dated the A&R guy briefly. And a talent scout. And a music journalist who at least made me laugh. None of them lasted more than a few months. One took me to a restaurant where Incendiary Ink's first platinum record hung on the wall. I left before the appetizers.

"Maybe I'm just not built for relationships," I told Michelle over wine one night. "Maybe this is enough."

She didn't argue. Just topped off my glass and changed the subject to quarterly projections.

The industry papers called me an ice queen. Married to my work. Unavailable.

They weren't wrong.

I kept tabs on Chase as much as I could through Will, though I pretended not to. Clean. Sober. Living quietly in Malibu. Writing songs I pretended not to wonder about.

"He asks about you," Will mentioned casually in 2023. "Never directly. But he does."

I changed the subject. Ignored how my heart clenched.

The days blurred together in a pleasant haze of success. Board meetings. Contract signings. Industry events where I sparkled and charmed and never let anyone too close. My life looked perfect on paper.

I threw myself into Justin's career instead of my personal life. Attended his shows when I could, but always checked the venue first. Some places held too many memories. The Viper Room. The studio at Blackmore. That little jazz club where Chase first played me Burning Bridges at 3 AM.

"You should come to our show Friday," Justin said one night. "We're covering some classic rock."

"Any particular classic rock?"

His silence was answer enough.

The invitations kept coming. Music industry mixers. Label parties. Award shows. I attended them all, perfectly coiffed, perfectly professional. The rare times I ran into Will or Mark, we exchanged pleasant small talk. Pretended not to notice the empty space between us where someone else should be.

"Did you hear?" Michelle asked carefully one morning. "Chase is five years sober."

"That's wonderful," I said, and meant it. "Meeting in five?"

"It's seven AM."

"Did I mention it's important?"

My life was good. Was enough.

Really.

Some lies we tell ourselves because the truth is too loud to hear.

Even when it's played through stadium speakers.

Even when it's written in platinum records on our office walls.

Even when it's echoed in every bass line on the radio.