Total pages in book: 117
Estimated words: 108362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 542(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
“Why don’t you just take my number, and you can text it to me?”
I already knew where she lived. Shannon had bought her house a few months after the divorce went through. Mam had let slip where she was living, and I’d checked it out on Google maps like the obsessive ex that I was. It was a cute place with a powder blue door, a terraced red brick affair not too far from my parent’s house.
“Yes, okay,” she replied, seeming nervous to be taking my number. She withdrew her phone, and I quickly called it out.
“Right, so, I guess I’ll be seeing you on Monday, then,” she said after she’d tapped it in.
I smiled fondly. “Bright and early.”
Shannon insisted on taking a taxi home, and when I climbed into my dad’s car, I got the sense that they were all watching me. A subtle hint of Shannon’s perfume remained, and it made my chest ache.
“I think that went well,” Mam said after a few minutes.
“I don’t know,” Fran put in. “Shannon seemed a bit flustered tonight.”
“That’s expected,” Dad added. “She wasn’t anticipating Jace to be back.”
“Can you all quit talking about me like I’m not right here?” I complained.
“We just care about you,” said Mam. “We want you and Shannon to be comfortable around one another. It’s not tenable to keep going on with no contact.”
“You can understand why she wanted it that way,” I said, feeling the need to defend her. “I was a fucking junkie piece of shit the last time we were together.”
“Yes, but you’re in recovery now,” Dad said, and something about the way he so readily agreed with my description of myself stung, but he’d never been one to beat around the bush or lie to save my feelings. He was direct when he needed to be. And besides, my ex-wife and my daughter weren’t the only ones I’d hurt with my addiction. My parents and sister had suffered, too. I’d put them all through hell, and it was the main reason I was so determined to be better now. I refused to be the cause of a single moment of pain for them ever again.
“I think Shannon can see you’ve changed,” Dad went on. “You guys just need to take things slow, let her learn how to trust you again.”
“I know that. I’m taking Zara to school on Monday.”
Mam met my gaze in the overhead mirror. “Shannon agreed to it?”
“She did.”
Her eyes were bright with relief as she glanced at Dad, then back to me. “That’s good. I’m glad. I was worried she might take more convincing.”
The weekend passed, and I spent most of my time exercising, messing around on my guitar, and spending time with Mam and Dad. I was lucky to have such cool parents. Sometimes I felt guilty about the way I’d turned out. They’d done their best raising me, and still, I’d turned to drugs. It hadn’t been their fault. A couple months into the release of our first album, our drummer, Cai, had died in a car accident. He’d been driving while I’d been sitting in the passenger seat. A drunk driver had T-boned us while we were crossing through a junction. I’d walked away with a couple broken bones, but Cai had died on impact. The worst part was he’d been driving me home that night. If I’d just decided to walk or take the bus, he’d probably still be alive today. The grief of losing him and the guilt that it was my fault combined with the pressure of fame and the music business had swallowed me up until I’d turned to drugs to cope.
While on tour, I’d lock myself in my room and get high by myself while my bandmates were out partying or sleeping off the show in their own rooms. Because I’d always shot up alone, I was very good at hiding my addiction, pretending I was okay and that everything was normal. No one in my family, not even Shannon, had known how bad things had gotten until it was too late. I’d already been using for months before the signs started to show, and by then, I’d been deep into my addiction, not ready to give it up.
On Sunday evening, I paid a visit to my sponsor, Bren McManus. He was a luthier who specialised in building and repairing guitars in the workshop out the back of his house, and he’d been in recovery from a heroin addiction for the last forty years. When we met, we’d instantly bonded over a love of music, and I’d already commissioned two instruments from him. I loved talking with Bren because he was almost seventy years old and had a wealth of wisdom to pass down. I also found it relaxing to sit and watch him work on whatever piece he was currently focused on.