I threw my knapsack on the small twin bed and stepped back. The orderly dumped the contents while I looked out the window.

“Standard procedure,” he said apologetically. “But, I gotta ask, any needles?”

I shook my head and lifted the water bottle to my lips with a shaking hand. The setting sun shimmered through the dirty screen turning the whole world shades of gold, red, and orange. My gaze fixed on the sliver of water in the distance where the trees parted.

“Group therapy tonight at eight.” The orderly stuffed the items back inside the green canvas bag. “Breakfast is at six. Miss it, you don’t eat.”

Without waiting for me to acknowledge him, he left the room, his tennis shoes squeaking on the polished floor behind him. I sank into the uncomfortable chair, the plaid tweed itching me through the thin fabric of my board shorts as I continued to stare at the scrap of shore. My jaw ticked when the door swung open again.

“Great view, huh?” Dr. Briar’s voice sounded behind me. “You can earn a two-hour pass after your first twenty hours of group.”

“Gee, thanks.”

The guy must’ve forgotten that I’d checked myself in voluntarily. I could walk out the door and call a cab from the nearest pay phone.

They still had pay phones, didn’t they? The random thought trailed off.

“Our counselors are pretty familiar with the Guadalupe,” he continued. “If you bank a few hours, you can take an afternoon and float the river. It’s very relaxing.”

“You don’t say.” My chest ached as the sun sank behind the rocks, and I squinted to catch the last ray that danced off the water.

In my periphery, I saw him lay the beat up black guitar case on the small bunk. “We made an exception for this. But we can just as easily rescind the privilege if you break the rules.”

My fingers curled around the armrests. I ached for the feel of the wood in my hands. The guitar was the only thing my old man ever gave me, and I’d kept the Fender when I’d sold or traded everything else I owned. The guitar was a beacon of light. My assurance that when it was said and done, the music would be waiting for me.

I shot him a bitter smile. “So, I guess that means I should cancel the party in the mess hall?”

Dr. Briar chuckled as he pushed his glasses up his nose.

“I know you’re here of your own accord, Chase.” His tone turned serious. “But there aren’t any shortcuts. You can’t buy sobriety. You’ve got to put in the work.”

My Fender called to me. More than anything I just wanted the fucking dweeb to take a powder so that I could play. Briar crossed his arms over his chest and held his ground, waiting for a reply. These kind of doctors were big on acknowledgment—“owning” your disease.

Swallowing against the metallic taste that lingered in my mouth from the non-narcotic medication that was supposed to help with my transition, I pulled out my guitar. “I get it.”

The tips of my fingers tingled when I laid them against the strings.

Since I had no say so in the matter, it was futile to tell Briar to take a hike, so I went about my business.

The first strum sounded tinny to my ears, so I adjusted the tuning pegs until I got the right sound. Then I began to play. “Blue Eyed Summer,” the song I wrote for Taryn. Unable to help myself, the words poured out in a soft whisper.

I forgot the doctor was there, only coming back to myself when the last chord died on my strings.

Briar sank down onto the edge of the bed. “That was really beautiful. Did you write it for someone in particular?”

I could lie. It’s not like he’d ever know.

“A friend.”

Friends … at least.

“Does your friend have a name?”

Sweet Taryn.

“Taryn.” The ache in my chest spread, and my temples began to throb.

Briar eased his back against the metal headboard. “Do you want to talk about that?”

Pondering the question, I strummed absently without looking at him. Did I want to talk about Taryn? No … it hurt too much.

“Not really.”

Another song took form in my head as I stretched the musical muscles that had been dormant for the past few weeks.

“Is your friend an addict?” he ventured.

I barked out a laugh. “She’s addicted to beautiful.” The lyric popped out in answer to his question, turning around in my brain.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“No,” I grumbled. “She’s not an addict, or an alcoholic, or a co-dependent. She’s normal.”

“So are you.”

“Can we leave her out of this?” I shot Briar a fierce look, but he remained neutral. “She’s not in my life anymore.”

He nodded, surveying me with a placid smile that I wanted to wipe off his face with my fist. “So she didn’t mean anything to you?”

I bristled, my fingers frozen on the frets of the guitar. “I didn’t—” Biting my tongue, I averted my gaze. “I said she’s not around.”

“Your choice or hers?”

“Mine.”

Some of the tension left my shoulders as Briar stood.

“One more question?” he asked.

Like I had a fucking choice.

“Yeah?” I laid the guitar in the case and picked up the notebook with the curled pages and tattered edges.

“Do you love her?”

I stared out at the Guadalupe, the sliver of water now lit by the full moon that hung low in the sky. The answer was clawing at the back of my throat, but still, I pondered.

“Yeah,” I finally said.

My shoulders sagged, the weight of my confession like a ton of bricks I’d just strapped to my back. Taryn was part of it now. My “process.” The road to recovery would include lengthy sessions about the girl that never knew how I felt.

When the lock clicked shut behind Briar, I flopped onto the bunk and closed my eyes.

Taryn was there. Inside my head. She’d inhabited the same spot ever since I woke up at the hospital. Before, even. I fingered the smooth side of the small stone that I’d picked up during the float trip.

You’re the smooth surface to all my jagged edges.

My vision clouded as I wrote down the lyric. I’d used music before to soothe the savage beast. But right now, I needed to learn to deal with the ache.

Drugs hadn’t taken Taryn far from my memory, but I’d use them nonetheless. But instead of seeking a high, I’d be chasing oblivion. And if I wasn’t careful, I’d find it.