I’m crying from sheer rage by the time I get back to my room. I fucking hate that I cry when I’m angry, but I do it every single time and it makes me crazy.

Sad? A few tears.

Furious? Full-blown snot-fest red-faced meltdown, complete with sobbing and hiccups. It’s the fucking worst.

I’d throw myself dramatically on the bed, but my back’s too fucked up so I lean my elbows on the counter in my tiny suite kitchen and gulp air, trying to make myself calm down.

But Eddie’s leaving. He’s leaving us for another band, right in the middle of our tour. And it’s not even a good band, it’s some crappy jam band that no one’s ever heard of.

It has to be because he doesn’t like us. What other explanation is there?

I thought we were okay, I think. I thought we’d fought and made up, like bands do.

Like friends do.

I fucking guess not, because he sure seems okay with leaving. And he sure as fuck seems okay with being a complete and total dick about leaving.

He’s been with us for a year. No, it wasn’t the smoothest year, but there aren’t a lot of smooth years when you’re a professional rock musician.

And he was part of us. We worked out songs together, we fucked around in the studio, we played music until it sounded right, we hung out trying new things until four in the morning and then we got breakfast burritos as the sun rose.

Eddie wasn’t just some drummer. He was one of us. He wasn’t Liam, and we all knew that, but we fucking tried. We weren’t there yet but we wanted him to be one of us, part of our little made up family.

And fuck, I thought it was working.

Guess I thought wrong.

* * *

A couple hours later, I wake up face down on the bed, pants, socks, and shoes all still on. My spine feels weird, probably from falling asleep in the worst position possible, so I take a deep breath and push myself up slowly until I’m sitting.

The burn on my back protests, and my mouth tastes kind of like the comforter. Guess I’m still exhausted from the last couple of days, because I barely even remember getting on the bed before I passed out.

I splash my splotchy, red, one-black-eye, puffy-from sleeping-weird face off in the bathroom, then head down to the lobby. I’ve got a dim memory that the lodge has a free happy hour every afternoon from five to seven, and that’s now.

I’m not really supposed to drink, since alcohol isn’t great for healing wounds, but good advice can go fuck itself. Eddie’s leaving the band just when I thought everything was okay again, and I want a goddamn glass of wine.

No one I know is in the lobby, which is just as well. Eddie’s probably not showing his face right now — good, because I don’t want to see his face — poor Nigel is probably dealing with Eddie’s shit, Gavin’s stone cold sober and has been for a year, and Trent barely drinks and is probably off in the woods wrestling a bear or howling at the sun or whatever’s going to make him feel better.

The other people at the lodge are older, mostly dressed in casual-but-obviously-expensive cardigans and shit, all laugh very politely, and are almost 100% white. My ratty haircut, black eye, and torn jeans don’t exactly fit in.

I grab a glass of red wine anyway. The bartender tells me what winery and vintage it is. I nod politely, like I give a shit, then start looking for the exit.

There’s a printed sign on it, the font loopy and adorable: no alcohol outside, please.

I push it open and walk out. It’s warmer than it was this morning, the late afternoon shadows stretching from the forest to the lodge, the scent of pine on a slight breeze wafting across the patio and the pool.

It’s lovely. It’s idyllic. And Eddie fucking left Dirtshine, so all the lovely idyllic places in the world can go fuck themselves. I walk along the patio, past the pool, and around the side of the lodge where I this morning, I saw a fire escape with the bottom ladder extended. It goes past a few windows and to the roof, which is only two stories up.

Climbing a ladder with a glass of wine in one hand and a fucked-up back isn’t easy and it’s sure as shit not smart, but it’s only about ten feet before the metal stairs start and I take those all the way up. From the top platform, the roof is waist-high and sloped, so I set my wine glass on it very carefully and hoist myself up.

And nearly fall off. Fucking Christ that hurts, and I almost slip off and tumble back to the fire escape. At the last second, I kick and scoot myself forward, t-shirt catching on the roof tiles, facedown, back screaming in pain.

Jesus, that was dumb. I lie there for a long moment, forcing myself to breathe deep, willing the pain away until it finally subsides. Slowly, I manage to crawl onto the roof until I’m seated, feet planted, elbows on knees. My back still hurts but it’s not as bad now.

And hey: I didn’t spill my wine. Small victories, right?

I sit there. I stare at the woods beyond the lodge and think about every single time I’ve been mean to Eddie when he probably didn’t deserve it. I wonder if this is my fault. If I didn’t make him feel enough like part of us. If I brought up Liam once too often, if I should have gone out of my way to be nicer to Eddie.

I watch the shadows get longer while I sip my wine. After a while I try not to think even though it feels like everything is cracking apart.