The room was silent. Almost as silent as it had been in the hospital that day when I'd first confronted August in front of the guys.

They hadn't been able to believe it back then.

They couldn't believe it now.

"Five percent?" Cameron asked, hushed.

August nodded.

"Yes. I'll most likely come out of the surgery with my shoulder improved. But there's a five percent chance it'll get worse. Bad enough I'll no longer be able to play drums."

"Shit," Cameron cursed.

Noah's face, normally unreadable, was so alarmed even I was able to see through his usual impassive facade.

The twins shared identical looks of dismay, green eyes wide and pained.

"So what are you going to do?" Cameron asked.

"I haven't decided." August tried to speak calmly, but I could hear the tremor in his voice. "I wanted to talk it over with you guys."

When August finally felt well enough, he'd invited the band over to his place. Before they could make their well wishes and apologies, he'd gotten straight to the point, brief but concise.

August had Chronic RSI. His shoulder wouldn't get better on its own. His options were limited.

"I hate to see you in pain," Ian said softly. "But I know how much music means to you. I can't—" he broke off, shaking his head. "I can't imagine an August Summers who didn't make music."

"You could still compose," Noah said quietly. "You could still produce."

"I could," August agreed.

"It's not the same and you know it," Ian said. "Being on stage is like nothing else. You can't expect August to give that up."

"I don't expect him to do anything," Noah retorted. "We're talking options."

"A five percent chance is low, but it's still not zero." Ian's brows drew down into a frown. "If it was me… I don't know if I would risk it."

"But without the surgery, August can only play while he's out of his mind on drugs," Damon argued. "That's not an option either."

"Rick Allen," Cameron suddenly spoke up.

The others turned to him. Understanding dawned on their faces. Ian and Damon shared a hopeful glance, communicating without words. Noah gave Cameron a thoughtful nod.

"Who?" I asked.

I sat at August's side on the living room sofa. None of the guys had asked why I was there for what should have been a private band meeting. August had ambushed them the minute they sat down, not wanting to drag it out.

"Rick Allen, the drummer from Def Leppard," Cameron explained. "He lost an arm in a car accident. Everyone thought his career was over. He learned to compensate by using a specialized drum kit with his feet."

August's lips twitched upward.

"You expect me to drum with my feet?" he asked.

Cameron made a face.

"I'm not saying it's the best scenario," he said. "But even if your shoulder does get worse, there are alternatives. You don't have to quit playing forever. You don't have to quit Darkest Days."

August did smile then.

"Does that mean I'm no longer kicked out?" he asked.

"I need to apologize about that." Damon learned forward in his armchair, resting his elbows on his knees. "I didn't handle it in the best way. I shouldn't have ambushed you. I should have listened. Given you time to explain. I'm an impulsive idiot."

"I'm the one who should apologize," August said. "I lied to you for so long. I should have trusted you enough to tell you the truth."

"So it's agreed," Cameron said. "We're all a bunch of dickheads."

Everyone laughed, except Ian.

"Can we address the elephant in the room?" Ian asked.

Everyone turned to him, laughter dying.

"August has a problem." Ian leaned forward in his seat, staring August down. "And I'm not talking about your shoulder."

"I don't—" August began to say, then cut himself off. He looked away, avoiding everyone's eyes.

"August, you have to say it out loud," Ian said softly. "Trust me, I know how hard this is. You have to admit it. To us, and to yourself."

August out a deep breath. His hands shook. I took one in mine. It was clammy. I squeezed. He squeezed back. When he met Ian's eyes, they were defeated. "I do have a problem," he admitted. "I'm…" he swallowed hard. "I'm an addict."

Ian nodded in understanding. "And you know what you need to do, right?"

"Therapy," August said with a grimace. "Counseling. Whatever it takes."

"It's going to be hard," Noah warned. "You can't just out-stubborn this."

August nodded, a determined expression on his face. "I know. But I want to get better. I don't want this to control my life anymore. No more lies. No more secrets."

"We're all here for you," Cameron said. "Whether you need to talk, or whether you need someone to kick your ass, we're here."

August chuckled. "Thanks, Cam. I can always trust you for a good ass kicking."

"There's one more apology that needs to be made." Ian turned to me. "I'm sorry we acted like assholes toward you. We were upset and needed someone to take it out on. None of this was your fault." He flicked his eyes between me and August, gaze softening. "You're good for him. He's lucky to have you."

My cheeks burned. "You knew?"

"We all knew," Damon said easily, leaning back in his chair. "We didn't say anything because we figured both you and August wanted to keep it quiet. None of us wanted to embarrass you. Well," he snorted, "Cam did, but we out-voted him."

"Now that the secret's out, does that mean I can start teasing them?" Cameron looked eager, like a puppy wagging its tail.

August raised an eyebrow. "You want to be the next one kicked out?"

"Have we decided, then?" Noah spoke up, his quiet voice cutting through the laughter. "Is August doing the surgery?"

The room went heavy with silence.

"We can't make this decision for you," Ian said eventually.

"But we'll be here to support you the whole way," Damon continued.

August took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly. He nodded.

"I'll do it," he said confidently. "I'll do the surgery. And after that…" He looked each of his friends in the eye and squeezed my hand tight. "We'll figure out what to do from there."