James slows it down for the final verse. It’s meant to be pretty. In the original version performed by the metal band Red, it’s all symphonic strings. But in our version, it’s only James. His heartache and his chords and my complicated drumming. His tone is desperate and shattered against my furious wreck of a meltdown.

He sings about not being afraid. About changing. About finally giving up and moving past it.

Not me. I’m accusatory. I’m used up and broken. I’m taking myself back. I’m done. I’m letting go. Of my dad. Of my heartbroken thirteen-year-old self. Of always being the responsible one.

I’m not passing it off; I’m throwing it out the fucking door.

I scream the final verse over and over as James sings his version to the rafters. I’m choking, and he’s mourning. We play through the end until all that’s left is ringing silence. Neither of us offers to play another.

We don’t need another. It’s over and done. That was the end.

James puts down his guitar, and I stand from my throne. He holds out a hand, and I shake it.

“You did it,” he says.

“What?” comes out in a barely audible croak. My throat is scratched to hell.

“You gave it up.”

I let out an incredulous huff. “I guess so.” I clear my throat. Or try to at least. “How’d you know I’d be here? Wait, let me guess. Brian?”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “No. Just me. Although Brian is struggling to know how to be there for you. Your mom, too, but you already know that.”

I nod, and he gestures to the end of the stage. We sit, our legs hanging.

“I’m not a parent, and I didn’t really have parents around growing up, aside from Betty,” James says. “But…” He glances sideways at me. “I have to assume it’s the most painful thing to watch your kid suffer.”

“I’m not suffering.”

“Okay.”

I huff out a breath. “I’m not asking them to fix me.”

“Of course you aren’t.”

I glare at him, and he raises a brow in challenge.

“Of course you don’t want anyone to help you. I suspect you think you’re unfixable. But even if you weren’t, because you aren’t”—he emphasizes the word—“there’s no way you’d ask for help. So. Let’s try this. We’ve already covered that parenting is outside my wheelhouse, and besides, you don’t want a parent to help. So how about you lay it on me, and if I think you’re damned, I swear I’ll tell you.”

“You just cussed in church.”

James looks around theatrically. “And yet we’re still here. Guess our conversation’s been blessed.”