“Lila is strong,” my stepdad says. “But no one should face that alone, and you have as much right as she does to be there. More, even, in some ways.”

“Why do you say that?”

His expression is stark. “Because you’re the one who’s paid the most for his choices.”

Somewhere between having kids five and six, my mom gave me an ultimatum: sell my drum set or find somewhere else to store it. She said she needed the space, which was true, but we both knew my endless angsty banging got on her nerves. My mom’s a saint, but even she has her limits.

Brian offered to store the kit in the church basement as long as I didn’t mind the worship team borrowing it from time to time.

(He offered me a chance to play with the worship team first, but we both knew that would be a cold day in hell.)

After this morning’s news, I hit repeat on my favorite workout. Nothing light will do. The Smashing Pumpkins’ “Bullet with Butterfly Wings” is what I need. It’s angry and challenging as fuck. Jimmy Chamberlin is a living legend.

One more time.

The song starts with a militaristic backbeat that slowly builds in pressure and endurance. I’m sitting on the edge of my throne, bouncing on the literal tips of my toes, ready for the moment I get to let go.

Some people scream their fury. I beat the shit out of mine.

Sweat drips in my eyes and makes my palms slick, but I squeeze my lids shut and grip my sticks even tighter. When the frantic drum solo comes up, I do my best to keep up. I’m not even close. If I were, I could be making millions. But it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be. This is just for me. My shirt clings to my chest and my hair hangs in damp strands across my forehead and neck. The song ends, and I tug my earbuds out with a hearty yank, letting them drop to the cool concrete floor. I wipe my face with the bottom of my shirt, mopping up sweat and maybe tears.

When it all mixes together, it’s hard to tell the difference.

Whatever it is, it’s his fault.

“Jimmy Chamberlin, eh?”

I straighten, startled but not surprised to see James McArthur sitting on the bottom step twenty feet away. I don’t ask how long he’s been there. I recognized his car in the parking lot and knew he’d make his way down if he heard me.

Usually he does.