Already my fingers have begun to twitch restlessly on the guitar, seeking out some unnamed melody to channel my confusing feelings rising to the surface. I don’t know why talking about the bromance that is Mason and Shawn is so hard, but it is, so I usually try to avoid thinking about it if I can.

“Shawn ended up overdosing—big surprise there. He was found on a bench, thought to be dead. He was skin and bones. Dirty.” I swallow and focus on my fingers as they start plucking out a soft tune. “He had no identification on him, so he became just another John Doe-junkie they were obligated to treat, despite knowing he’d relapse the second he was released. They said it was a miracle he was even still alive.”

“When was this?”

“Just shy of two years ago,” I say, reaching for the whiskey.

I feel Will’s eyes on me, but I ignore him as I welcome the burn rushing down my throat. I wipe a hand across my mouth, then resume plucking softly at the guitar. As always, the music takes a mind of its own, slowing into something haunting. Sad. Annoying.

“Mason’s mom was on-call the night they brought Shawn in. She’s an ICU nurse. Mason’s overdose had happened only a couple weeks earlier, so it was all still really fresh in her mind when Shawn was brought in. She also hadn’t seen Mason since she dropped him off at rehab, and I think, well—”

“She saw her son in him.”

“Yeah. She saw how much worse it could have been.” I take a deep breath. “Sherry fought tooth and nail to get Shawn into Mason’s program. I think she knew if she let him walk out those hospital doors, the next time he came in, he’d be leaving in a body bag. Shawn didn’t have insurance, and it’s not like rehab’s covered much anyway. She paid out of pocket for him, and then some.”

“Damn. And Shawn was willing to get clean just like that?”

I shrug. “I don’t really know what happened or what she said, just that it worked. Fast-forward three months, Mason comes home, and he’s not alone.” And he no longer needed me.

The guitar twangs loudly and I cringe.

Will takes a couple hesitant sips of the whiskey before speaking, “So what, you guys think once you start playing originals and want to record and whatnot, you’ll go on tour?”

“That’s the plan.”

“And they’re afraid they might relapse,” he easily surmises.

I nod. “That was the concern, yeah. Especially for Shawn.”

“Was? What do you mean?”

“Noticed that, huh?” I say dryly. I make a grabby hand for the bottle, which Will thankfully doesn’t ignore. “It’s mostly because of Izzy at this point.”

“Izzy?”