BooksBarbecue
Back Where There's A Will Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  2. PROLOGUE
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. Interlude
  37. Acknowledgements
  38. Content Warning
  39. About the Author

I don’t want to be sad anymore.

I don’t want to be numb.

So I finally do what I’ve fought for so long.

What I should’ve done a long time ago.

I let go.

9

9

Waylon McAllister

I have a rule about Sundays—if I can’t do it from the comfort of my couch, then it’s not getting done.

Apparently, Mason never got this memo, because halfway through my second bowl of Cocoa Puffs, he decides I need to join him and Shawn in our make-shift gym slash studio slash storage space in the basement. I’d be offended if I didn’t know I’m in exceptional shape. I might have the palate of a child, but I’ve been blessed with at least some decent genes.

And anxiety.

#winning

I rub sweat out of my eye and toss Mason a water bottle. Chest heaving, he uses his teeth to release the sport top. His throat works as he tosses his head back, squirting the bottle into his open mouth.

A song by Bad Omens blares from the speakers in the corner as Shawn’s feet continue to pound away near-soundlessly on the treadmill. A stupid investment if there ever was one. What’s the point of running when you’re not going anywhere?

Mason tosses the empty bottle to the side and looks at me. “Your turn.”

We switch places so I can finish out my last set. I lay back on the bench and wiggle until I’m comfortably lined up with the barbell to begin doing chest presses.

Mason increases the weights without my prompting. Drumming takes a lot of strength, so I have to hit the weights hard, even if I don’t do it nearly as often as I probably should. It also burns a shitton of calories—which is why I’m still on the leaner side. It’s enough, though. I’m far from the twig I was during the first seventeen years of my life.

I blow the hair out of my eyes and grit my teeth as I grip the barbell tightly in my fists. Mason spots me as I shake and grunt my way through the final couple reps.

He’s shirtless, lightly tanned skin slick with sweat, tattoos on display. He’s got a lot less ink than me—a sleeve going down his right arm and some lyrics scrawled across his rib cage and wrist.

And an infinity sign on his left arm that never fails to send a pang through my chest.

Izzy had the same one.

He chews on his lip ring as he eyes my arms with laser focus, ready to intervene at the drop of a hat. His light brown hair is damp and falls messily over his brow.

A rush of air escapes me as I finish, and Mason helps relieve me of the barbell.