Chapter 5: Jayden
785 Words
Waking up felt like getting hit in the head with a brick. Everything around me buzzed and spun, and my mouth was so dry it felt like I’d been chewing on dust. I reached for my phone, which was somewhere under the bed, finally grabbing it on the fourth attempt.
When the screen lit up, a flood of messages—ghosts of decisions I barely remembered making—hit me all at once. A couple of nights ago, apparently, I’d agreed to some nonsense from Oliver.
Oliver: “Hey, Jayden, I’ve got an idea. Hear me out—how about a double date?”
Oliver: “There’s this girl. She’s cool, I really like her, but she wants to bring her friend. The friend says she’s obsessed with your music. This is your chance, bro!”
Oliver: “Let’s do Friday at 7. Cool?”
I scrolled further and found my own response, clearly written in a haze of booze or worse:
Me: “Fine. Let’s hope she actually likes the music.”
I snorted.“The music.”A word I clung to so often it had nearly lost all meaning.
Oliver’s follow-ups didn’t leave much room for interpretation:
Oliver: “Thanks, man! You’re the best. Just, please, behave yourself. This is important.”
Oliver: “Don’t forget. I’ll remind you later today.”
I sprawled back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Of course, I’d agreed. Of course, I’d forgotten.
“Why, Oliver? Why does this matter so much to you? And why should it matter to me?” I muttered, lazily scrolling through his texts.
Sitting up, I tried to piece together my thoughts, but my brain still felt like it was stuck in a fog—a dull ringing in my head that wasn’t quite a headache, wasn’t quite tinnitus. It was just... a reminder that my brain wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
“It’ll pass,” I thought. It always did.
I reached for the glass of water I’d left on the nightstand, only to find it empty. Cursing under my breath, I dragged myself to the kitchen.
Oliver was a good guy. Too good. Sweet, earnest, hopeful. He believed in all that “people are good at heart” bullshit. Sometimes, I envied him for it. Most of the time, it just annoyed me.
As I opened the fridge, I noticed my hand trembling—just slightly, barely noticeable. Shoving it into my pocket, I tried to ignore it. I knew the signs. My body reminding me that I’d only been clean for four months, while my brain still wanted to run back to the easy escape.
“It’s nothing,” I told myself.Too much drinking. Not enough sleep. Just... nothing.
Rubbing my temples, I shoved the thought away.
I sat at the kitchen table and unlocked my phone again. Why had I agreed to this? I should bail. But then Oliver would probably get pissed, and replacing him as a keyboardist would be a nightmare. Sighing, I typed out a message, trying to sound as casual as possible:
Me: “Oli, I’m not feeling great today. Rough week, brutal hangover. Let’s move this to my place?”
The reply came almost instantly.
Oliver: “What do you mean, move it?”
Me: “Bring them here. And buy food, booze—whatever you need. I’m too tired to go anywhere.”
Oliver: “You just don’t want to leave the house.”
Me: “More like I can’t. I’d cancel altogether, but I’m doing this for you. Isn’t that enough?”
He didn’t reply for five minutes. I had time to pour myself a glass of water, drink it, and turn on some music to shake off the sluggishness.
Oliver: “Fine. I’ll bring them at 7. But behave yourself.”
Me: “You know me.”
I smirked as I closed the app.
“Oliver, Oliver... You believe too much in things that stopped mattering a long time ago—relationships, love, all that crap. Life’s so much easier without it,” I thought, leaning back in my chair.
I started picking up the empty bottles scattered across the floor, chucking them into the trash.
Life was simple. No one expected anything from me except to be myself.
Another glance at my hands. Another small itch in my mind. I knew how to fix it—get on stage, flash a smile at the fans, haul cement at a construction site when the money ran out. Everything was cyclical, but I didn’t mind.
If the girl Oliver was bringing really liked the music, that was nice. If not, well, I knew how to handle that too.
- Writer
