starving.”
His mother pressed her lips together and walked stiffly to the table. “I was going to wait for a better time to do this, but . . .” She reached in her purse and withdrew a brochure and handed it to him. Brennan glanced at it. Valley Vista Recovery and Rehabilitation Center. He didn’t understand it at first, didn’t get the hint. But when he did, he sagged back in his chair, away from it. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly what you think it is.”
He stared at her. “Are you kidding, Mom? You think after what happened to Trey that I could possibly be into drugs?”
“No, of course not!” she said, sounding slightly wounded. “I know you better than that. But you’re drinking too much.”
“So what ?” Brennan exploded, this time unable to keep his anger in check. He shoved against the table and out of the chair and moved away from her. “I’m a grown man! I can drink a river if I want!”
His mother did the wrong thing—she gave him a patient, motherly smile. “Brennan . . . don’t you see? You’re drinking too much because you’re depressed.”
“Don’t even try,” he snapped. “I’m not depressed . I’m tired. I’m exhausted ,” he said, sweeping his arm wide. “Do you have any idea what my life has been like?” His life had hit a wall head-on, and he couldn’t seem to peel himself off of it. No one could peel him off of it.
The world knew him as Everett Alden, the lead singer and cofounder of Tuesday’s End, the chart-topping band of the last decade. Brennan Everett Alden had been Brennan’s name for the first twelve years of his life. But then his mother had married Noel Yates and Noel had adopted him, and Brennan had become Brennan Yates. Brennan Yates was a nobody in the music industry, but Everett Alden was about as red-hot as rock stars came. And right now, at this point in his life, for a few weeks, Brennan desperately needed to be nobody but Brennan Yates.
So what if he was a little depressed? He’d just finished a 150-city tour on the heels of a new album that had gone platinum. He’d ended a yearlong relationship with Jenna O’Neil, one of the hottest young actresses filling movie theaters, because she couldn’t keep her pants up in the company of her costar—a fact that was displayed on every magazine on every newsstand, lest Brennan forget. He’d dealt with a batshit crazy forty-year-old woman who kept breaking into his house in LA and stealing his boxers. He’d had a major artistic disagreement with Chance, the guitarist of the band, and Brennan’s best friend since they were two fourteen-year-old outcasts in a California middle school. They’d formed Tuesday’s End in Chance’s garage. And oh yeah, the big one, the topping on his cake: their other best friend, Trey—who had been there in the beginning, too, who had been their drummer until his heroin addiction got so bad they couldn’t rely on him—had overdosed and died a few months ago.
Or committed suicide. Depended on who you listened to.
Brennan had tried to reach him, had tried to pull him out of his own ass, but Trey was so messed up. He’d flown out to Palm Springs to see Trey the day before he was found dead. Trey had just come out of his third stint in rehab and he swore he was clean. He’d looked gaunt and a little yellow. He’d said, “Look at all we’ve got, Bren,” and had cast his arms around his big house.
“We’ve done pretty well for ourselves,” Brennan had agreed.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying look at what we’ve got. We’re at the top of the world. So . . .” He’d leaned forward, peering at Brennan. “Is this all there is?”
“Buddy, I don’t—”
Trey had grabbed his wrist and gripped it tightly. “No, man, I need to know. Is this all there is ?”
The next day, Trey was dead.
I don’t know, Trey. I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe this exhaustion I feel is all that there is at the end of the day.
So yeah,
His mother pressed her lips together and walked stiffly to the table. “I was going to wait for a better time to do this, but . . .” She reached in her purse and withdrew a brochure and handed it to him. Brennan glanced at it. Valley Vista Recovery and Rehabilitation Center. He didn’t understand it at first, didn’t get the hint. But when he did, he sagged back in his chair, away from it. “What the hell is that?”
“Exactly what you think it is.”
He stared at her. “Are you kidding, Mom? You think after what happened to Trey that I could possibly be into drugs?”
“No, of course not!” she said, sounding slightly wounded. “I know you better than that. But you’re drinking too much.”
“So what ?” Brennan exploded, this time unable to keep his anger in check. He shoved against the table and out of the chair and moved away from her. “I’m a grown man! I can drink a river if I want!”
His mother did the wrong thing—she gave him a patient, motherly smile. “Brennan . . . don’t you see? You’re drinking too much because you’re depressed.”
“Don’t even try,” he snapped. “I’m not depressed . I’m tired. I’m exhausted ,” he said, sweeping his arm wide. “Do you have any idea what my life has been like?” His life had hit a wall head-on, and he couldn’t seem to peel himself off of it. No one could peel him off of it.
The world knew him as Everett Alden, the lead singer and cofounder of Tuesday’s End, the chart-topping band of the last decade. Brennan Everett Alden had been Brennan’s name for the first twelve years of his life. But then his mother had married Noel Yates and Noel had adopted him, and Brennan had become Brennan Yates. Brennan Yates was a nobody in the music industry, but Everett Alden was about as red-hot as rock stars came. And right now, at this point in his life, for a few weeks, Brennan desperately needed to be nobody but Brennan Yates.
So what if he was a little depressed? He’d just finished a 150-city tour on the heels of a new album that had gone platinum. He’d ended a yearlong relationship with Jenna O’Neil, one of the hottest young actresses filling movie theaters, because she couldn’t keep her pants up in the company of her costar—a fact that was displayed on every magazine on every newsstand, lest Brennan forget. He’d dealt with a batshit crazy forty-year-old woman who kept breaking into his house in LA and stealing his boxers. He’d had a major artistic disagreement with Chance, the guitarist of the band, and Brennan’s best friend since they were two fourteen-year-old outcasts in a California middle school. They’d formed Tuesday’s End in Chance’s garage. And oh yeah, the big one, the topping on his cake: their other best friend, Trey—who had been there in the beginning, too, who had been their drummer until his heroin addiction got so bad they couldn’t rely on him—had overdosed and died a few months ago.
Or committed suicide. Depended on who you listened to.
Brennan had tried to reach him, had tried to pull him out of his own ass, but Trey was so messed up. He’d flown out to Palm Springs to see Trey the day before he was found dead. Trey had just come out of his third stint in rehab and he swore he was clean. He’d looked gaunt and a little yellow. He’d said, “Look at all we’ve got, Bren,” and had cast his arms around his big house.
“We’ve done pretty well for ourselves,” Brennan had agreed.
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying look at what we’ve got. We’re at the top of the world. So . . .” He’d leaned forward, peering at Brennan. “Is this all there is?”
“Buddy, I don’t—”
Trey had grabbed his wrist and gripped it tightly. “No, man, I need to know. Is this all there is ?”
The next day, Trey was dead.
I don’t know, Trey. I don’t know. Maybe it is. Maybe this exhaustion I feel is all that there is at the end of the day.
So yeah,
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