Page 156 of Down Beat

Rick’s holiday was cut short the minute his old man sent him out to track the guy down.

It’s like a fucked-up game of Where in the World is Carmen San Diego? with Rick tracking our guitarist from the clues he leaves on social media.

“Pass your plate, Rey.”

I hold it out for the old man, my arm sinking under the weight of the small calf he unloads onto my dish. Sure as fuck won’t need to eat for a week after this.

“What happens now that you’re out?” Toby asks as Dad does the same for him. “Do you need to check in with anyone?”

Straight to the hard topics, huh? I stare at the asshole across the table. He called me once a week while I was in there, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out he did it out of obligation.

If I thought my attempts on my life drove enough of a wedge between us, it had nothing on what I did when I fucked up that final show.

Took two and half weeks for the black eye he gave me to fully disappear.

“I’ve got a free pass,” I answer. “Only have to call if I think I need them.”

“Really?” Cassie asks as she holds her plate out for the dainty slab Dad passes her. “I thought you’d have to do AA or something.”

I consider how hard it would be to swap plates while she’s distracted. “Nope. Because I was a voluntary admission, I miss out on that.”

“You shouldn’t have needed admission at all,” Dad gripes.

Here we go again.

“If you pulled your fucking head in and listened to your brother, none of this would have needed to happen.”

“Clint,” Mom scolds.

“Just saying it how it is,” he mumbles.

“And don’t we love you for your continual honesty,” I snap.

Toby groans, while Cassie sighs. And just like that, our Brady Bunch moment slides into something that more resembles a scene from Married With Children.

Ah—home. No place like it. And Mom wonders why we don’t come back more.

“Anyway,” I announce loudly. “I have a few pieces to go over with you later, Toby.”

“Good.” The rest of his sentence is implied in his tone: at least you got something achieved while you were there.

I fight the urge to set my phone on the table and record this bullshit. I could send it to kitty, titled And You Wonder Why I Drink.

The meal continues in silence—at least, for me. The rest of my family unit make small talk amongst themselves, either oblivious to the fact I refuse to join in, or maybe thankful. Who would know? All I can state for certain is that without the bullshit that accompanies everything to do with me, their conversation holds a much lighter, easier feel to it.

I’m completely and utterly the black sheep, and for once, that doesn’t make me feel bad. I’m okay with it. I’ve made my peace with it. My depression is part of who I am, but it’s not everything I am.

I am my mental illness, but my mental illness is not me.

And kitty thinks I haven’t changed.

“Swell meal, Mom. Thanks.” I set my knife and fork on the plate, and then push out from the table.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“People to see. Things to do.” I stick my hand out for the old man. “Good to catch up, as always.”

He reaches out tentatively and gives it a pump. I can see it in his eyes; he thinks I’ve lost it again.