Page 8 of Giving Chase

I pause, choosing my words carefully. "It's... complicated. But it's done now."

"Are you okay with this? Really?"

Am I? The question echoes in my mind, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions I've kept bottled up for five long years.

"I'm fine, Justin," I lie, my tone more clipped than I intended. "It's just a lot to prepare for."

"Mom," his voice softens, "I know there's history there. If you need to talk..."

"I appreciate that, honey, but I've got this under control." Even as I say the words, I know they're not true. But some burdens aren't meant for our children to bear.

After reassuring Justin and ending the call, I find myself drawn to the old filing cabinet in the corner of my office. With trembling hands, I pull open the bottom drawer and extract a worn leather journal.

I have boxes of mementos I’ve kept over my career, but it's been years since I've looked at this particular one. Years since I've allowed myself to revisit the memories contained within its pages. But now, with the weight of my decision pressing down on me, I feel compelled to confront the past.

I open the journal, and a photo slips out. It's from one of Incendiary Ink's early tours. There's Chase, young and vibrant, his arm slung casually around my shoulders. We're both laughing at something off-camera, caught in a moment of pure, unguarded joy.

My fingers trace the outlines of our faces, and I'm hit with a wave of nostalgia so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet. God, we were young. So full of hope and ambition. When did it all get so complicated?

As I flip through the pages, snippets of our shared history flash before my eyes. Late-night songwriting sessions. Heated arguments over creative directions. Stolen moments of tenderness in the back of tour buses and anonymous hotel rooms. The slow, painful unraveling of whatever it was we had.

And through it all, the music. Always the music.

I close the journal, feeling the weight of unresolved emotions and unanswered questions. Why didn't he ever reach out? Did I mean so little to him in the end? Five years of silence. Five years of wondering, of second-guessing every decision, every moment we shared.

The hurt I've been suppressing bubbles to the surface, sharp and raw. I thought... I don't know what I thought. That maybe once he got clean, he'd reach out. That our history meant something. But nothing. Radio silence.

My eyes fall on my desk phone, and I'm seized by a sudden, reckless impulse. Before I can talk myself out of it, I'm dialing a number I know by heart despite years of disuse. It rings once, twice, three times. Just as I'm about to lose my nerve, there's a click.

"Eliza?" Chase's voice, deeper and raspier than I remember, sends a shiver down my spine.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. "Chase. We need to talk about this induction ceremony."

There's a pause, pregnant with unspoken words and shared history. Then, "Yeah, I guess we do."

As I settle into my chair, my heart racing, I'm struck by a powerful sense of déjà vu. This nervousness, this electric anticipation tinged with fear – I've felt this before. Twenty yearsago, in a dimly lit studio, when Chase and I crossed that line from professional to personal for the first time.

I remember how my hands shook as I reached for him, how my voice trembled when I whispered his name. The exhilaration and terror of stepping into unknown territory, of risking everything for a chance at something extraordinary.

Now, as I clear my throat to speak, I realize I'm standing on the edge of another precipice. The stakes are different, the terrain has changed, but that feeling – that mix of fear and hope and possibility – it's exactly the same.

"So," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel, "where should we start?"

As Chase begins to speak, I close my eyes and let myself be transported back to that night twenty years ago when everything changed. For better or worse, we're about to embark on another journey together. And just like then, I have no idea where it will lead us.

But this time, I'm older. Wiser. More guarded. This time, I tell myself, I won't let my heart get ahead of my head.

Even as I think it, though, a small voice in the back of my mind whispers a traitorous thought: Who am I kidding? When it comes to Chase Avery, my heart has always had a mind of its own.

May 15, 2004

The acrid smell of stale coffee and cigarettes hangs heavy in the air as I check my watch for the hundredth time. 2:37 AM. The studio's soundproofed walls can't quite muffle the mutedthrum of the city outside, a constant reminder of the world beyond this cocoon of creativity and tension.

Joe, our sound engineer, hunches over the mixing board, his fingers dancing across faders and knobs with practiced precision. Beside him, Raphael, the producer Blackmore insisted on, nods along to a rhythm only he can hear. We've been at this for fourteen hours straight, but Chase had been adamant about nailing this track tonight.

I suppress a yawn, acutely aware of the mountain of paperwork waiting for me back at the office. Tour logistics, contract negotiations, press junkets – the never-ending demands of managing a band on the cusp of stardom. But right now, all of that fades into the background as I focus on the figure behind the glass.

Chase stands in the recording booth, headphones askew, a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his brow under the harsh studio lights. He's been wrestling with this song for days, chasing a perfection that seems just out of reach. The rest of the band – Will and Mark –left hours ago, frustration etched on their faces. But Chase... Chase couldn't let it go.