Page 143 of Finding Storm

The guy I was before Stevie … with the one-night stands. The empty, hollow feeling inside of me. The anger I carried.

I don’t want to be him anymore.

I want to be the man I am when I’m with her.

I want to be happy. But most of all, I want to make her happy.

I’m going back there to Lake Havasu, to Stevie, and I’m just praying to God that Raze is right and Stevie’s not over me and that she still wants me like I want her.

Otherwise, I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do.

It’s early morning when I pull my car up on the driveway to Jake and Tru’s house.

Home.

Even though being with Stevie feels like home to me now, this place will always be home too. It just means something different than what it used to.

I remember the first time I came here. Coming in the car up the driveway, I remember thinking it was the biggest house I had ever seen.

Life was a hell of a lot different back then.

I just hope my mom would have been proud of the choices I’ve made. Well, maybe not all of my choices. But most of them at least.

I know she would have loved Stevie though. She’s impossible not to love.

Putting out my cigarette, I put the butt back in the pack.

If I’m going to be with Stevie—and I’m hoping to be with her permanently—then I’m either going to have to find out how the hell to dispose of these things in the right way. Or stop smoking.

I shudder.

Okay, the cigarettes stay for now.

I’ll look into the responsibly-disposing-of-them shit.

Getting out my car, I head into the house.

I hear the voices as soon as I enter.

They’re all in the kitchen.

I came early, so I’d catch them all at home. I want to tell them I’m leaving.

God, I make it sound so final.

I’m moving four hours away, and I’ll be back all the damn time.

I spoke to Zane last night. He was surprisingly okay about it. Well, as okay as Zane could be.

He basically said, “I don’t need to hear about your girlfriend problems. I’m not your fucking therapist. I don’t give a fuck where you live. Live in a fucking cave in the Antarctic for all I care. Just make sure the fucking songs are written, and your ass is back in the studio every fucking second I tell you to be there.”

Then, he hung up on me.

So, yeah, he’s okay with it.

And I’m packed and ready to go. My bag’s in the trunk, and Jonny’s guitar is on the passenger seat. Everything I need is with me.

No, that’s a lie. Because the only thing I need is in Lake Havasu, Arizona.