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  When they returned home, Josephine fell in step with the housekeeper and the cook, finalizing plans for an upcoming dinner party. Their soft chatter buzzed in Ras’s head as he headed upstairs to his bedroom to unpack.

  He sat down on their bed and exhaled. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his hand. The feeling was still there. Even two days alone with his beautiful wife was not enough to wipe Cleo from his mind.

  Ras closed his eyes tight and put his head in his hands. He mumbled a few quick prayers and tried to force his thoughts to focus on his wife and daughter. He had everything he wanted. Josephine was happy. Reina was healthy. Business was booming. He was in his beloved home country.

  But it was still there. That feeling in the pit of his stomach, an empty pang that he needed to fill. From downstairs, Ras could hear his grandmother bringing Reina back and Josephine squealing with delight. Ras picked up his cell phone and turned it around and around in his hand. He dropped it on his bed and went downstairs to play with the baby.

  The next morning, his wife was still in bed when he woke up. She was sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.

  Ras checked his cell phone and then put it down.

  “I have to go to New York for a few days for a session with Jake,” Ras said.

  “Okay, sweetie,” Josephine said. “You want me to come up too?”

  “It’s up to you,” said Ras. “I’ll be doing twelve-hour days at the studio. But if you want to come, you should. And bring the baby too if you’d like.”

  Josephine got out of bed and shrugged into her bathrobe. Ras held his breath.

  “I’ll stay,” she said. “I’ve got work to do. You go.”

  Ras shrugged.

  “Let me know if you change your mind,” said Ras. He kissed his wife on the cheek and walked into their closet to pack a bag.

  During the entire time that Ras packed a bag, made travel arrangements, and packed the equipment he would need, he prayed to God for the strength to stay put. He put the lighter to his palm and accidentally burned his hand. He begged himself over and over to stay put, to fight the itch.

  The next morning, at the airport, he stopped trying to fight it. Josephine sent him a text message: “Love you. Be safe.” Ras read the text three times and then turned his phone off and put it in his carry-on bag.

  Z sat in a booth at the Brooklyn Diner, flipping through the first few chapters of his book. He was stunned at how well Alex captured much of what he felt and went through as a young child. It was scary to see some of that stuff in print. But in a way it was freeing as well. He was writing notes in the margins of one page when Alex breezed into the restaurant and flopped down next to him.

  “You know I hate meeting here,” Alex said, tossing her bag next to her in the booth.

  “What’s the big deal?” Z said. “They make great coffee.”

  “I met Cleo here to write Platinum,” said Alex. “Not a lot of good memories for me.”

  “Might bring us good luck,” Z said, smiling and then gesturing to a waitress for more coffee.

  “I just think it’s kind of creepy.”

  “I read what you have so far . . .” Z said.

  “And?”

  “I like it. A lot.”

  Alex nodded.

  “Good. I’m glad. We should keep going. There’s lots more I need to know.”

  Alex fumbled with a recorder and a notebook and Z watched, slightly amused. He’d always gotten the impression that Alex was one of those mega-professional writers who only asked questions and follow-up questions, never giving up any part of themselves. But he’d realized when they first started working together that Alex was unhinged. Nervous. Not on her game. She was a great writer. But there was obviously something going on in her personal life.

  She constantly used her hands to sweep her hair out of her face. She was always digging in her bag for a pen. Today, she found one and scribbled on a napkin with it. It didn’t work. She dug around her mammoth bag for another pen. That one didn’t work either.

  “Are you okay?” Z asked. He took a sip of his coffee and continued watching Alex empty her bag.

  “I’m fine,” Alex snapped. Then she caught herself. “I don’t have the batteries for my recorder and I’ve somehow become a writer who can’t find a working pen. Nice.” Z dug into the inside pocket of his peacoat and pulled out a pen, a brand-new reporter’s notebook, and a mini digital recorder.

  “Here, use these. I use them to write rhymes. But you need them more than I do right now.”

  Alex seemed to hesitate for a brief moment. Then she exhaled and swiped Z’s supplies to her side of the table. She turned on the recorder and flipped to a new page in the notebook.

  “Are you ready?” Alex asked.

  Z only smiled.

  “Who are you today?” Alex asked.

  “I’m a junkie. I’m a father. I’m a husband. I’m a rapper.”

  “In that order?”

  “Today? Yes,” said Z. “But it changes day to day.”

  “You’ve been clean for a year now. Biggest regret?”

  “Too many to count. Right now, I really regret telling a reporter that Jake is an alcoholic. Dumb move. Make sure you put that in the book.”

  “Did you talk to him about it?”

  “I didn’t. But I will. I have a question for you, Alex. Are you an alcoholic?”

  Z watched Alex’s mouth open, close, and then open again.

  “Why would you ask me that?”

  “Beth might have mentioned something . . . Is that part of the reason why you agreed to work with me? Because you can relate to my story?”

  “It was more about paying my mortgage.”

  “What are you talking about? Birdie has the number-one song in the country right now.”

  “I’m aware of my husband’s success.”

  “So why are you acting like you need to make money?”

  “Z, I’m supposed to be interviewing you.”

  Z reached across the table and turned off her recorder.

  “You have been,” Z said. “And you’re doing a great job.”

  Alex looked up and leveled her eyes at Z.

  “Thank you.”

  “When’s the last time you’ve been to a meeting?” Z asked.

  “Years.”

  “Come on,” Z said, standing up and motioning for Alex to follow.

  The church basement had folding chairs arranged in a semicircle with an ancient teacher’s desk at the middle of the circle.

  A white man with a heavily pockmarked face and no front teeth was talking with a young black man wearing sagging jeans and construction boots.

  Z led Alex to a seat and went over to help make the coffee. No matter how hard they tried, the coffee always tasted like swill. They tried those fancy little creamers, fancy beans someone brought back from Brazil. No matter, the coffee was always just a half-step above dishwater.

  But it wasn’t about the coffee in the meetings. It was about being of service. After three months of sitting in the back of a variety of church basements, saying nothing, and counting down the minutes until the meeting was over, Z had begun sharing. He would open with the traditional: “Hello, my name is Z. And I’m a drug addict and an alcoholic.” He heard stories worse than his, which he’d never considered a possibility. There was the man in need of a liver transplant who’d run over his own wife while she was gardening. There was the woman who drove her daughter to day care while drunk and ran into a tree, killing her child. There were people with no family and no friends. He attended funerals monthly and sometimes the bereaved consisted of just people from twelve-step meetings who didn’t even know the dead person’s last name.

  Like most people new to recovery, once he got used to sharing in meetings, Z felt like he needed to share his experiences with everyone. He tried to get Beth to come on Family Night, but she refused. He’d even asked Jake to come through. But he said he wasn’t trying to deal with all the rumors that would come f
rom him going to an AA meeting. Jake was close to sealing a deal with Seagram’s for his own lifestyle brand: wine, clothing, food, cars—everything. He couldn’t have a paparazzo catching him slipping into one of Z’s church basements.

  Z knew Alex would come. He saw something in her. Something familiar. She wasn’t drinking. But she wasn’t sober either. Z was just learning the difference. Just because you didn’t pick up a drink or a drug, it didn’t mean you were mentally on your game. Binge eating, smoking cigarettes, irritability, restlessness—all signs that you weren’t in control of your sobriety. It was a warning sign that you could slip. Z didn’t know what Alex was doing in her personal life. But he could tell from the way she continuously ran her hands through her hair, nibbled at the cuticles on her thumb, and constantly bit the inside of her cheek that she was a nervous wreck.

  Z snuck a few looks at Alex while he set up the coffee. Her hair hung down her face and she kept tucking it behind her ear. She had her legs crossed and tucked beneath the chair. She knew better than to take out her pen and notebook, so she just sat there, looking monumentally uncomfortable. Occasionally, she reached into her bag, took out a small container of lotion, and rubbed a bit between her hands.

  Z slipped into the seat next to hers once the leader of the meeting began speaking. Z stared straight ahead. Alex kept her eyes on the floor.

  As people began to share their triumphs, defeats, and all the tiny moments in between, Z noticed Alex slowly opening up. She smiled when a woman talked about faking a cough so she could justify taking NyQuil. And her eyes welled up when a sixteen-year-old got up to receive his one-year sobriety chip.

  Z raised his hand. The leader nodded in his direction.

  “My name is Z. And I’m a drug addict and an alcoholic.”

  “Hi, Z,” said the group. Alex remained silent.

  “I’m glad to be here. I’m glad to be sober. But I’m anxious about what being sober is going to do to my career. I feel like I need the edge of drugs and alcohol to make me relevant. What am I supposed to rap about now? Doing yoga and going to twelve-step meetings?”

  There was a smattering of laughter and Z smiled.

  “Rappers ain’t known to be a sensitive bunch,” Z continued. “But maybe I can start a new genre. Thanks for letting me share.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” the group chorused.

  The leader scanned the room, checking to see if anyone else had a hand raised to be acknowledged. A half-minute passed before Alex raised her hand, just up to her shoulder.

  “My name is Alex,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “And I’m . . .” Alex stopped. And looked over at Z. He nodded his head.

  “And I’m an alcoholic,” she said, letting out a loud sigh afterward.

  “Hi, Alex,” the group said.

  “Um. It’s been a few years since I said those words. Not sure why it was so hard to say. I’ve been sober for five years, and my life has changed a lot since my drinking days. Real grateful for that. I have a wonderful husband who is doing well. I have my own career that I love. But I haven’t been to meetings. I rarely read The Big Book. I’m disconnected from actively realizing that I’m an alcoholic. I can’t say I’m going to start going to meetings again. But I am glad to be here today. Thanks for letting me share.”

  Z squeezed Alex’s shoulder. She turned to face him, shrugged, and smiled.

  After the meeting, Z and Alex sat on a bench outside the church. The sun was now shining through, turning a blustery day into a tolerably cold one. Alex wrapped her scarf tighter around her neck and zipped her jacket all the way up.

  Z spoke freely while Alex nodded and took notes, occasionally checking to make sure the recorder was working. Z sat stiff, his back against the benches, his hands folded in his lap. Most of the time he kept his eyes closed tight. When Alex asked certain questions, his eyes popped open.

  “Who is your closest friend?”

  “I thought we were talking about summer camp in seventy-nine?”

  “I made a sharp left.”

  Z drummed his fingers on his lap for a few seconds. He finally looked up at Alex.

  “Probably Jake.”

  “So why did you tell a reporter that he’s a drunk now? Is that how you treat your friends?”

  Z looked down at the ground and then back up at Alex.

  “Have you seen him lately?” asked Z. “He looks a mess. He’s drinking way too much.”

  “You and Jake have always been very close . . .” Alex said.

  “And we always will be. But that doesn’t mean I can’t call him out on his shit.”

  “The same way he called you out on yours.”

  Z nodded.

  “Jake didn’t make it easy for me when I was using,” Z said. “There was talk that he was going to drop me from the label. And he probably would have if the song I did with Kipenzi hadn’t blown up.”

  “Why aren’t you speaking about this with him directly?”

  “Me and Jake are very similar. We’re hotheaded and hardheaded. This ain’t the first time we beefed out. And it won’t be the last. It’ll pass.”

  “Technically, since he’s the head of the label you both record for, he’s sort of your boss, right?”

  “I guess so. Doesn’t really work like that in the real world. I don’t work for anyone.”

  Z watched Alex scribble in her notepad, eyebrows in a V-shape. What was she thinking? Was she judging him? Could she tell that he was a completely different person than he used to be? He thought about how somber she was at the meeting. What was she going through? She knew Birdie was on tour. Was the absence already messing things up for them? It had taken Beth years to get sick of Z’s traveling. But then again, she always had a small child or a pregnancy to deal with.

  “You want to have kids one day?” Z asked.

  The look on Alex’s face made Z instantly regret the question.

  “Sorry,” he said.

  Alex just smiled.

  “How are you handling Birdie being halfway across the world?”

  “I miss him. A lot.”

  “You don’t have to be here doing this,” Z said, pointing to the notebook. “You could be with him.”

  “I caught up with him in Israel for a few days and that was fun. But other than that, I can’t. I have to work.”

  “They don’t have paper and pens around the world? You need to write? So write. You don’t have to be in Brooklyn ghostwriting an aging rapper’s memoir.”

  “Did you just refer to yourself as aging?” Alex smiled.

  “We’re all aging. Even the young cats.”

  “Maybe I’ll stop writing for a bit after we turn this book in.”

  “Alex, I know you’re the one who’s supposed to be asking the questions. But at the meeting today . . .”

  Alex turned her recorder off.

  “What?” Alex asked.

  “Do you think you’ll ever pick up a drink again?”

  Z expected Alex to tell him to mind his own business. But Alex looked up at the bright sky.

  “I’ve been a little stressed lately,” said Alex. “And I can’t front. A drink has crossed my mind a few times.”

  “What’s stressing you?”

  Alex twisted a straw wrapper around her pinkie.

  “I’ve been thinking about losing my husband to some groupie like Cleo. I’m scared we’ll grow apart or he’ll start changing because we have a little paper now. Things are moving too fast. The last time I saw him, there was a line of people waiting to get his autograph. And he signed each and every one. How long until we’re trying to avoid the autograph seekers?”

  Z laughed. “Not long at all.”

  “I think we’re done for today,” Alex said, shoving things into her bag.

  “Where are you off to now?” Z asked.

  Z detected a whiff of something from her and put up both his hands.

  “Too personal?”

  Alex stood up.

  “A little.”r />
  “Is it weird to hear all the minute details of your subjects’ lives? Does it ever weigh you down?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “You ever cry when you work with someone on their book?”

  “Rarely.”

  “I’ll try to keep you from crying,” Z said, standing up.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Alex said. “I don’t cry easily.”

  They walked away from the church, Z on his way back to the diner to get his car, Alex on the way to the subway back to Brooklyn. Z stopped to check his cell phone. Alex marched toward the subway. Z noted that she never looked back.

  Birdie held his breath as the plane dipped while preparing to touch down at Newark Airport. Normally, he said a silent prayer when he landed, thanking God that the plane didn’t crash. But this time, he was thankful that he managed to complete the first leg of his tour without being unfaithful. Birdie knew that his first international tour might have temptations. But he never would have expected all the drugs and women that were shoved into his face at every opportunity. Birdie turned it all down on two different continents, sticking with the (very) occasional beer and a nightly blunt.

  Birdie flipped through his iPod, looking for a song that wouldn’t make him feel restless.

  “Ready to go home?”

  Gerald, a label representative, had upgraded his ticket to first class and was sitting next to Birdie. Bird felt weird about this dude being in first class while his friends were in coach. But when Birdie offered to upgrade his friends, they’d all refused.

  “I’m definitely ready,” Birdie said, closing his eyes.

  Birdie and Alex had bought a spacious but not over-the-top five-thousand-square-foot colonial in Teaneck, New Jersey. Birdie had signed all the paperwork from the tour bus driving through Europe. When the tour was extended beyond the date they were closing on the house, Birdie could tell that Alex was pissed. She’d have to do all the heavy lifting. But she just told him she would take care of everything and not to worry about it. At baggage claim, Birdie stood at the carousel with his friends, waiting for the luggage to come down the chute.