Under the Influence

Hold Me Down

Shawnie's POV

"Baby!! My dad is outside!" I yell for Chris to come downstairs. I finish adding the last couple of ingredients to our smoothie in the blender. "Hurry up!" I call again, wiping my hands on a towel as I rush toward the door.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming," Chris yells back, but his voice sounds weak.

Chris hasn't been feeling well at all. Detoxing has hit him harder than either of us expected. It's been a week since he swore he could stop because he "had control," and now his body is proving otherwise. He barely sleeps. When he does, it's restless, sometimes tossing and turning, sweating through the sheets, waking up gasping. He gets cold, then hot. He paces the house at three in the morning like something is crawling under his skin. Some nights, he sits on the shower floor with the water running because it's the only thing that calms him down.

He won't say it, but I know he's craving it. I see it in his jaw when it tightens, or the way he snaps over small things and then immediately apologizes.

It's been rough.

Besides detox, the outside world hasn't let up either. Yesterday was his birthday, but there was no celebration—just silence. The warrant is still hanging over his head, and the media has been brutal. Every blog, every outlet, every gossip page keeps replaying that video. Headlines calling him unstable. Dangerous. Out of control. Some are defending him. Most aren't. The clip of him dragging me out of the car loops everywhere. Slowed down. Zoomed in. Narrated by strangers who think they know everything.

My phone hasn't stopped buzzing for a week. Interviews. Statements. Legal updates. People offering "advice." His publicist is begging him to surrender. Lawyers are calling nonstop. He refuses to turn himself in. Says he needs to get through this first. Says jail will only make things worse right now. I'm trying to manage it quietly, negotiate time, and calm everyone down.

And I took off work. I had to. I told myself it was temporary, just until he stabilizes. But I can feel everything stacking up. Clients waiting. Emails piling. My dad is flying in because he doesn't trust what's happening around me.

I'm exhausted.

Chris didn't want to do anything for his birthday. No party. No friends. No club. No studio session. Just me. That should feel romantic. Instead, it feels fragile. Like he's shrinking into himself. I got him two gifts anyway. The piece we saw at the jeweler's that day before everything exploded. And a custom necklace I had made. He smiled when he opened them, but it was faint. He barely had the energy to react. He was nauseous most of the day. Pale. Weak. He tried to eat the cake I baked, but after two bites, he pushed the plate away and lay back down.

He's lost weight in just a week. His hoodie hangs differently now.

"My poor baby," I whispered last night while wiping sweat off his forehead.

But even as I say that, I feel the weight of it. I'm a twenty-four-seven caretaker right now. Monitoring him. Watching his breathing. Making smoothies. Timing vitamins. Sitting up when he can't sleep. Holding him when the anxiety hits. Listening when he spirals about the media calling him a monster. Trying not to spiral myself.

I'm a little scared because my dad said absolutely nothing about what's been going on in the media, and if I know my dad, I know if he doesn't talk about it, he's pissed off. So, Lord help us.

After my dad left the airport, he came straight to Chris' house because that's where I've been staying for the last week. He didn't want either of us to pick him up, nor did he want Chris to arrange a car service. He wanted to rent a car. He didn't want to stay with us; he wanted to stay in a hotel, but I told him he could stay at my house since I was staying with Chris. I know he is so pissed off at me, and about what happened. I am scared to hear what's coming out of his mouth.