We settle in the living room after breakfast. Despite all evidence to the contrary, Esther didn't actually come here just to pick on me. She told us she would do everything in her power to help if we insisted on reconciliation, and she's making good on that now. I need all the advice she can give me.

"This one's about alcoholism," she says, producing a well-read hardcover, "but don't get too excited about all these treatments. Basically it says that the twelve step complete abstinence approach isn't the most effective strategy, and there are a lot of other things that work a lot better, but they haven't worked for Scott. They're mostly about cutting back, but with his depression, even a little can make him vulnerable to falling into a really bad mindset that spirals out of control. This one's about neuroscience and depression, this one's more medicine-oriented, and this one is about the psychology. It has some good bits about alcoholism and depression together. And this one is a good place to start. It's written for the families of people with depression. This one's for people living with drinking alcoholics. I really hope you don't have to go through that again." There are a few more books, and a long list of websites, plus a list of medicines to research and doctors I can consult. This is more advice than I bargained for, but I'm grateful. She really is helping. I just hope, for my sake but mostly for Scott's, that I don't have to use this.

I take notes as she lists things to watch out for, things to say and not to say, and sensitive topics to be careful about. She explains how to know when a crash is coming, how to force him onstage if he says he can't—he'll beat himself up about it if he doesn't—how to make sure he's eating and drinking, and how to respond when he says he's worthless, a waste of space, a failure, a burden.

"Scott's not a typical case," Esther reiterates. "What you read only goes so far with him. Maybe it's his personality, or maybe his depression isn't the same as most people's, but there are these periods of intense productivity, where he blocks out his thoughts by focusing on work. The amount of effort and self-control it takes is tremendous, and he inevitably crashes. Not all at once, though. He keeps fighting it as long as he can, and there's this intermediate stage where he's trying desperately to keep going, but he can see it slipping away. That's when he's the most unstable. He knows all this, of course. He's figured out a lot of strategies and routines to counteract it, and some of the medicine has been really helpful."

It's so matter-of-fact, the way she tells me how to stay sane when he tries to make me hate him. It's beginning to hit me just how much Esther took care of Scott, just how long she literally kept him alive. She's demonstrating an almost inhuman level of emotional detachment as she talks about it, but it's not because she doesn't care. She's learned how to keep functioning day to day, how to keep from being overwhelmed. That's what I'm signing up for. I have a long way to go before mastering that level of control, though. Stray teardrops wrinkle my notes. "Don't bring up Pentatonix," I write. "Don't leave knives around." My letters are shaky.

"Mitch, you might find this buried in the books in a few places, but I don't want you to miss it. It's too easy to forget, but it's the most important thing to remember. There's hope. There's always hope. Don't ever give up on him."

Hope doesn't make things easier. It just makes you try harder. It's easier to give up and run away. It's easier even to give up and stay, resigned. I've done the first and regretted it, and I think I'm ready to try the second. But to hope? If Scott falls again after all he's been through, is it even right to hope? What if it's just never going to really get better? It doesn't matter. I've made up my mind. "I'm not leaving him."

"I didn't say don't leave. I said don't give up on him. The hope, you don't keep that because you need it. It's not for you. It's for Scott. Can you do that?"

"You clearly didn't."

"Watch your tone, Mitchell Grassi. Do you want to tell me I did a bad job? Maybe give me some pointers on how best to take care of Scott?"

"No. I'm sorry. I didn't—I was rude. I'm sorry."

"When I say hope, I don't mean smiling and acting like he's not at risk and he'll be just fine no matter what. Real hope is knowing there's a way out and he can make it. I'm not going to cheer him on as he heads in the opposite direction and makes choices that hurt his chances, but I believe in him. Even at his weakest, he has a chance. As long as he's alive, it's not over."

I nod. I read the books cover to cover and let my whole life revolve around Scott. I don't need to work, and I only have Scott a little longer before tour resumes. He takes me to Starbucks, like I knew he would. I wasn't expecting him to walk me halfway across L.A. to get to the one we always used to go to, the one by our first apartment, but I can't say I'm very surprised either. Maybe I could have even seen it coming, knowing him.

It was sweet. He was nervous. Over me. He invited me out again, for a movie. He's so formal about it. He's not taking me for granted.

We spend as much time together as we can. Eventually I stop avoiding saying Alex's name around him, and eventually he gets used to it. Eventually he stops pretending it wasn't that bad. Eventually we find words to talk about it. I teach him the classification systems I use for acting, showing him each face and explaining how I combine them. He shouts when he sees it. "That! That's it."

"This?"

"Shallower, like before. Like that. A little angry. Bitter." He'd make a good director. "That! That's how it felt."

How he felt? I shift my face and my posture to match how I saw him then, and I layer on what I understand now. "Is this closer?"

He stares openly and nods a little. "No one's ever captured it like that before." His voice isn't quite steady. I break character immediately. "There's never been a poem or a painting or a song that really made me feel like someone else understood, but you... just like that. You saw."

I nod cautiously. How could I not have seen? I just didn't understand. I still don't understand, not truly. I've never experienced what he felt.

"I've tried to make music about it, but I never came close. Show me again?"

"You sure?"

He nods resolutely, and I assume the expression again. Cold, hollow eyes, crushed. A tight mouth, jaw set. A heavy burden settles on my shoulders, and my very bones turn to lead. Under the surface, deep hurt fuels smoldering rage. There isn't enough air for it to manifest as fire, only enough energy for it to burn slowly and painfully inside.

Scott takes my hand, and I let it all melt away. It wasn't so easy for him to dispel, but for me, there's no trace left of it.

"It makes me feel less isolated," he explains, "just knowing someone else can express it."

I don't let go of his hand. I don't feel alone anymore either.