Broken Instrument, page 5
I jerk back. “Excuse me?”
“You’re right.” Raising his hands in defense, his poker face slipping back into place, he offers, “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Well, you did.”
“You’re right,” he repeats and rubs his hand down his face, his shoulders hunching with defeat. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a brown bag of M&M’s, popping a small handful into his mouth. I watch in fascination as he chews slowly and offers some to me.
“Want some?”
“No.”
“Okay.” He sighs, clearly uncomfortable.
“Why do you think I’m resentful?” I demand. I shouldn’t be offended. I’m the one who word vomited on the guy, spilling my entire relationship with my niece in a two-minute monologue which probably does make me sound like a callous bitch toward my own flesh and blood. And maybe I am.
But he wasn’t there for the nights when Bella would show up on my doorstep with a sullen Mia, having come straight from Bud’s because my brother had forgotten about the drop-off and wasn’t home. He wasn’t there when the phone would ring at two in the morning, and I’d have to bail out Bud from jail for peeing on a police car while drunk off his ass, or when the bar would call me, begging me to come get my brother who’d passed out in the men’s bathroom.
The memories flash through my mind one after the other, and a cold realization hits me square in the chest.
None of those situations were Mia’s fault.
But if she and Bud are two peas in a pod, which is pretty freaking clear to see, is it so wrong for me not to want her going down the same path? To feel like it’s my responsibility to guide her toward a different one? Is it so wrong?
Tongue in cheek, Fender looks over at me again, silently debating whether or not he wants to say whatever’s rolling around in his handsome head.
“Say it,” I snap.
“You remind me of my brother, I guess.”
“Your brother?”
“Yeah. Sonny. He likes to take his role of big brother very seriously. Like you with the aunt role,” he clarifies. “Sometimes, it’s nice. Other times, all I need is a friend, but he’s too busy babysitting me and being responsible to notice.”
“So you’re saying I should be the friend?”
“I’m saying she already has a mom who’s disciplining her. Maybe she could use someone who simply listens and lets her figure her shit out on her own.”
I lick my lips but stay quiet as his words rattle inside of me. Jarring, but in a way which––shockingly––isn’t uncomfortable. Because he makes a good point. She’s going through a lot. We all are. And just because my brother isn’t here to parent her doesn’t mean I should have to fill his shoes.
Whoa.
I shouldn’t be surprised by the realization, but I am.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I answer, my voice crackly. I clear my throat and add, “So your brother… Are you two close?”
“We used to be.”
“Used to?”
“He still wants to be,” he clarifies.
“And you don’t?”
“I, uh…” He squeezes the back of his neck, his gaze hazy as if lost in his own thoughts. “I need some space. It isn’t his fault or anything. But with our pasts and how everything went down over the last few months, I think it’s better for me to take a step back and figure out some shit on my own.”
Even though he’s speaking cryptically, I can feel where he’s coming from. I don’t need the details, and I’m not about to pressure him to give me any, especially when we barely know each other, but it’s clear he needs a friend. Not a fixer. Someone who listens.
Just like Mia.
With a subtle nod, I say, “Well, if you ever need a listening ear, I’m more than happy to practice listening with you. Ya know, since apparently, I need to work on that particular skill for Mia’s sake. We could practice, and I could kill two birds with one stone and all.”
He throws his head back and laughs. “Noted.”
But he doesn’t say anything else, and I can tell it’s time to change the subject. For now, anyway.
“So, what do you do?” I ask.
His smile turns stiff and slides off his face entirely.
I grimace and add, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know––”
“That I’m a minefield like your niece?”
I bite my lip but stay quiet.
“It’s fine,” he adds. “And I’m a musician. Or at least, I used to be.”
“Used to be?”
“Yeah.”
My mouth ticks up before smoothing to a look of indifference.
He gave me a one-word answer.
He and Mia are alike.
“You don’t play anymore?” I confirm.
He leans against the hood of his car, staring blankly in front of him. “I, uh, I guess I’m taking a break from it.”
“Hmm,” I hum, joining him on the chipped paint. The metal is warm against my thighs yet still causes a shiver to race up my spine, but I ignore it, too focused on the man beside me to care. “Well, if you ever decide to stop taking a break, I’d love to hear you play.”
“You like music?” he asks, glancing toward me and tossing another few pieces of candy-covered chocolate into his mouth.
“I like everything.”
“Oh?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Like what?” he prods.
“Like…everything?” I answer with a light laugh. “I’m a writer. Pretty sure it’s in our DNA to want to experience a little bit of everything and find little puzzle pieces we can click together. Ya know what I mean? Even if it’s watching or reading or living vicariously through strangers, which, let’s be honest, is how I prefer it. I’m a sucker for a good story.”
“And you think I’m a good story?” He quirks his brow.
My smile widens, and I couldn’t hold it back if I tried. “Actually? Yeah. Tall, blonde, handsome, wounded singer with brother issues who shows up on girl’s doorstep and has a hero mentality, a chip on his shoulder, and a penchant for saving dogs from evil landlords? I’d read that book.”
His laugh makes my stomach tighten as he stands back up, tucks the small bag of M&M’s back into his pocket, and tilts his head toward the swingset. “Good to know. Care to join me?”
I follow his lead and sit on the black rubber swing beside him a few seconds later. The metal digs into my thighs, but I ignore the discomfort and use my feet to create some momentum. Pumping my legs back and forth, my hair tangles in the wind. I don’t care, though. I like this. This energy. It’s refreshing. Not carefree, exactly, but…poignant. Exhilarating. Something to distract me from Bud’s disappearance, and I desperately need a distraction. Honestly, I’m starting to wonder if the mysterious man beside me needs one too.
8
FENDER
“Shit,” I seethe, taking in the M&M wrappers scattered along my bedroom floor. I’d left Pixie here for thirty minutes, tops, and this is what I found.
Near the bed, Pixie’s massive body heaves as she pukes up a dark brown, putrid sludge, and my stomach rolls. My nose wrinkles, and I dig my phone out of my pocket and Google dogs and chocolate. The combination isn’t promising. My panic spikes as I pull up Hadley’s information and press call. I haven’t talked to her since the park, but it isn’t because I haven’t wanted to. If anything, it’s because I have wanted to. And I shouldn’t want things like that. Connections like that. I could see it in her eyes. She felt it too. The pull. But I’ve learned the hard way how dangerous a pull can be, and I don’t plan on responding to it anytime soon.
But Pixie puking her guts out is a different story, and Hadley has a right to know.
How could I be so damn stupid? The bag was on my nightstand. I’d been eating them this morning before I left.
You’re a fucking idiot, Fender!
I scrub my hand over my face, unsure what the hell I’m supposed to do in this situation when Hadley’s quiet feminine voice filters through the speaker.
“Hello?” Her tone is hushed and raspy, as if she already knows I fucked up.
“Pixie got into chocolate.”
“Wait, what?”
“Pixie got into chocolate,” I repeat.
She sniffles. “H-how much chocolate?”
I look around the wrapper-covered floor, my skin paling. She must’ve found the stash in my closet too.
“A lot of chocolate,” I tell her.
“We, uh,”––another sniffle––“we need to get her to a vet. I don’t know who she usually goes to, but––”
“Probably the one by Bud’s place. I remember driving past it every day when I crashed on his couch.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she murmurs.
As I go to hang up, she adds, “And Fen?”
“Yeah?”
“This isn’t your fault, okay?”
With a self-deprecating laugh, I squeeze my hand into a fist and search for Pixie’s leash, not bothering to hide the disdain in my voice as I reply, “Sure, it isn’t. See you in fifteen.”
Hadley’s white Camry is in the lot, and I pull in next to it, shoving my car into park. Pixie’s massive, at least 120 pounds, but I cradle her in my arms as if she’s a child, ignoring the putrid scent clinging to her breath as we head into the vet’s office.
When Hadley sees us, she points to Pixie and tells the vet tech near the receptionist desk, “That’s her.”
The guy can’t weigh more than the dog in my arms and is wearing blue scrubs and white Nikes as he waves me to a back hallway. “Follow me.”
We head to an exam room but don’t have to wait long when someone appears in a white coat with the name Dr. Grover scrawled above the right pocket on his chest.
“So, I heard this girl got into some chocolate,” he confirms, examining Pixie in my arms.
I nod and force myself to set her down but keep my hand on her head, unable to stop myself from touching her, though I’m not sure if it’s for her benefit or mine. I feel like shit because she feels like shit, and it’s all my fault.
“Do you know how long it’s been since she ate it?” he prods.
I look down at Pixie and attempt to do the math in my head. “Thirty to forty-five minutes, I think?”
“Has she vomited or had any diarrhea?”
“Both.” I scratch behind her ear, surprised by the fear coursing through my veins. I’ve barely had her for more than a few weeks, but the idea of her dying because I left chocolate out kills me.
You’re such a screw-up, Fen.
Dr. Grover squats down and studies her carefully. “We’re going to take her back and see what we can do to get the toxins out of her system.”
“Thank you,” I return.
Dr. Grover slips a baby blue slip-knot leash over Pixie’s head since I couldn’t find mine in my rush to get here. He urges her to follow him into the back room. And because she’s the most obedient dog in the world, she listens without hesitation, though her head hangs low and her steps are slow as if each tiny movement is exhausting.
As the door swings closed behind them, I collapse onto the maroon vinyl cushioned bench in the exam room.
With my elbows on my knees, I rest my head in my hands and let the silence and unknown eat me alive.
“She’s going to be okay,” Hadley murmurs a few minutes later. I can feel her sit down beside me, though I don’t bother to look at her. I can’t. I’m too ashamed. She trusted me with Pixie, and I let her down.
“You don’t know that,” I mumble. “You don’t know if she’s going to be all right.”
“I was talking to the vet tech before you got here. He said this happens more than you’d think, and as long as the dog gets here in time, they’re usually able to treat them without any issues. It helps that Pixie’s massive and would’ve had to eat a ton of chocolate for it to really affect her. I think she’ll be fine, Fen.”
“But if I hadn’t––”
“Stop,” she orders, grabbing my knee and squeezing roughly with her tiny hands. I drop my arms to my sides and look over at her. Her eyes are bloodshot and drained.
“Look, I’m sorry––”
“I’m not crying because of Pixie, although it does feel like her incident is the icing on top of a crap cake…” Her voice cracks, then trails off, and she rubs beneath her red-rimmed eyes.
“What happened, Hadley?”
“The police called. Apparently, they found some evidence which may or may not relate to Bud.”
“What kind of evidence?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know. They won’t tell me. Which is frustrating. Because I feel like…if I just had all of the puzzle pieces, I could make them fit, ya know? His disappearance. Where he is. Why he hasn’t come home yet. I need the stupid puzzle pieces, and they won’t give them to me. It’s…frustrating.” She shakes her head again as if to stop herself from falling into the same little loop of unanswered questions she’s been drowning in since Bud first disappeared. She tucks her hair behind her ear and lets out a slow breath. “I don’t want to talk about it. I want to focus on Pixie’s situation. Something I can potentially have control over.”
Pixie.
The knife in my gut twists.
“Yeah, well, I’m sorry I added more to your plate,” I grunt, another wave of guilt flooding my system. “If something happens––”
“We’ll deal with it.”
“You trusted me,” I remind her.
“And so far, you’ve been doing a great job. This one situation doesn’t change anything. It’s chocolate. It happens.”
“Doesn’t make me feel any less guilty.”
“Well, it should.” She leans closer, her glasses framing her baby blue eyes contrasting with her dark lashes and dark hair like a lighthouse on a stormy night. Captivating. And enough to pull me from my guilt. For a minute, anyway.
“You did nothing wrong,” she says. “I promise.”
My phone rings in the otherwise silent room, and I dig it out of my pocket, grateful for the distraction. My forehead wrinkles as I take in the unfamiliar number. I look at Hadley, remembering my manners, and I start to tuck it back into my pocket.
“Who is it?” she asks.
“I don’t recognize the number.”
Reading my thoughts as if they’re her own, she suggests, “You should answer it.”
“You sure? I don’t want to be rude––”
“Yeah. We’re just waiting for Pixie anyway.”
I nod and slide my thumb across the screen, answering the call hesitantly. “Hello?”
“Fen?”
“Who is this?”
“This is Hawthorne.”
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I hang my head. “Now isn’t really a good time.”
“I have a show for you.”
I flinch back. “Excuse me?”
“SeaBird. Friday night. You’re playing.”
With a dry laugh, my emotions finally catch up to me. “Me and what band?”
“You are the band. For now, anyway. Bring an acoustic guitar and a few covers. If you have any songs you’ve written yourself, bring those too.”
“Hawthorne––”
“You have the talent, Fen. I’m not gonna let you waste it.”
“Wait,” I bark before he has a chance to hang up.
“Yeah?” he answers, his voice impatient.
“Let me think about it.”
With a sigh, Hawthorne says, “If I let you think about it, you’re gonna overthink about it, and you’re gonna say no––”
“I won’t say no. I…” I suck my cheeks between my teeth and bite down. Not enough to cause any real damage, but enough pressure to make me hurt. To confirm I’m not dreaming this shit up. That I’m really on the phone with Hawthorne, and he’s giving me another shot, even though I’m not entirely sure I want it. “Let me think about it.”
“I don’t care what it takes, Fender. I’m going to get you back on a stage, even if I have to call Gibson––”
“Leave Sonny out of this,” I seethe.
Silence.
Hadley’s spine straightens beside me, but she doesn’t budge as she picks at her cuticles like they’re the most fascinating thing in the world.
Desperate, I dig into my pocket for my packet of M&M’s, but it’s empty.
I must’ve forgotten to grab another bag, one Pix hadn’t managed to rip into, when I’d rushed out the door with her.
Shit.
My knee bounces up and down, and I scrub my hand over my face, an apology on the tip of my tongue for snapping at him, though I can’t make myself say it. Because I do want Hawthorne to leave Sonny out of this. It’s my life. My future. My music.
Mine.
“Why?” Hawthorne asks a few seconds later. His tone is less demanding and more empathic this time. Like he wants to understand. Like he wants to help. There’s only one problem. I don’t know what he can do.
“I need to do this on my own.”
“But you’re not on your own, Fen,” he returns gently. “You have family and friends who want to help you––”
“I gotta go.”
“Call me by tomorrow with your answer, or I reach out to Sonny.”
The call ends, and my fingers tighten around my phone in a death grip. I tap it against my chin, barely refraining from throwing it against the wall.
“What was that about?” Hadley asks.
“A guy with a lot of pull in the music industry. Hawthorne,” I clarify. ''He wants me to play a show.”
“And I sense you don’t want me to congratulate you?”
I snort. “I guess not.”
“You don’t want to play?” She squeezes my thigh again, and for some reason, it grounds me. Her touch. The warmth from her tiny palm. I stare at the back of her hand on my lap but stay quiet.
“You can talk to me, you know. As a friend,” she murmurs, and it’s surprising how much I could use one right now. A friend.
I think it’s normal. To feel alone. The rehab facility hooked me up with a sponsor, but we didn’t exactly click, so I told him I wasn’t interested in keeping in contact once I was released. And because I’d checked myself into the facility voluntarily, the guy didn’t really have a leg to stand on. We haven’t spoken since.
