Page 24 of Broken Hearts

“There must be a mistake,” I whisper, scanning the bill and the total at the bottom. Fifteen hundred dollars. It can’t be, when, after looking online, I found out that the average cost for the initial work is around eighteen hundred, and with all the additional work he has done—replacing two tires, replacing the brakes… “It’s not enough.”

To my surprise, he laughs—a deep, hearty sound that reverberates through the garage. “First time someone complained about a bill being too low.”

“I want to pay my fair share,” I insist, clutching my purse a little tighter.

“It is a fair share. Family rate,” he says, his tone firm yet kind.

I shake my head, confused. “I’m not family.”

“You are,” he asserts with a smile. “We SEALs take care of our own. And you, you’re Max’s little sister. Maybe not by blood, but in every way that counts. So that makes you our little sister too.”

His words wash over me like a warm tide, filling spaces in my heart I didn’t know were empty. The urge to cry, to let out all the pent-up emotions, is overwhelming. I want to hug him, to thank him for this unexpected kindness, this gesture of belonging.

Sawyer’s understanding, his acceptance, it’s more than a financial relief—it’s a balm to my soul. In a world where I’ve felt increasingly alone, his words remind me that there are still connections, people who care.

“Thank you, Sawyer,” I manage to say, my voice thick with unshed tears. “Thank you for everything.”

He gives me a reassuring nod, his green eyes glinting with a mix of camaraderie and empathy. “Anytime, little sister. Anytime.”

As I drive away from Titan Garage, the weight on my shoulders feels a little lighter. Sawyer’s kindness, his easy acceptance, a reminder that even in the toughest times, there are people who will stand by you, people who become your chosen family. And in that moment, I realize that maybe things are turning in my favor.

The next day, I drive to the community center, hoping that the job Clara mentioned is still available.

The community center buzzes with the vibrant energy of youth and music. The hallway is filled with the cacophony of pianos playing, violins screeching as beginners find their footing, and the soft thud of a distant drum. Colorful artwork created by the center’s many young visitors adorns the walls, bringing a sense of warmth and creativity to the space. The air carries the mixed scents of cleaning products and the faint sweetness of someone’s packed lunch, a reminder of the everyday life that pulses through the building. Children dart through the halls, their laughter and chatter adding to the center’s lively ambience, a place where creativity and community intertwine.

A woman in the first room sees me roam aimlessly in the corridor. “Can I help you?” she asks, her eyes curious.

“Yes, I’m here to see the head of the center about the music teaching position,” I reply, trying to sound confident.

She nods and points me toward an office at the end of the hallway. The door is ajar, and I knock before entering.

The man behind the desk looks up, his expression guarded. “I’m Eva Sinclair. I… Clara, she said…” I close my mouth; maybe it was a mistake to just drop by.

His eyes widen. “Oh! Oh yes, Eva, of course.” He gestures me to the seat across from his desk. “I’m Brandon, the director. So you’re interested in teaching here?”

Nodding, I clasp my hands together to still their shaking. “Yes, I have in-depth knowledge of string instruments, especially the violin.”

He raises an eyebrow, skeptical. “And your teaching experience?”

“I may lack formal teaching experience, but my knowledge of the violin is extensive.”

He leans back in his chair, eyeing me carefully. “Credentials?”

“I won the International Violin Competition of Indianapolis and the Menuhin Competition. I also underwent intensive training at the Royal Academy of Music in London.”

His suspicion grows, and I can’t blame him. With such a resume, I should be hitting the big stage, not sitting in a community center almost begging for a job. “And now you’re here, in a local community center?”

I hesitate for a moment, then slowly extend my shaky hand, showing him my scar. “Accidents happen.”

His eyes soften, and I see a flicker of recognition. He clears his throat, nodding. “I understand.”

Bracing for the usual empty “I’m sorry” I often receive, a surprise comes instead. He offers a look filled with genuine empathy.

“Right now, we could use you three times a week,” he offers. “The position pays sixty dollars per lesson. I know it’s not much…”

Doing the math quickly in my head, the realization hits that it’s enough to lessen the debt for the violin, at least for the moment. “I’ll take it, thank you,” I say, a small smile tugging at my lips.

“And if interest grows, we may up it to four times a week.”

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