Page 15 of Broken Instrument

“How’s she doing?” I ask carefully.

“Struggling, obviously. But there isn’t much I can do, you know? It sucks. As soon as Bud decides to start showing up again as a father, he disappears.”

“It is weird,” I mutter, unable to console her when we both know it’s a moot point. It’s like she said. The situation sucks. It’s that simple. And so help me, when Bud decides to show up again, I’m going to rip him a new one for everything he’s done. Because this? This isn’t fair. For any of us. But especially for Mia.

“So when will you be dropping Mia off? Or will she be driving here on her own?” Mia just turned seventeen, and even though she has her license, Isabella and I agreed leaving her car at home might be the best idea, considering how Mia disappeared for two days the last time she stayed here. A picnic, it was not.

“I’ll drop her off on Friday if that’s okay?”

I look at the sunset calendar hanging on my wall. Other than the giant red circle looming a few weeks away, the dates are blank. “That’ll work.”

“And maybe call Bud’s friend? See if you guys can meet up at the park so Mia has something to look forward to?”

“I can do that.”

“Perfect. And thanks, Hadley,” she adds. “I know this isn’t easy on you.”

“It isn’t easy on any of us.”

“Yeah, but still. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

After hanging up the phone, I tap the edge of it against my chin, staring blankly at the open manuscript on my computer. My attention shifts back to the calendar hanging on the wall.

There’s no way I’m going to hit my deadline. And even though I’d like to use the excuse of Mia coming to stay with me as the catalyst, I know the real reason. And I hate it.

Shoving the thought aside, I pull up Fender’s contact info and press call.

This should be interesting.

6

FENDER

The morning air is cool as Pixie and I walk down the sidewalk. Runners pass us by, though most cross to the other side of the street when they see Pixie lumbering toward them. She seems excited to be outside. Probably the Husky in her. It’s like she craves exercise the same way I crave a certain something else.

I shake my head and shove the thought aside.

This is a good habit. Walks in the morning. And I need some new good habits. Good habits to replace the bad ones. I need them desperately.

My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out of my dark gray joggers, checking the name across the screen and groaning.

Sonny.

Which means someone spilled the beans to my brother, and he knows I’m not in rehab anymore. I’m not sure who. Could’ve been Milo or Jake since I’m staying with them. Possibly our dad, though he promised to keep it quiet. Honestly, it could’ve been Hawthorne for all I know. He saw me at SeaBird. He knows I’m back. But it doesn’t matter. I can’t talk to Gibson right now, anyway. I have too much shit and anger to sort through before crossing that bridge. And if I don’t get a handle on said shit, I’ll yell at him, blaming my biggest supporter for things that aren’t his fault. It isn’t fair to him. But ignoring his calls isn’t exactly mending our relationship, either.

It isn’t his fault I screwed up. It’s mine. And owning up to my mistakes is the first step in recovering. All right, maybe not the first one, but still.

The call goes silent, and I start to shove it back in my pocket when the thing starts ringing again in my palm. It’s a guitar riff from Broken Vows’ first song. I can still remember Gibson playing it for the first time. Later, I tweaked a few notes and made it my own. Hell, I can still remember us recording it together. Afterward, I uploaded it to my cell and made it my ringtone, excitement buzzing in my veins as I forced the drummer of Broken Vows, Phoenix, to call me so we could hear it play. The memory leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

I should change it. My ringtone. But a part of me likes the burn. The reminder of how far I’d come, only to let it slip through my fingers.

Sonny’s name flashes again, but I ignore the call and shove my phone into my pocket, picking up my speed until I’m full-on sprinting down the road. My chest heaves, my muscles tighten, and a soft sweat breaks out along the back of my neck, but I don’t stop.

I’m not an idiot. I know I’m running from my past. My mistakes. My brother, who’s never been anything but a badass who always had my best outcomes in mind. But I can’t help it. The little voices inside my head won’t shut up. The ones who tell me I’m not enough. That I screwed up. That I’ll never be able to get back what I lost.

With ease, Pixie keeps up, her long pink tongue hanging out from one side as she races beside me. Our feet pound against the pavement, and my lungs scream at me to slow down, but I refuse to give in. Not again. I’m not weak. I can’t be. I refuse to be.

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