Page 40 of Broken Instrument

“She knows you're hurting,” I offer.

Another scoff, and she twists in the passenger seat and faces the passenger window, though I can still see her reflection. The hardness in her gaze. The hurt.

“Am I taking you to your mom’s or Hadley’s?” I ask.

She hesitates, twisting her fingers in her lap like they’re a dirty dishrag, though I doubt she even notices she’s doing it. “My mom’s.”

“Is your mom home?” I prod.

Her gaze shifts to her lap, and she stops fidgeting but nods jerkily.

“You sure?”

Another jerky nod.

I dig my phone out of my pocket. “Okay. Let me just check with––”

“Fine! Take me to my aunt’s. It’s not like she even noticed I’m missing anyway.”

Doubtful, Mia. Very doubtful.

I take a left at the fork in the road. “So, why’d you sneak out?”

“Look. Can we not do this?”

“I thought you said you wanted a lecture,” I quip.

She glares back at me. “Guess I changed my mind.”

“Yeah. Well. Looks like we have fifteen minutes to chat, and since you were stupid enough to put yourself in a situation like that––and trust me, I’ve put myself in plenty of stupid situations, so I can see them from a mile away––it looks like we’re going to address it.”

Her upper lip curls. “You don’t know me.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I do know what it’s like to make a shitty decision. To know I’m making a shitty decision. An unsafe decision. But to do it anyway because I’m hurting, and I want to numb the pain.”

“Says the guy in a rock band. I’m sure your life is so hard.”

“Says the guy who used to get so doped up before every show he can barely remember any of them,” I snap. “Everything I worked for, everything I wanted out of life was in the palm of my hand. And because of shitty decisions, unsafe decisions, I stopped caring about any of it until I lost it all. So tell me, Mia, why are you making shitty decisions when I know you’re smart enough to know better?”

My bluntness sucks the animosity from her pretty features, leaving a broken girl beside me. She stays quiet because we both know I hit the nail on the head.

“Were you making shitty decisions like tonight before your dad disappeared?”

“Don’t talk about my father,” she warns, the spark returning to her sharp gaze.

“I knew your dad, Mia. He was a little older than me, but we hung out in the same group of friends.” My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel, and I glance at her. “They weren’t good friends, Mia.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is…if your dad was here––”

“Yeah? Well, he’s not,” she snaps. Her thick lashes flutter as she sniffles and crosses her arms again, digging her red painted fingernails into her arms.

“Is that why you’re doing this?” I ask. “Thinking maybe if he knows you’re making shitty decisions, he’ll come back? He’ll come back, and he’ll tell you how reckless you’re acting?”

She stays quiet, staring blankly out the passenger window for a solid minute before her soft voice filters through the otherwise silent car. “Do you want to know what he used to tell me?” She squeezes her eyes shut as if lost in the memory. “He always told me whenever I’m presented with a situation, and I don’t know what to do, I should ask, what would Dad do? And I should do the opposite.” Forcing her eyelids open, she turns to me and adds, “Pretty messed up, right?”

Yeah. Pretty messed up.

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