Page 23 of Broken Instrument

“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.”

---