Page 28 of Broken Instrument

“Some paparazzi snapped a picture of you outside the house with one a few weeks ago.”

I search my memories and realize it must’ve been taken the first night I brought Pix home. I knew someone was following me.

At least I’m not going crazy.

“Didn’t know I was still on their radar,” I note dryly.

“Don’t sound so surprised. People are anxious to hear you play again.”

I scoff but stay quiet.

“You gonna meet up with us?” he asks. “We only have a couple more shows, but you should join. I’ll get you a plane ticket-–”

“I think I’m gonna pass.”

He hesitates. And even from across the world, I’m pretty sure I can hear the wheels churning in his head as he processes my comment. Too bad I don’t give a shit. Not right now. Not when I feel like my world is spinning out of control. I shouldn’t have called Marty. I knew he wouldn’t answer my questions about Bud. It was stupid. I was stupid.

“Fen––”

“Seriously. I’m fine. But I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later––”

“You haven’t been answering my calls,” Sonny interrupts.

“I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to talk to your older brother?”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. I hate this guilty feeling and how it’s all I feel anytime I talk to Sonny. He was my confidante. My sage big brother. My fucking hero. And now I’m pissed at him, even though I know he doesn’t deserve my fury. I’m angry. And I’m hurt. I feel like I’ve been forgotten, despite knowing it isn’t fair. I’m not being pushed away. I’m pulling away. It’s on me. Not him. But it’s like I’m watching the entire situation––my entire life––through a looking glass, unable to control the outcome or the resentment or any other single action which could change the fact that I’m frustrated. Not with Gibson, but with myself.

I need more time. And while I take the time for myself, it only fans Sonny’s concern. So, where does it leave me?

Fucked.

“Listen,” he continues, “I’m not trying to make you feel guilty or anything. I know you’re working through shit, but we miss you. You should come out––”

“I gotta go.” I click the end button before I can stop myself and lean my head against the side of the bed. The seconds tick by slowly, picking up their pace like droplets of water during a storm when I find myself on my feet with my hand wrapped around the neck of the guitar and my skin slick with sweat. Pacing the bedroom, my grip tightening, I let the lyrics wash over me. Ones I’ve never dared to say out loud or even put on paper until they’re pounding inside my skull with a palpable urgency.

Collapsing onto my bed, I cradle the guitar in my lap and play.

10

HADLEY

I haven’t been out in forever. Which I guess makes sense since I’m an introverted author who lives in pajamas, but still. There’s a buzzing beneath my skin as I pull SeaBird’s door open. The place has good reviews, most mentioning the vibrant atmosphere and claiming fame through being the home of the up-and-coming band, Broken Vows. I couldn’t help myself. I looked them up. And there’s a reason SeaBird claims them. They’re good. Like, really good.

And not only their new stuff but their old stuff too. The stuff Fender sang.

His voice? Damn, it’s like honey. Sweet, earthy, unique. But it sticks with you long after the music ends, and I can’t help humming along to it, even though it’s only playing in my head as I find a seat at the back of the bar.

The place is crowded, lined with tables and booths along with a long bar at the back and a stage tucked to the left where a single barstool and microphone stand are set up. A song plays in the background, barely making a dent in the noise from the excited customers crowding the stage. Something in my gut tells me it isn’t usually this busy, but what do I know? Maybe I’m the only one fascinated by the singer who disappeared from Broken Vows right after they caught their big break.

Part of me wants to ask why he left the band or if he has any intention of returning, but the other part of me doesn’t want to broach the subject. We’re just… Hell, I don’t even know what we are. Friends? Acquaintances? Honestly, I have no idea. But one thing’s for sure. I have been distracted. And my fascination with the elusive Fender Hayes is the only thing getting me through the day lately. Not that I’d ever admit it out loud.

I shake off the thought and take a seat at the clean bartop.

A gorgeous bartender with her hair in a high slicked-back ponytail approaches. “Hey. What can I get ya?”

“A glass of red wine, please.”

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