Page 58 of Broken Instrument

“I’m not mad,” I start, sticking my tongue in my cheek as I search for the words to express what I’m feeling. The only problem is, I have no fucking clue. I set the glass back onto the counter. Exhausted.

“Then, what are you?” he prods. But he keeps his distance. Not for his sake, but for mine.

“I’m tired of everyone trying to fix my problems instead of letting me handle my shit on my own.”

“I’ve been letting you handle your shit on your own, Fen, and look where it got you.” He waves his hand at me.

“You mean in rehab?” I demand.

“Not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?”

“I meant…” He heaves a frustrated sigh and looks up toward the ceiling as if to see if our raised voices have woken anyone else up. When only silence greets him, he continues. “I meant you pushing everyone away. You’re not answering Dad’s calls––”

“Oh, so now he’s Dad to you?” I scoff. Donny Hayes and Sonny have never been close, and even that’s an understatement. I was the one trying to mend my relationship––and Sonny’s––with our dad. But Sonny didn’t want anything to do with him. The bastard couldn’t even stand to hear our father’s name. And now, he’s calling him Dad? It shouldn’t piss me off, but it does. I shake my head as the realization hits me. It’s the final straw that broke the camel’s back. My back.

“You really are just taking my life, aren’t you,” I spit. It isn’t a question. It doesn’t need to be. And while I’m not in the mood to hash this shit out, I guess there’s no time like the present.

“What the hell are you talking about?” he asks.

“I’m talking about you. I'm talking about why I haven’t been answering your calls. Why I’ve been avoiding you. I’m jealous! I’m jealous because I messed up, and you get to ride off into the sunset with my dream, and all I can do is applaud your perseverance on your way out.”

As if I’ve sucker-punched him, he jerks back and leans against the granite island. “Your dream? I thought Broken Vows was our dream.”

I laugh dryly and shake my head back and forth. “It was until you decided to be the face of it.”

“I wanted us to be the face of it,” he argues. “It isn’t my fault you refused to cut Marty out of your life and wound up overdosing––”

“Yeah, well, what do you want me to say? You were right? Fine, Sonny. You were right,” I snarl, pacing the small kitchen like it’s my own personal Hell, and there’s no way to escape it. “Marty’s an asshat who not only decided to put my life in danger but thought it would be funny to send me a message last night by spiking my friend’s drink with something.”

Stunned silence is the only thing greeting me as he blinks slowly and shakes his head, attempting to put together the pieces I’ve given him. “It was Marty? Are you sure?”

“Gave me a note and everything. He’s pissed Dad cut off his funds and wants to get his revenge on me because of it.”

Finally understanding, Gibson’s upper lip curls in disgust as his frustration with me shifts to the other black sheep in the family. I don’t know why it annoys me, but it does. Because he hates Marty. And now, I feel like I’m just as bad as he is.

“That sonofabitch,” Sonny grits out.

“Yup. Apparently, there’s only one golden boy in the family, so congratulations. Glad I could help you claim the title.” I’m not sure where my sarcasm is coming from, but frustration can only build for so long before it needs to be let loose, and it’s no-holds-barred.

Pixie pads into the kitchen with a low growl when she sees the intruder across from me. She must’ve heard our raised voices. I call her over and scratch behind her ear while trying to rein in my annoyance and frustration and every other emotion simmering through my veins.

But being numb isn’t exactly an option anymore, so I shove them aside and say, “It’s okay, Pix. He’s…” I look up at him, my nostrils flaring. “He’s family.”

She stalks closer to him, gives him a quick sniff, and lays down on the kitchen mat beneath the sink, satisfied he isn’t a threat.

With a sigh, Gibson takes a seat at the barstool tucked beneath the gray granite countertop in the center of the kitchen and motions to the chair beside him. “Take a seat, Fen. I think we need to talk.”

“I don’t feel like talking.”

“Yeah? Well, I flew all the way down here because I was worried about you––”

“It isn’t your job to be worried about me.”

“Then who’s is it? Huh? Because you’ve never been one to take care of yourself––”

“I’m trying to take care of myself,” I yell, finally losing the last of my restraint as I stomp closer to him and slap my palms against the counter, towering over my older brother so he’ll finally see me. Really see me for the first time ever.

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