Page 70 of Broken Instrument

“I told them to leave.”

“Did they?”

I shake my head against her.

“So, what did you do?”

“I left instead.”

Her fingers pause against my scalp, and she hugs me a little tighter and lets out a shuddered sigh of relief. “I’m proud of you, Fen.”

“Bullshit,” I curse against her soft skin.

Surprised, she tangles her fingers in my hair and pulls me away from her so she can look me in the eye. “Not bullshit. You said no. You were given an opportunity to slip back into a terrible habit, and you said no. It’s something to be proud of.”

“I almost didn’t, though,” I argue. “I almost screwed up again.”

“But you didn’t,” she reminds me. “And that’s huge, Fen. You’re going to be given opportunities to mess up. We all are in life. It’s what we do in those situations that makes us who we are. And you said no.”

“But what if I can’t say no next time?” My grip tightens around her like she’s my life raft, and I’m caught in a never-ending hurricane.

“You will.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re the strongest person I know, Fen. I’m so proud of you.”

“This is different, though. Harder.”

“How?” she whispers. Without judgment. Simply a desire to understand. And she’ll never know how much I appreciate it.

“This life,” I explain. “The musician life. Going on tour again. The after-parties. There are opportunities to slip up every single fucking day.” I squeeze my eyes shut and rest my forehead against hers. “I don’t know if I’m disciplined enough to stay strong.”

“You are,” she promises me. “It’s one step at a time. Today, you took a step in the right direction, and I’ve never been more proud.”

“I feel like an idiot,” I admit, still unable to pull myself away from her and look her in the eye. I’m too ashamed.

As if she can read my thoughts, she cups my cheeks and forces me to look at her. When my gaze meets hers, the disappointment I expect to see is absent, replaced with a determination I can almost feel as my own.

“You aren’t an idiot. And I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll spend the rest of the night telling you this until you believe it. Now, did you talk to Hawthorne?”

I shake my head.

“Call him.”

“I don’t think I can talk to him right now.”

“He wants to tell you something.”

“I don’t think I can hear it.”

“Fen,” she pleads. “Call him.”

My phone vibrates beneath her thigh at that moment, and she lifts herself so I can retrieve it but settles onto my lap again.

When I see a text from Hawthorne, I almost roll my eyes and glance up at her.

Her smile is encouraging as she murmurs, “Read it.”

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