Page 90 of Broken Instrument

It’s terrifying. That Fender could reach that point one day, and I’d be too in love with him to walk away.

But walking away wasn’t exactly a picnic either. In fact, I’ve been miserable. So miserable, Isabella decided I needed another distraction. One in the form of a sullen teenager who needed something to do on a Friday night.

Which is why she’s here, helping me pack up my two-bedroom apartment.

I found a little basement apartment. The rent is cheaper, and if I can get my butt into gear, what little savings I have left should be able to hold me over until I can get this damn book published.

Maybe.

Honestly, I feel like my writer’s block has been worse than ever. I can’t concentrate. I can’t be creative. I can’t think about plots or storylines or characters. All I can think about is Fender and how much I miss him. How much I want him to hold me. To feel his arms around me. To feel him deep inside me as we both fall over the edge, his whispered I love you washing over me.

I shake off the memories and look around the half-packed room.

There’s still so much to do.

The edge of the bed is soft under my butt as I sit next to Mia and put my arm around her. “I’m going to miss this place too.”

“It’s weird. All the memories I have of this place.” She looks around the room, and her mouth quirks up. “Usually of me wanting to run away because I was mad at you, but…”

“Har, har. I know I’m just your aunt, and we’ve had our own rocky past––”

“Because you like to hold the title over my head even though we’re only six years apart instead of being a good friend, which is what I’ve needed most days,” she reminds me, her tone dripping with sarcasm.

“Buuuut,” I drag out the word, my gaze narrowing with faux annoyance. “I’m glad we were able to share those moments. And grow from them,” I add. “Like you and your mom are. How are things going on that front, anyway?”

She rolls her eyes. “I might be trying to be better and more responsible, but I think my mom and I have a long way to go in the trust department. I…” She shoves her hair away from her face, looks down at her lap, and picks at some nonexistent lint on her yoga pants. “I’m not okay. I know it, and my mom knows it too. And having a daughter who’s not okay must be rough for her, but I can’t focus on making her happy when I can’t even make myself happy, ya know? It’s complicated.”

“Sounds complicated,” I admit. “Which reminds me…I need to talk to you about something as a friend as well as an aunt.”

“Hads,” she warns.

But I don’t back down. I can’t.

“Listen. I found some pills Fen mentioned belonged to you––”

“I don’t need another lecture, Hadley.” She rubs at her temples, still cross-legged on the bed, but I can see how close she is to getting up and walking away.

With my palm pressed to her knee, I keep my voice calm and say, “Yeah, well, you’re going to get one because I love you, and I don’t want you to end up like your dad.”

“Don’t talk about him like that,” she pleads. Her breathing is shallow, and her voice cracks like Pop Rocks. “He was a good guy!”

“I know he was, but he also had demons even he wasn’t strong enough to battle, and I don’t want you to pick up where he left off and––”

“I didn’t take them, all right? I’ve never taken them. Fender intervened the one time I was even tempted. He told me how slippery the slope was and reminded me about stupid genetics and how it can influence our addictions. So, no, I won’t be trying drugs. Ever. I’m even staying away from alcohol for the time being.”

“Which you should because you’re still a teenager,” I remind her.

She rolls her eyes, blinking away the sheen from them, and wipes under her nose with the back of her hand. “Yeah. I know. Thanks for the reminder.”

“What can I do to help? I can see you’re struggling.”

“Of course, I’m struggling. I miss my dad. I’m terrified of disappointing everyone. Of not getting into college and making my life better. I can’t sleep. I can barely eat most days. It’s like… as soon as he started being my dad again and showing up, he left me. No, he was taken from me by a selfish asshole who’s rotting in prison. But even that doesn’t feel like justice because it won’t bring my dad home.”

“Oh, Mia.” I rub my hand up and down her back while feeling like she’s bleeding out in front of me, and I have no way to stop it. I’d give anything to take away her pain. To make her feel better. And I hate how it isn’t possible, and she’ll have to fight this battle on her own. Sure, I can be there to support her along with her mom and therapist, but it takes time. So much time.

“Do you want to know the worst part?” she whispers. “Sometimes, I feel like it’s all my fault.”

“How can you say that, Mia? Of course, it isn’t your fault. It had nothing to do with you. He had an addiction. That’s all.”

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