Page 54 of Shattered Promise

“Thank you.” I hand the guitar back with both hands.

“1969 Brazilian Rosewood. Neck reset, bridge and pickguard replacement, and I repaired a sizable back crack,” the guy says, spinning the guitar around to show me. “I’ve had it for a while,too long if you ask my wife. Do us both a favor and take it off my hands. Eleven hundred.”

I blink, certain I misheard him. “Wait, that’s it?” Eleven hundred for a vintage Martin? Even in questionable condition, that’s a steal.

The vendor grins, catching my disbelief. “I know what it’s worth, darlin’. But I also know when something’s ready for a new home.” He shrugs, hands steady as he tucks the guitar back into its cradle. “Besides, I’d rather see it played by someone who loves it than have it continue to gather dust in the shop.”

Mason’s already reaching for his wallet, but I stop him with a hand on his forearm. “Jesus, Mason,no.”

Mason steps forward, slow and quiet, eyes locked on mine. “You used to play your grandpa’s guitar in your living room late at night when you thought no one was around.” His voice drops, reverent. “One time, Beau and I came back early from a party and heard you singing.”

I blink a few times, searching my memory and coming up blank. “I don’t remember that.”

He chuckles, his eyes going warm like he’s reliving the memory. “You wouldn’t. I put Beau in a headlock and dragged his ass back out to the car. He was gonna bust in there and run his mouth, and I—I didn’t want you to know we’d heard. You looked. . . I don’t know. Happy, I guess.” He shrugs, then shakes his head like he’s said too much. “You were good. Youaregood.”

I want to laugh, but the sound gets stuck in my throat. “You could’ve said something.”

He looks at me, quiet and sure. “Sometimes you don’t say the thing you want to say most.”

I look at him, my heart in my throat, and say, “I’ll take it.”

The part of me that’s spent years working my ass off, talking myself out of anything indulgent, and saving as much as possible cringes at the price. But this other part, the new, tender partthat’s slowly re-emerged over the last week is skipping through a field of wildflowers.

I’ve missed playing my guitar this week, and I didn’t realize how much until right now.

“I take cash, card, or PayPal,” the guy says as he pulls out a hardshell case.

I pay, and the vendor packs it with a care that feels almost ceremonial. He tucks a new set of strings into the compartment and wishes me luck. I thank him, voice gone soft, and then Mason takes the case from my hands before I even have a chance to protest. He holds it by the handle on the neck with an easy, practiced grip and then gestures toward the exit.

We’re quiet as we leave the tent, but it’s not awkward. It's heavy with the kind of silence that only happens after someone’s seen you, really seen you.

And they didn’t look away.

21

MASON

I carry the guitar case.

Take it straight from her hands like I don’t trust myself not to touch her instead.

It’s solid and scuffed and heavier than it looks, but I don’t care. I need something to hold. Something to keep me from doing the thing I keep thinking about—cupping the back of her neck, tilting her face to mine, and kissing the hell out of her right here in the middle of this festival.

We leave the music tent in a hush that doesn’t match the noise outside. Abby falls into step beside me, her arm brushing mine every few feet.

Theo’s in the stroller, happy and fed, babbling at the breeze. I’ve got one hand on the handlebar and the other gripping the handle of that guitar case tighter than I need to.

She played a few bars of music, and then she smiled, like she didn’t even know what she was giving away. Like she didn’t realize she’d just unraveled every thread I’ve spent years trying to knot back together.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.

No—that’s a lie. I do.

It’s the motherfucking Abby Carter effect.

Every time she looks at me, I feel young and reckless and right on the edge of every dumb decision I ever made around her. Every time she laughs, my brain short-circuits and goes straight to hands and mouths and the taste of her name in my mouth.

We drift back into the main park, the gold of late afternoon slanting low and hot through the trees. The festival’s crowd has thickened, festival-goers clustering in loose packs around the beer garden and a folk band tuning up on the main stage. Parents corral sugar-high kids, and a handful of couples are tangled together on picnic blankets in the grass.

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