“Mark?” she asked sharply. “What happened? I heard something about a fight at dress rehearsal.”
“I’ll tell you later,” I cut her off, my voice rough.
I couldn’t deal with the concern, the questions, or the judgment right now.
She frowned, but I didn’t wait for a reply. I trudged down the hallway and into my room, shutting the door behind me.
I collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as guilt twisted like barbed wire inside me.
Zack’s face kept flashing before my eyes. The way he’d knelt beside his father’s broken guitar, his fingers trembling as he’d gathered the splintered pieces. I’d done that. Me.
A few minutes later, there was a soft knock at the door.
“It’s Chris,” came my brother’s voice.
I groaned, burying my face in the pillow. “Go away,” I muttered.
Naturally, he ignored me. The door opened, and I heard the familiar clink of bottles.
“I brought beer,” he said.
That got me to sit up, at least. He walked over and handed me one, then dropped himself into the desk chair with a sigh.
He cracked open his own bottle, took a long swig, and studied me like he was waiting for me to start talking. I didn’t.
“So,” he said after a moment, “what really happened?”
I took a drink instead of answering. The bitterness hit my tongue, grounding me just enough to find my words. Then I finally let it all out and told him everything.
“I broke Zack’s guitar,” I muttered. “The one that belonged to his dad.”
Chris froze mid-sip. “You didn’t.”
“Yeah,” I said bleakly. “I did.”
For a while, neither of us spoke. The only sound was the faint hiss of carbonation when Chris set his bottle down.
“Cooper’s pissed,” I said eventually. “Said if I screw up again, I’m out of the performance. Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him. The whole pack’s been trying to build trust with the humans in town. I nearly wrecked that by acting like a feral wolf.”
“You’ve got to make it up to Zack,” Chris said finally. “No matter what it takes.”
I scoffed, though there wasn’t much conviction behind it. “You think I don’t know that?”
He didn’t flinch at my tone. “Then do it. Fix it. Don’t just sit here feeling sorry for yourself.”
I glared at him, but Chris pressed on. “You want what Devon has with Carter, don’t you?”
“Of course I do,” I snapped, the words ripping out before I could stop them. “But how the hell am I supposed to fix this? I broke something irreplaceable, Chris. That guitar wasn’t just an instrument. It was a memory. A piece of his dad.”
Chris tilted his head. “Then start somewhere. If you can’t replace it, find another way to show him how sorry you are. Get the guitar repaired if possible. Or get him a new one. Something meaningful, something that tells him you care enough to try.”
I stared at him, my chest tight.
He finished his beer and stood, leaving the empty bottle on my desk.
“You messed up, yeah,” Chris said, his voice softer now. “But you still have a chance to fix it. Don’t waste it sulking.”
With that, he headed for the door.
