“Chris.”
He paused and looked back.
“Thanks,” I muttered.
He gave me a small smile. “You’re my brother. Just try not to start another brawl before New Year’s, alright?”
I let out a weak laugh. “No promises.”
When the door clicked shut behind him, silence filled the room again. This time, however, it wasn’t quite as suffocating.
I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the half-empty beer in my hand.
Chris was right. I couldn’t just sit here doing nothing. If I really wanted Zack, if I wanted to prove that I was worth his trust, then I had to show him.
Even if I couldn’t replace what I’d broken, I could try to mend it.
I pictured Zack again, his hands on the guitar, and the way his fingers danced over the strings when he played. The way his eyes softened when he talked about music and his dad.
Maybe there was a way to give him something new. Something that said I’m sorry and that I care. I’d make it right somehow. Even if it took every ounce of effort I had, I’d win Zack back.
12
ZACK
Daisy sat on the stool with her guitar, almost as big as her, brow furrowed in fierce concentration.
“Wait,” I said gently, crouching in front of her. “Try this.”
I reached out and carefully nudged her fingers into place, adjusting the angle of her wrist. Her hand hovered over the strings, uncertain.
“Does it hurt?” I asked.
She shook her head. “A little.”
“That means you’re doing it right,” I said solemnly, earning a few giggles from the other kids. “Okay. Now strum.”
She did. The sound that came out was questionable. A thin, wobbly noise that barely resembled the chord we were aiming for.
The kids froze, watching my face.
I tilted my head, thoughtful. “Hmm. That chord is supposed to sound like this.”
I strummed my own guitar and then immediately followed it by singing the note in an impossibly high falsetto, stretching it out until my voice cracked on purpose.
The room exploded with laughter.
Daisy’s eyes went wide before she started laughing too, nearly dropping her pick. “That’s not what it sounds like!”
“Exactly,” I said, grinning. “So now we try again.”
She adjusted her fingers, tongue poking out the corner of her mouth, and strummed once more. This time, the chord rang out a little cleaner.
“There it is. See? You’ve got it.”
She beamed. Around us, the rest of the kids started noodling on their guitars, half of them trying to imitate the ridiculous noise I’d made, the other half asking if I could do it again.
I refused, on principle. My dignity could only take so much.
