I glanced at the clock on the wall and clapped my hands. “Alright, rock stars. That’s time for today.”
A collective groan went up, but they obediently started packing up.
“Good job today,” I called over my shoulder. “Seriously. You’re all getting better.”
That earned me a few proud smiles and one overly enthusiastic fist pump.
I headed toward the back to grab their snacks and juice boxes, then paused.
I found myself glancing toward the front of the shop. Through the glass, I could see the street outside.
People walking past with shopping bags, a couple holding hands, someone jogging by with earbuds in.
Normal, busy people. No one stood waiting.
I told myself it was stupid to notice. That it meant nothing.
Still, over the past couple of weeks, it hadn’t been unusual to look up and see Mark out there, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, pretending he wasn’t watching the door, waiting for me to step through it.
It had been two days since the incident at the dress rehearsal. Two days since I’d stared at my dad’s guitar, broken on the stage floor, and felt like someone had reached inside my chest and squeezed.
At the time, I hadn’t been able to move. Everything had gone quiet, as if the world had tilted and I was still trying to catch up.
I hadn’t known what to say; I’d just stood there, staring.
It hadn’t been about the guitar itself. Not really.
The guitar was old, and it had already lived a long life. But it had beenhis.
When I was a kid, my dad used to sit me on his lap with that guitar balanced awkwardly between us. His big, warm hands would guide mine, showing me where to press.
He’d hum along while I strummed, his voice low and steady, until my head grew heavy and I’d fall asleep against his chest.
That guitar had taught me music. It had taught me comfort.
Seeing it broken felt like losing him all over again. But the guitar could be fixed, and everything important was still there.
If I ran my fingers along the neck, I could still feel the grooves my dad’s hands had worn into the wood over years of playing. The stickers we’d pasted on together when I was bored on tour still clung to the back, crooked and faded.
Even the strap was unharmed. His old one, the one that still smelled faintly of him.
And yet, I’d reacted so harshly with Mark. I hadn’t even answered any of his calls or messages.
I had this bad habit of putting things off, telling myself I’d reply in another hour, then day. Convincing myself it was fine because I’d already waited long enough.
And then, suddenly, too much time had passed, and it felt easier to leave things unsaid than to admit I’d waited at all.
I hated that about myself. I didn’t want that to be how this ended. Not with Mark.
I exhaled slowly, a decision settling in my chest. I’d go over to his place later today. Say it in person.
Tell him I’d overreacted, that I should’ve talked to him instead of shutting him out.
And if he was willing, if I hadn’t already screwed this up beyond repair, I’d ask him to get coffee with me.
Something simple. Something that meant we were still okay.
I gathered the kids back into a loose semicircle and handed out their juice boxes and snacks.
