Mrs. Lim shook her head, expression softening as she looked between Mark and me. “That’s not necessary,” she said. “Anyone can make a mistake. No one was hurt, and that’s what matters.”
She turned to me, smiling. “Thank you for the class, as always, Zack. Daisy had a great time. We’re looking forward to your performance.”
Relief loosened something in my chest. Parents soon began to trickle out, the tension dissolving into goodbyes and casual chatter.
As the door swung closed behind the last of them, the shop felt lighter. Mark was still holding my hand. Neither of us let go.
Mark picked up the guitar case again, fingers worrying at the handle like he didn’t quite know what to do with it. When he looked up, his expression was hopeful but guarded.
“I really am sorry,” he said quietly. “And I get it if you haven’t fully forgiven me yet.” He hesitated, then added, “But earlier, when you said we…I just wanted to make sure. You’re still okay performing with me?”
I nudged him lightly with my shoulder. “Of course I am.”
The relief that crossed his face was instant and almost comical, like he’d been holding his breath since the rehearsal.
“And,” I went on, softer, “I might’ve overreacted a bit too.”
Mark shook his head. “It was your dad’s guitar,” he said. “Actually, I came by because you weren’t answering my messages. I didn’t want to push, but I still wanted to help. I found a specialist who works on vintage guitars.”
My eyebrows lifted. “You mean Safino’s?”
He blinked. “Yeah. How do you know them?”
I smiled despite myself. “He’s an old friend of my dad’s. The only one around here I’d trust with something like that.” I hesitated, then added, “already brought it in this morning, actually.”
“Oh.”
His face went through about four emotions in quick succession: disappointment, relief, confusion, and something that might’ve been hope.
It was kind of adorable. And suddenly, painfully, I wanted to pull him in and kiss him right there.
I pushed myself off the counter, body already angling toward him?—
And Mark turned to set the guitar case he’d been holding down on the counter. I crossed my arms, hands suddenly unsure of themselves. That was when I really looked at the case.
It wasn’t his. It was sleek and new.
I frowned. “What’s this?”
Mark swallowed. “I, uh… I got you a guitar.”
He flipped the case open. Inside was a beautiful instrument. It had a glossy finish, solid body, hardware that gleamed under the shop lights.
It was the kind of guitar you didn’t just pick up on a whim.
“This is…” I trailed off, still staring.
Mark rushed on, words tumbling out. “I can return it. If you want something different. Or if you’d rather pick one out yourself, whatever you prefer. I just thought?—”
I finally looked up at him, my chest fluttering in that uncomfortable, warm way.
“Mark,” I said gently.
I’d been thinking about retiring my dad’s guitar, letting it rest. Lately, using it felt less like playing and more like holding something precious, afraid I’d damage it just by loving it too much.
I’d planned to use it one last time on New Year’s Eve, and for our practice run tomorrow at Griffin’s, I thought I’d just borrow something from Noah. I didn’t need a new guitar.
I raised an eyebrow at him. “You do know I mostly play drums now, right?”
