“If it’s something you want, Jane, then don’t you ever give it up. It’s only your third lesson, and you’re doing very well. If you practice every day like you’resupposedto, if you’re dedicated to learning, you’ll get better. I’m sure your mother will see that and be reasonable.”
Jane shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter. She says I’m starting ballet next week, and nothing will make her change her mind.” She sniffles sadly, her gaze flicking to me. “Unless… unless you talked to her. She really,reallylikes you, and I know you could convince her to let me keep taking lessons with you if you tried! Maybe if you invited her to dinner…?” Jane widens her eyes expectantly. “Well? What do you say? Please, please, please, pleaseeeee!”
I sigh deeply. “If youreallythink it will help, I can have a word with her when she picks you up. Tell her how well you’re doing and assure her you’ll be able to play an actual song soon.” All at once, the tears dry, and Jane gets a mischievous look in her eyes. I narrow mine on her. “But that last suggestion is out of the question, Jane.”
“But—”
“No buts.” I lean back with a groan, pinching the bridge of my nose in an attempt to stave off an oncoming headache. “You know, you could have just asked me. The tears were unnecessary.”
She giggles. “They never hurt.”
Did I just get emotionally manipulated by a nine-year-old?I rub a hand over my face. “I need a coffee. Practice the chords I taught you, and I’ll be back in a minute.”
I place my guitar on its rack and head toward the stuffy closet the owner—Mac—has dubbed thebreak room. All it is is a counter and a shitty, mostly broken Keurig, but you won’t hear me complain. It offers me moments of reprieve when I need to be alone, and for that I’m thankful.
I pop a pod into the machine and press start, listening to it struggle and groan to life. This coffee machine and I have so much in common. Used up. Broken. Practically worthless. Just waiting to be put out of our misery.
I lean against the counter, lowering my chin to my chest with a heavy sigh. My eyes flutter closed as a wave of exhaustion pours over me, curving my shoulders inward and filling my chest with a hollow pit of misery.
I’ve been in Saltbloom for three weeks. Three weeks of work-filled days and sleepy small-town nights. Three weeks of ignoring the angry scowls of people I pass in the street, of pretending I don’t hear their scornful whispers and sly gestures. Three horrible, heart-shattering weeks of breathing in the salted air that reminds me so much of Rush.
I die a little more inside with each passing moment I’m here. Each time I look at the ocean or pass by one of the spots we used to frequent, my wounds reopen, and it’s like I lose him all over again.
Teaching guitar makes the pain infinitely worse. With each chord I strum, I’m reminded of the last time Rush and I were on stage. Whenever one of my students progresses and gets that same look on their face that Rush used to, I’m reminded of the endless hours I stayed up, teaching my little brother new chords in our childhood bedroom.
And when that happens, I remember that if I had never gotten involved, if I had never pushed Rush to be like me, he might still be here.
The sputtering of the coffee machine pulls me out of my dark thoughts, and I push off the counter with a small scoff. There’s no sense in thinking about the past, especially not now. All I have to do is make it through five more months of community service, and then I can leave this town and never look back. Never think about it, or my grief, ever again.
I grab the coffee cup, carefully drawing it to my mouth. I’m about to take a sip when?—
“Riot!” A hand claps against my shoulder, causing me to slosh drops of boiling coffee over the front of my shirt.
“Fuck!” I whip around, nearly gouging an eye out on one of the green spikes of my boss’s mohawk. “What thehell, Mac?” I demand, gesturing to my splattered shirt. “You can’t sneak up on me like that.”
“It’s not my fault you’re so jumpy.” Mac waves me off, his moss-colored eyes shining with mirth. “I just wanted to say good morning to my favorite little rock star. Is that really so wrong?” An arrogant smile spreads across his lips, revealing a set of bulky veneers he clearly got at a discount. “Mind making me one of those?” he asks, gesturing to my coffee. “I’ll even sign off on an extra hour for you.”
I shove my half-empty cup into his chest, fighting the urge to dump it over his head instead. “Here you go, dearest. Drink up.”
Mac’s attitude makes me long for the starry-eyed fan I met when I first started working here.But that was before I crushed his little dreams.Before I showed him the real me.
Mac frowns but still raises the cup to his lips for a sip. “You're a dick, Riot.”
A hollow laugh pushes past my lips as I shove another pod into the machine. “The feeling is mutual.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that.”
“Uh-huh.” I place a new cup under the nozzle, wishing with every fiber of my being that he’ll go away. Mac reallyisa dick, but it's not like anyone would say it to his face besides me. He’s a scary motherfucker when pissed off, but I just so happen to be slightly more so.
“If I lie and say you’renota dick, will you leave me alone? I have a headache,” I grumble, tired of this conversation.I just wanted a minute alone.
“What’s got your panties in a twist? You’re a lot cagier than normal.”
I turn toward him with a scowl, deciding not to comment. “Is there something you need, Mac?”
Mac shrugs. “Just thought we’d have some friendly conversation. I was bored.” He turns his attention to the clock above my head as he strokes his long gray beard. The garish fluorescent lights of the guitar shop highlight the bleeding green tattoos on his knuckles. “I can't fucking wait to go home. I got a six-pack and a titty flick calling my name.”
Gross.“Sounds delightful,” I murmur, willing the busted machine to heat the water faster.Go away, go away, go away, go away?—
