I drive to my mom’s house on the south side of town, far away from the dazzling mansions lining the lakeshore and Willow’s waterfront bungalow that has survived the test of time despite the town’s real estate developer and Rafael’s cousin, Julian Lopez, trying to buy up the property.
My mom and stepdad live at the southern tip of town, close to Nico’s school and the town’s fairgrounds, which host Lake Wisteria’s famous festivals celebrating all four seasons. Our area is run-down and far less glamorous than the rest of town, but my mom has done her best to turn the dilapidated three-bedroom house into a home worth visiting every week.
My stepdad, Burt, opens the door with the biggest smile. “Ellie Sophia Sinclair. What a nice surprise.”
“Is it?” I check out their empty living room. It’s changed a lot since I was a kid, thanks to my mom’s never-ending decorating ideas and Burt’s willingness to try them out despite disliking manual labor and the hour-long drive to my mom’s favorite home decor store.
“To what do we owe this random drop-in? It’s not even Saturday.”
My smile falls. “I got fired.”
His gray brows pull together. “Who do I need to speak to?”
My laugh comes out more like a sob.
“Oh no. Not the tears. I don’t handle those very well.” My stepdad pulls me into one of his famous bear hugs. They always make me feel like a little kid again, even after outgrowing him by a few inches once I turned twelve.
“Beatrice! Come quick. Our daughter needs your help while I go murder her boss.”
“Ex-boss.”
He squeezes me hard. “Not if I can help it.”
“What?” My mom comes rushing out of the kitchen with a cloud of flour dust following her. “Ellie? What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Mom.” I wiggle out of Burt’s embrace and wipe the tears from my face.
Burt softly pushes me in my mom’s direction. “Keep an eye on her while I go searching for my ax.”
“It’s in the garage. Bottom left shelf next to the paint cans.”
“Mom.”
“What’s going on?” She cradles my head between her palms before kissing my forehead.
“I’ll tell you, but first you need to convince Burt not to murder Rafael.”
He stands as tall as his five-foot-seven frame will allow. “I wasn’t going to murder him.”
“Or threaten bodily harm,” I add. “What will my mom do if you end up in jail?”
Mom gives my cheeks a squeeze. “He’d wait until I found a way to end up in there with him.”
“You two are hopeless,” I groan before throwing myself on the sectional.
“Fortunately.” Burt draws my mom into a side hug and kisses the top of her head. She melts into him with the silliest smile on her face.
When I was a kid, I used to think it was gross that my mom had a crush on my music teacher–turned–tutor who gave me free lessons because he liked her too, but now, I can’t get enough of their love. It’s nice to know that my mom is with someone who cares about her as much as I do, especially after the train wreck of a marriage she had with my biological father.
We don’t talk about him much, mostly because we’ve both put in the work to move on from his psychological abuse, but that doesn’t mean I never think about the man, especially when it’s so easy to see how much kinder and more patient Burt is.
My mom and Burt fuss over me while they help me unload the car and carry my belongings into my childhood bedroom. I take the lead on unpacking everything. Once everything is put back in its place, I lay on my pink, ruffled comforter and stare up at the stars stuck to the ceiling.
Funny how a year ago I was sharing a small Los Angeles apartment with Ava and Willow, spending my days songwriting and my nights waitressing to cover the bills while I waited for my big break. Now, I’m back in my childhood bedroom like I never left.
Everything looks the same, with the walls covered by concert posters and fairy lights Burt hung when I was in middle school. Even my nightstand and the stacks of diaries in the bottom drawer remain untouched.
My mom checks out my newly organized closet full of hoodies, leggings, and T-shirts. “Must you wear so much black?”
“There’s some white clothes in there.”
“And navy.” Burt winks at me.
Mom frowns. “You dress like you’re in mourning.”
“Perfect, since I’ll be grieving my employment status for the foreseeable future.”
Burt cracks a smile, along with the tension, when he asks, “What do you say we play some music together while your mom does her thing?”
“I don’t know…”
“Come on. I even got a new guitar for you to test out.”
My lips press together.
“Did I mention how I found it while thrift shopping at Another Man’s Treasure? Turns out it was signed by Cole Griffin and Phoebe Montgomery.”
“You’re joking.”
“Nope. The shop owner confirmed that it’s real.”
I jump off my bed. “Oh my God! You have to show me!”
I have no idea how a guitar signed by Cole Griffin, legendary lyricist and folk musician, and his cowriter ended up at our town’s secondhand shop, but I need to see it.
Burt laughs to himself as I follow him out of my bedroom and into his makeshift music room, which doubles as my mom’s home office. The space brings back many fond memories of us spending hours together while he taught me how to play the same instruments I’m teaching Nico.
Taught Nico.
My throat constricts, along with my heart.
Deep breaths, Ellie.
“What are you thinking about that’s got you looking like you sucked on a lemon?” Burt asks.
“Nothing.” I check out the acoustic guitar with Cole and Phoebe’s signatures before remembering. “Oh no.”
“What?”
“I forgot my guitar at the Lopez house.”
Burt’s face pales. “Do you want me to get it for you?”
“No,” I say in a rush.
“I don’t mind the drive. It might be nice to see how the other half lives.”
“They’re not the other half. They’re the .0001 percenters.”
“Why use math when you can just say filthy rich?”
I shake my head with a laugh. “I appreciate you offering to help, but no. I’m already enough of an imposition as it is.”
“An imposition? To whom? Let me have a word with them.” He searches the empty room for a missing person like a total goof.
Someone needs to protect this man at all costs because he is a national treasure.
“I don’t want to be a bother.”
He shoots me an exasperated look while holding a guitar out for me to grab. “You’re not. But if you insist on helping, then you should get a new job soon. Our water bill is going to double next month thanks to your long showers.”
I strum the chords with my middle finger, earning a deep belly laugh from him.
“Are you hiring at the music store?” I ask.
“For you, always, although I’ve got to warn you… some of the newer kids who come in for music lessons are tough. I blame those millionaire transplants who swear their children are the next Chopin and Beethoven.”
I make a face. “I hope I can handle it.”
“I know you can. You’re a Sinclair, after all.”
My chest warms. My stepdad is the most genuine, kind-hearted man I’ve ever met, and I’d be lucky to find a partner who is half the person he is. I may have never called him Dad, but he is mine in every way that counts, which is why I took on his last name.
Burt begins strumming the opening of our favorite song, and together, we play until I forget all about my life and all the problems waiting for me later, like getting my favorite guitar back.
