The memory of Scott slamming through the door that night comes back to me, sharp as broken glass. He was drunk, rage rolling off him in waves. The sound of me playing set him off. He walked right into my room, grabbed the guitar, and smashed it to pieces like he was trying to break more than just wood and strings.

"You think strumming a fucking guitar is your future? I don't pay school fees so you can fuck around. Stop wasting your time with this shit." His words still echo in my head, sharp and cruel as the day he spat them at me.

I never picked up a guitar again after that.

"I stopped playing to focus on school and football," I add, my voice hollow as an empty promise.

Nick gives me a look, one that says he's reading more into my words than I'm letting on. "Well, I think you should try picking it up again."

I shake my head, pushing away the temptation. "I don't own a guitar anymore."

He gestures toward the one I was just playing. "That one's been sitting there, collecting dust for God knows how long."

"It's not really my thing anymore."

Nick studies me for a moment, then sets down the box he's carrying.

"Look, Nate. I don't know you all that well, but I know talent when I see it. And trust me, you've got it." He puts a hand on my shoulder, the weight of it steady and grounding. "Don't let your father's version of your life be the one you end up actually living. You owe it to yourself to choose your own path in this lifetime."

I look away, swallowing hard against the truth in his words. He's right, but it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

"Sometimes healing means reopening old wounds, taking a good look at them so you can finally let them close for good."

"What if the wounds run too deep?" I ask before I can stop myself.

Nick pauses, turning back to me. "They might never go away completely, but that doesn't mean you can't start fresh. You've got a whole life ahead of you, Nate. And at any point, you can begin again. Trust me."

He walks away, leaving me with those words settling into my bones.

"And for someone who hasn't touched a guitar since he was fifteen, you've still got it," he shouts, without turning to face me.

I smile at the compliment, and just like that, something in me shifts. It's tiny, barely there, like the first spark of a flame—but it's there.

34. Expect The Unexpected

CHAPTER 34

EXPECT THE UNEXPECTED

NORA