Or six hours until everything falls apart.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Wedding Day Countdown
Dean
I break at least six traffic laws getting to my storage unit.
Haven’t been here in months. Years, maybe. The lock sticks, protesting when I yank it open. The guitar case is exactly where I left it, buried under boxes of Emily’s shit I never returned and law school textbooks I’ll never open again. Dust motes dance in the fluorescent light as I pull things aside, creating a small avalanche of my past.
The Martin D-28 is still perfect. Still smells like rosewood and regret.
I tune it in the car, muscle memory taking over. My fingers remember even if my brain would rather forget. Each string hums to life under my touch, the sound achingly familiar. Like coming home to a place you swore you’d never return to.
Back at the estate, I find Mason in the kitchen, stress-eating cereal. He’s hunched over the counter, tie already loosened, shoveling Cheerios into his mouth like they hold the answers to life.
“I need your help,” I say.
“If this is about the bachelor party, I already apologized for the—” He looks up, spoon halfway to his mouth, then stops. His eyes drop to the guitar case. “Is that—”
“Can you still play bass?” I cut him off before he can finish that thought.
He blinks. “Uh. Yeah? Why?” The spoon clatters back into the bowl.
“Because Poppy’s guitarist canceled, and she’s about to have a breakdown.”
“So?” But his posture’s already changing, straightening.
“So we’re fixing it.” I set the case down on the counter with a thunk.
“We?” His eyebrows climb toward his hairline.
I hold up the guitar case, popping the latches. His eyes go wide when he sees the Martin.
“Dude. You haven’t played since—” His voice drops, careful now.
“I know.” I fix him with a hard stare, daring him to say more.
“Are you sure you want to—”
“Mason,” I cut him off, jaw tight. “It’s your wedding. Poppy’s worked her ass off. We’re doing this.”
He studies me for a long moment, cereal forgotten. Then grins like a love-drunk idiot, that dopey expression I’ve been seeing all week. “Hell yeah, we are.”
We spend the next hour in the basement, running through processional music, the songs Ivy requested, trying to remember how to harmonize. My fingers hurt, the tips burning where calluses used to be. It’s a good hurt, though. Like waking up something that’s been sleeping too long. Like remembering you’re still alive under all the armor.
“You know,” he says during a break, adjusting his bass strap, “you could just tell her you like her.”
I keep my eyes on the fretboard, fingers finding the next chord. “Tell who what?”
“Poppy. That you’re stupid about her.” He’s grinning again; I can hear it in his voice.
“I’m not—” I start, but the protest dies.
“You’re literally learning guitar again for her.” He plucks a string, the note hanging in the air between us.
“It’s for the wedding.” But the words sound hollow even to me.
