Page 77 of Grumpy Bear

At best, it was like spending the night inside the pages of a design magazine. My beat-up guitar case, filthy backpack, and worn out sneakers cowered in a corner like a hideous oversight. I kept imagining a photographer screaming at his assistant to get that shit out of his shot.

I missed the sweaty sheets in the cabin in the mountains. I wasn’t sure I’d ever stop missing them.

35

Sawyer

Even for a Monday morning, Jim was unusually quiet. He’d been staring at me for a good five minutes, calmly munching his breakfast. Reading my energy, no doubt.

“What?” It was the first word I’d said since I’d sat down at the table.

He took his time chewing and swallowing and dabbing his lips with a napkin. “Is he gonna call and let you know how the audition went?”

I shrugged, hiding behind a sip of coffee.

Jim cocked his head. “Did you tell him to call?”

I huffed. I’d already been replaying my last conversation with Luke for the past sixteen hours and kicking myself over everything I’d said and hadn’t said. I didn’t need Jim piling on with his judgmental Monday morning quarterbacking shit. “I doubt he has his phone turned on yet.”

Jim dropped his fork on his plate with a clatter and sat back with his arms crossed. He glared at me, sucking his teeth like he was about two seconds away from slapping me. “You’re a real fucking asshole, Sawyer. You know that?”

“Why am I an asshole?” It was a knee-jerk response to argue. It wasn’t like I couldn’t think of plenty of reasons.

“First off, for taking that guitar back.”

“I didn’t ask him for it. He gave it back.” Down on his knees. God, that broke my heart. I hadn’t responded well in the moment to having my heart broken. It had paralyzed me.

“Well, you should’ve insisted he take it.” Jim jabbed the table with his index finger. “That kid just got his big shot, and you sent him down there with a ruined guitar. Which—might I remind you—was destroyed while he was working here. He should’ve gotten some kind of workman’s compensation or something.”

I rolled my eyes. “You don’t get workman’s comp for a guitar.”

“Then call it generosity or compassion or the kindness of your heart. If you can find any. Wayne’s guitar is—where? Sitting in your cabin. Doing nothing for nobody.”

“I’ll hang it back in the office.”

“Well, a lot of damn good that’ll do.”

“He said there’ll be a ton of musicians there. He’ll borrow one from somebody.” It sounded less convincing when I said it.

“Yeah, probably some piece of crap if he’s lucky. Not to mention, he’s going in there without even having a chance to rehearse first.”

Why hadn’t I seen that for the wishful thinking it was and insisted? I wasn’t a petty person. I prided myself on being generous even though that came as a shock to most people. I pictured Luke all nervous and awkward and goddamn earnest, trying to put on a happy face and be upbeat. The guilt hit me hard and fast. I’d spent all day yesterday and all last night feeling bad for myself and not a lot of time feeling bad for him. I put my face in my hands and groaned. “Fuck.”

“Yep,” Jim said, popping the p.

“I’m an asshole.”

“That’s what I’m saying.” Jim picked up his cup with his pinky extended. He sat there, slurping his coffee, looking off in the distance, and making a big point of patiently waiting for me to come to my senses.

It didn’t take me long to think of what needed to happen, but out of sheer stubbornness—and fear of getting my head bitten off—I hesitated to admit it. “Do you think if I sent somebody down there with it, it’d get to him in time?”

Jim’s face dropped, devoid of all expression. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you?”

I threw my hands up in frustration. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re gonna have somebody else take it to him?” He sounded like a tutor prompting a child through a math problem.

“Well, it’s not like I can leave in the middle of Monday recovery. We’ve got to—”