Chapter 25 Vince
VINCE
What a beauty.
That’s what I tell myself as I stare at a bright red acoustic guitar in a storefront window of a music shop just down the street from work.
I didn’t mean to go by here. I’m just cutting through the block, passing by on a walk during my lunch break, but the guitar made me stop. Its polished wood is stunning and perfect, the strings brand new, and the silver tuning pegs glint in the sun as if beckoning me to touch them.
My fingers itch to play it.
The rest of the bay window is full of instruments too—all polished wood and warm brass. Each one begging for someone to come claim it. I can almost hear the hum of the place from out here, feel it vibrating low in my chest like a memory.
I should bring Georgie. She’d love to explore the guitars and try different picks.
She’s been plucking at chords with me for three weeks now—little bits here and there.
Quick lessons squeezed in between dinner and homework.
She has good hands and fast fingers. Avalon does, too.
They deserve more than my half-assed, on-the-fly lessons.
But I haven’t found a lesson plan I could adapt to their skill level.
This store should have what I need, right?
I rub my thigh absently, the ache a dull companion I’ve learned to live around, not through. The weather’s decent today—not too cold, and no breeze. It’s why I went for a walk on my lunch break, wanting to smell the surf and catch some sun. Hoping to find my courage to talk to Declan.
It’s the kind of day everyone thinks of when they imagine California, and I’m loving it. It’s starting to feel like home, not just somewhere I landed.
The guitar glints again, pleading. It’s like the day led me here. To this moment.
I push the door open.
The bell chimes overhead, soft and bright. It feels like stepping into another world. The place is warm and crowded with bodies—a couple of teenagers arguing quietly over picks near the counter, a man testing out a saxophone with clumsy reverence, and someone playing scales on a piano in the back.
The smell is instantly soothing. Old wood and metal and something faintly sweet.
I like it already.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for, so I drift toward the books hoping something will stand out to me. There are dozens of method guides, theory workbooks, and beginner lessons stacked in uneven towers. I run my fingers over the spines, my pulse kicking up with excitement.
I flip through the book on top, instantly knowing it’s way too advanced for the girls. I reach for another one, then another.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
I glance up to find an older guy standing a few feet away, long gray beard pulled into a loose braid, glasses perched on the end of his nose. His fingers are braided over his round belly, and he’s smiling like he’s got all the time in the world.
“Uh.” I laugh quietly. “Kind of. Not exactly sure what, though.”
He chuckles. “That’s usually how it starts.” He holds out a hand. “I’m Langdon.”
“Vince.”
“What can I help you with, Vince?”
“I’m not sure, really. I’ve been trying to teach someone how to play guitar. She’s still a beginner, but I think she’s ready for something… I don’t know, more structured, I guess.” I tap the advanced book. “Just not quite this level.”
“I got you.” The older man shuffles through books as he asks questions, digging out a few more details from me. He seems relieved I already know so much about string types and frets.
“Oh, I’m a life-long guitarist,” I explain. “Started young, and it became my best friend as we moved around.”
“Military?”
I nod. “United States Army.”
He beams. “I have a similar story, but with the cello. Can’t play as smoothly as I used to.” He leans in. “Not that it stops me.”
I laugh. I know the feeling.
He braces his weight on a cane as he walks to another stack of books. “Come with me. I think the books I’m looking for got moved.”
Langdon guides me to a better selection of course books, and helps me pick two out for the girls. I like the guy already, and can see myself coming back to visit. Our conversation drifts easily from one thing to the next.
Somewhere along the way, I realize I’m talking with my hands about different things I hope to teach Georgie, a strange energy coursing through me.
“You’ve taught before, I take it?” he asks.
“Oh, nothing official. Taught some friends in the army. Now my boyfriend’s daughter and her friend want to learn.” I shrug. “It’s just fun to share this with them.”
“Well, you’ve got a good way of explaining things.”
I blink. “I do?”
He smiles wider. “Sure. You choose your words carefully, and speak clearly. All signs of a good teacher. And you said you’ve been playing your whole life. Who better to learn from?” He pauses. “Have you ever thought about teaching for real?”
The question is so unexpected that I swear I’ve heard him wrong. I laugh once. “I’m sorry, what?”
His eyes shine. “Teaching. Have you ever considered becoming a formal instructor?”
The idea hits me square in the chest. Me? A teacher?
Langdon gestures toward a small sign taped to the counter.
It looks freshly printed compared to the other papers.
“We’re looking for a new guitar instructor.
The one we had just moved to Utah. It’s part-time.
Two days a week. And mostly teenagers, but it sounds like you’re already comfortable around them. ”
I grip the counter, heart beating wildly.
“You interested?”
For a second, the world goes quiet.
It’s like everything in me clicks into alignment—every restless thought, every aching question about what I want to do next, who I am now. The answer is right here.
Under it all, muffled by the excitement, is a fear that I might not do well. My fingers aren’t what they used to be so I might not be able to show the kids what they need. But even that isn’t enough to stop me anymore.
I can find a way.
“Yes,” I say with a laugh. “Very. I’m… yeah, I’m very interested!”
“Wonderful.” He goes up on his toes, delighted. “Let’s talk then.”
When I leave the shop a half hour later, my hands ache from the weight of the books, but my steps are lighter somehow. There’s a bounce to them I haven’t felt in years. Who knew I’d ever have a bounce to my step again?
I almost call Fletcher, but no. I want to see his face when I tell him. Want to feel the moment land between us. He’s going to be just as excited for me.
I tuck the phone away and walk back to the bar, grinning like an idiot the whole way.
Inside, I wave River over. “Watch the door for a minute? I need to talk to Declan.”
“Sure.”
I head down the hall, toward the office. Declan is hunched over paperwork with a pinched line between his brow.
I knock quietly on the open door. “Hey, boss. Got a minute?”
“For you? Always. Come in.”
I shut the door and sit across from him, rolling my shoulders to brace myself. I’ve been dreading this conversation ever since I first brought it up with Fletcher. I’ve had multiple chances to talk to Declan, yet for whatever reason, I held back—like I was waiting to see what my next step was.
Now I see it and I’m ready.
But that doesn’t make this conversation any easier. My belly is in knots. Not in a bad way—just an ache that I’m going to let him down.
“So, I’ll get right to it since you’re busy. I need to cut back on my hours.”
Declan’s expression shifts instantly—not disappointed, not annoyed. Just concerned.
“It’s just… too much,” I say. “I’m hurting more than I should be.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen you slowing down. The barstool helped, but it isn’t enough, is it?” Declan’s tone is warm, soothing even. He’s telling me he really sees me.
“No.” I swallow past the sudden lump in my throat. “I don’t want to leave, though. That’s not what this is. I just—”
“Vince,” he interrupts gently. “It’s okay.
” He slides some papers to the side and leans in, eyes fixed on me.
His red hair seems darker in here. “I’ve seen this coming for a while.
But I told you I’d have your back, and I meant it.
So if you need to cut back, it’s fine. No bad feelings.
” He sits back, running a hand over his short beard.
“But I am relieved to hear you don’t want to leave because I’ve been thinking about offering you a management position.
Office work, I mean. Scheduling, inventory, payroll, all the behind-the-scenes shit I never seem to get away from. ”
I stare at him. “You’d trust me with that?”
He snorts. “You kidding? You already do a good portion of it. And you know this place inside and out.” His eyes soften. “I know I can trust you with the books.”
Something in my chest loosens. Declan trusts me. Deep down. That means everything.
“Actually, this offer isn’t only about you. I’ve been wanting to be more hands-on out front too,” he continues, “so I’ve been considering finding someone for the position for a while.”
I struggle to find my voice, still overwhelmed. “Well, I’m definitely interested. There’s just one problem, though.”
“Oh?” He arches a brow.
I rub my hands on my pants. “I just accepted a job at the music studio down the street. I’m going to teach guitar.”
His face lights up. “No shit?”
I grin. “Very part time. Just two days a week. But yeah, I’m really excited about it.”
Declan laughs, shaking his head. “That’s incredible, man.
Alright, how about this then? You run the office on your own hours, and we throw in a few night shifts a month when I need you, or when you’re up for it.
Because I still want you around, my friend.
I love talking to you.” He pauses. “We all do.”
For the first time, I let myself believe that.
“That sounds perfect.”
He grins instantly. “Great.”
We talk for a while about how I’m adjusting to the meds, Fletcher’s business, and how things are turning into something real between us. He never stops smiling.
“You guys are good together.”
My ears burn, yet I puff out my chest, grinning stupidly.
Declan points at me. “That. That right there is the biggest reason why,” he says, shaking his head fondly.
“It’s good to see you so damn happy. I’ll tell ya, Vince—love is a weird thing.
I never thought I’d love again after Graham.
But Seth?” He twists the platinum ring on his left hand. “He made my heart bigger, you know?”
“Married life treating you well, then?”
“Better than I ever imagined,” he says. “I fucking love being married. We’re planning a trip to Hawaii this summer. Going to hike to the volcanoes. Go parasailing too.”
I grimace. “Hard pass.”
He laughs. “Not a fan?”
“Hell no. I’d rather sit on the beach and enjoy the sunset.”
Something about the way he talks about Seth, about their marriage and new life together, unlocks something in me. I see Fletcher and my future so clearly now—him in a suit, nerves hidden behind his perfectly groomed beard, eyes locked on mine like nothing else exists.
It doesn’t scare me—not even a little. It settles into my chest without crushing me, without dragging me under. I don’t panic in fear thinking about stumbling down the aisle.
I know, even if I do, Fletcher would be there to catch me.
The idea not only comforts me, it fuels me. Helps me move forward. I don’t know when or how. I just know it’ll happen. Someday.
And God, I want that. I want to be married to him and build our life together in every way. And I want Declan, Seth, and everyone else to be there too.
I finally know where I belong.
By the time I’m driving home, my heels scream and my hands ache around the steering wheel.
There was a time when that was all I could focus on, when l felt trapped inside my body, like my life had already ended and no one had bothered to tell me.
But now the pain is just information. Something I live with—not something I drown in.
Fletcher helped me see that. He helped me believe it.
The house comes into view, and my chest loosens, a quiet counterweight to everything that still hurts.
I walk a little slower up the steps, steadying myself without shame before opening the door.
Inside, Fletcher is sprawled in the couch, holding an empty wine glass.
He looks up when he hears me, and that smile lands right in my heart.
How is it possible to love someone this much?
I cross the room, sink onto the couch beside him, and kiss him. There’s no heat behind it. Just a quiet message of how much I missed him.
When I pull back, he smiles. “Welcome home, babe.”
I pull the blanket over my legs and settle in. “What are we watching?”
He reaches for my hand, like he’s been waiting for this all day.
Nothing could be more perfect.
I’m still in pain. Some days my hands burn. Some days my body goes numb in places it shouldn’t. I don’t walk as steadily as I used to. But none of that is the sum of me anymore. I believe that now. I can feel the hurt and still choose joy. I can live with the damage and still be whole.
I can not know my future and still build one anyway.
For the first time in a long time—since long before my diagnosis—I’m not just surviving my life. I’m living it. Fully.
And that is all I could ever ask for.
I look down at our joined hands, imagining a ring on Fletcher’s finger.
Correction—it’s almost all I could ever ask for.
There is one tiny thing that would make it better, and I’m going to make it happen.
Fletcher is going to be my husband. Sooner rather than later.