Chapter 7 Zack
ZACK
The music shop was quiet in that mid-afternoon lull.
Behind the counter, I was restringing a battered acoustic when my phone buzzed. I wiped my hands on my jeans and glanced down.
Cathy: Congrats. You’re in!! You guys are part of the New Year’s Eve main stage lineup. Not sure about the exact schedule yet. I’ll get back to you. Sending you the full lineup now.
For a second, I just stared at the screen. Then it hit me.
I sucked in a sharp breath. We were in. We actually made it.
My grip tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening as a grin spread across my face before I could stop it.
I wanted, needed, to tell Mark. Immediately.
He was supposed to swing by later for practice, and the thought of dropping the news in person made the excitement fizz even harder under my skin.
But then, just as quickly, a familiar knot twisted in my stomach: Theo.
My thumb hovered over the screen as I refreshed my messages, then my email, then my messages again, like that might somehow change what I was about to see.
Cathy’s follow-up came through almost instantly, a file attachment with the lineup.
There were five names on the list. I recognized most of them: local acts I’d played with before, or at least heard about. Solid musicians. Deserved spots.
And then there was one name I didn’t recognize. I stared at it longer than the others. Figures. I wouldn’t have been surprised if it was Theo’s band.
He was good, irritatingly good, and New Year’s Eve was exactly the kind of stage he’d aim for. Big crowd. Big energy. Big moment.
I exhaled slowly and locked my phone, forcing the thought aside. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that we got in. Me and Mark.
I leaned back against the counter, letting my gaze drift around the shop as the adrenaline slowly settled. Once the initial rush faded, my brain jumped tracks and went straight into logistics. Outfits.
Cathy had mentioned it almost offhandedly after the audition. One of the judges had apparently been curious about our “brand,” which made sense.
We’d shown up in our everyday clothes, no band name, just our names scribbled on the sign-up sheet.
Names were fine for now. Cathy had waved that off. The look, though, still needed work. And soon.
New Year’s Eve was close enough that finding something decent might be a nightmare.
Mark, of course, had been completely unfazed during the conversation. He’d shrugged and said he was fine with anything.
Then, somewhere between Cathy getting animated and me internally screaming, he’d started tossing out suggestions.
“Sequinned suits,” he’d said casually, like it wasn’t the most unhinged idea I’d ever heard.
The worst part was Cathy had lit up.
From there, they’d spiraled into sequinned lapels, metallic accents, even tinsel woven into guitar straps. Cathy went quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowing in that dangerous way that meant she was seriously considering something ridiculous.
I remembered clutching my dad’s guitar then, fingers tightening around the neck before I even realized it. Dad would roll over in his grave, I’d thought.
The idea of draping it in tinsel felt borderline sacrilegious.
Which was exactly why I needed to finally stop taking this so seriously.
I snorted softly under my breath. I still wouldn’t be caught dead in a sequinned suit though. That was a fact.
Or at least it had been, right up until Mark had admitted, almost sheepishly, that he owned something close from his wedding singer days.
That had stopped me cold. Because suddenly, unhelpfully, I could picture it: Mark in something sharp and ridiculous and glittering under stage lights, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing to me.
I shook my head, heat creeping up my neck. Absolutely not, I told myself.
And then, traitorously, I thought—
…but maybe just once.
The thought of outfits tugged loose a memory I hadn’t invited.
Back when I’d still been touring with Theo, what we wore onstage had never really been a discussion. It had been dictated.
Coordinated stage outfits, he’d called them. Part of the band’s image. The look mattered just as much as the sound, according to him.
I’d learned that the hard way.
One night, in some nowhere town at a dim venue with sticky floors, I realized too late that I’d left my assigned stage shirt back at the motel.
Panic hit right before soundcheck, and I’d practically sprinted to a thrift shop down the block to grab the closest thing I could find.
A grey shirt. Practically identical. Or so I’d thought. Theo had taken one look at me backstage and gone still.
“That looks like arctic grey,” he’d said flatly. “It’s supposed to be slate. Where’s the shirt I got you?”
I’d stared at him, genuinely baffled.
“They’re not going to tell the difference,” I’d argued. “It’s dark. No one’s looking at my shirt.”
Theo had looked at me like I’d missed the point entirely. I’d been bumped from lead to second vocals that night. No discussion.
The memory left a sour taste in my mouth, and I shook it off, trying to refocus on the present. The bell over the door chimed just then. My stomach dropped.
I didn’t need to look up to know it was him. I could feel it: the way the air shifted, the weight of someone standing too still for too long. Watching me, waiting for me to notice him.
I kept my eyes on the counter, pretending to busy myself with a receipt.
“What are you doing here?” I asked without turning.
Theo’s voice came easy. “You didn’t wait for me after my set.”
I clenched my jaw, forcing my hands to stay still.
“I tried looking for you, couldn’t find you, so I asked around,” he continued, unfazed. “Someone said you worked here.”
Of course they had.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve,” I muttered under my breath, trying to keep my voice steady.
Theo didn’t flinch. “I was hoping we could talk. You know, like old times.”
I wanted to roll my eyes so hard it might have done actual damage.
“Old times don’t interest me anymore,” I said, finally letting my hands rest on the counter.
“Come on,” he said, sidling a little closer, tone soft but loaded. “We made good music together. Don’t tell me you don’t miss it.”
I ignored him, pretending to reorganize some guitar picks. It was the best way to make sure he kept talking while I plotted my escape.
A cluster of teenagers spilled into the store, laughing and shoving at each other, already making a beeline for the guitar wall. Relief hit me so hard I almost laughed.
“I’m working,” I said quickly, already moving. “We’ll talk another time.”
I didn’t wait for a response. I slipped out from behind the register and headed straight for the guitar section, a little too eagerly, positioning myself between the teens and the rows of instruments.
Normally, I didn’t hover, especially not with kids. I let them mess around, try things out. Too many questions scared them off. But right now, I needed the excuse.
I chatted with them, pointed out a few models, then, when they were distracted, ducked past the wall of guitars and into the back.
The storeroom was dimmer, cooler, stacked with boxes waiting to be unpacked. I pretended to check inventory, flipping open a box I already knew was empty.
From here, I could see the security monitor. Theo was still out there.
Theo drifted slowly through the shop, fingers trailing over instrument cases, lingering near the counter. Waiting. I exhaled and rubbed a hand over my face. Of all days.
One of the teens wandered over to Theo. Even from the grainy black-and-white feed, I could tell how it went.
The kid pointed at Theo’s jacket, eyes bright, probably recognizing the brand or the cut. Theo smiled, small and smug, and patted it proudly. Another kid handed him a guitar.
Theo took it, tested the weight, fingers sliding along the neck with practiced ease.
For a split second, I thought he’d play something, make the kid’s day. Instead, he barely strummed a single muted note before handing it back.
“Nah,” I could see him saying. “Not my thing.”
The kid’s shoulders fell just a little.
I felt irrationally annoyed. It would’ve cost him nothing. Five seconds, a handful of notes, tops.
That was the thing about Theo. He loved being admired, just not enough to actually give anything back. Eventually, the teens drifted out. Theo stayed.
He’d moved on to the sheet music section now, flipping through some guitar books. He didn’t linger long on any page. Just skimmed, sniffed faintly, and put them back slightly out of place.
I waited another minute. Then another.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I stepped out of the storeroom and said bluntly, “Why are you still here?”
Theo looked up slowly. “Done hiding from me?”
“I wasn’t hiding,” I shot back. “I just didn’t want to see your face.”
He actually smiled at that.
“You were good yesterday,” he said, ignoring my words. “Really good.”
His gaze flicked over me, assessing. “You’re wasted here. And you’re definitely wasting yourself with that guy.”
I stiffened. “His name is Mark.”
Theo hummed, a short, unimpressed sound. “So, what’s his background? Band experience, genre?” His lips quirked. “Doesn’t really seem like your usual type.”
I rolled my eyes and looked away. I’d learned a long time ago that arguing with Theo never went anywhere. He never listened.
He’d circle, reframe, twist things until you were the one explaining yourself. And I was too tired for that. Too tired to dig up everything I’d buried.
Like the way he’d insisted on approving every set list. Every outfit. Every interview answer. Like the time he’d rewritten my harmonies without telling me and then acted surprised when I was upset.
Like the groupies, always brushed off as harmless, as if his hands on someone else’s waist were just part of the job. As if I was being unreasonable for caring.
Engaging with him was exactly what he wanted. So I didn’t. Silence always irritated him more.
I turned toward the guitar wall and picked up the one he’d touched earlier.