Page 7 of The Rebel with Broken Strings
“I will,” Gunner murmured. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll be in touch if I create something worth sharing.”
“I look forward to it,” came Tom’s warm reply.
After hanging up, Gunner allowed the newfound silence to envelop him once more. Yet, beneath the layers of hope and renewal, he still sensed an elusive void—a yearning for something profoundly meaningful, a purpose that stretched beyond music.
Taking a long, hesitant breath, he leaned farther back in his chair and his eyes wandered around the kitchen until they fell upon a burst of color on the refrigerator—a slightly crumpled flyer, its edges curled as though begging for notice. Timber Falls Afterschool Music Program and Talent Show, it declared in a bold, Western-style typeface that resonated with the twang of guitars and the shuffle of boots. He remembered how Betty—a persistent, gossip-loving older woman—had handed it to him a few days ago at The Naked Moose.
He rose slowly and walked the few paces to the fridge. His fingertips brushed the paper as he traced the outline of a guitar graphic in the corner, unwrapping its detailed invitation—a call for mentors to guide kids.
A flicker of interest ignited within him. Timber Falls had always been his home, a place where his music had once breathed life, uncluttered by the oppressive weight of fame. Now, the invitation offered him a chance to give back.
A tug stirred at the worn edges of his heart—a blend of duty and an equally strong urge to atone for the mistakes that haunted him. “Maybe this is something worth doing,” he murmured softly.
His fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the flyer before reaching for his phone. He dialed the number printed on it. “Hello? This is Margaret speaking,” came a warm voice on the other end.
“Margaret, it’s Gunner Woods,” he said, leaning against the counter. “I saw the flyer for the afterschool music program and… I’d really like to help out. I want to mentor the kids.”
After a heavy pause, Margaret exclaimed, “Gunner Woods, oh, wow, that’s wonderful! These young kiddos look up to you. Your experience and talent could inspire them in ways you can’t even imagine.”
Margaret continued, “Can you come by the community center tomorrow? I’ll fill you in on all the details.”
“I sure can,” Gunner replied, the mix of hope and apprehension probably evident in his tone. “See you then.”
“The kids will be so excited,” Margaret added with a final upbeat note. “How wonderful. See you then!”
After ending the call, Gunner stepped toward the window, squinting as the bright sun cast its familiar glow over the distant mountains. In that light, he envisioned the bright, eager faces of children—faces untouched by the shadows of doubt or failure—reflecting a future he longed to embrace. Yet, even as he entertained a glimmer of redemption, he could not silence the inner voice questioning whether one act, however genuine, could ever mend the fractures of his past. For now, he clung to the hope that this conflicted step might truly be a move in the right direction.
* * *
Aubrey’s fingers wrung and tapped over the worn oak of the back room desk at The Naked Moose, as if trying to escape her constant inner turmoil. Her lip trembled in anticipation with every uneven tap, each echo of the clock intensifying the stark emptiness on her laptop screen—a dull gray void that reflected the conflict roiling inside her.
A sudden digital chime shattered the silence, pulling her from her spiraling thoughts. The screen flickered into life, revealing the composed yet distant face of her lawyer, Jeffrey. His expression bore a calm professionalism that had once buoyed her through darker times, yet now seemed to underscore the bittersweet victory before her.
“Congratulations, Aubrey,” he said, his smile gentle and detached, as always. “The settlement is final. You’ve won.”
Aubrey’s exhale escaped sharply—a release of the breath she’d been holding since she’d fled Atlanta’s intoxicating lights for Montana’s small-town life. Not long ago, she’d been working under one of Atlanta’s top chefs, absorbing skills and passion. But that promise had soured when she had dared to reject his sexual advances. His dismissal, under the guise of probation, had sealed her fate, leaving her reputation tarnished in the eyes of the Atlanta industry. “It doesn’t feel like winning,” she murmured, the admission heavy with resentment.
“Understandable,” Jeffrey replied, nodding as if weighing every ounce of her inner conflict. “This victory is a testament to your bravery. Not everyone would have fought the way you did.”
“Bravery,” she echoed, the word tasting strangely bitter on her tongue. Leaning back with arms drawn protectively around her, as if shielding her from her past, she admitted, “I guess you could call it that. I just couldn’t let that jerk hurt anyone else the way he hurt me.” The memory of Chef Bisset—adorned with a façade of culinary genius while his hands violated her trust—was a wound that never truly healed. Her only recourse had been to counter his abuse with a lawsuit that, even now, felt as much like a battle scar as it did a victory.
“Your judgment will follow shortly and be deposited into your account,” Jeffrey affirmed. “Now, you’re free to chase what truly matters—your passion, The Naked Moose… Timber Falls. I hope things finally work out there for you.”
“Thank you, Jeffrey. I appreciate everything you did for me.” Even as her lips quivered into a faint smile, the scars still felt fresh beneath the surface.
“Take care, Aubrey,” he concluded.
She pressed her palms against the cool desk, staring at the ghostly space where his digital presence had just evaporated. His words, meant to soothe, had only just begun to peel away at the heavy layers of tension when darker memories intruded.
Without warning, her mind dragged her back to a searing Atlanta summer, the chaos of clanging pots, frantic chefs and the acrid scent of burnt garlic—a place where art clashed violently with abuse. Every shadow in that cramped kitchen seemed to pulse with the malignant presence of Chef Bisset, his predatory gaze lingering like a chain of unwanted memories down her spine.
A shiver snaked up her arms as she recalled the way his voice had slithered over her name, each word an unmistakable barb that chipped away at her once cherished confidence. The memory was made all the more harrowing by the stark recollection of him pinning her against cold stainless steel appliances, his crude advances stripping her of what little dignity she had left.
Then, as if the past was conspiring with the present to deepen her inner wounds, the memory morphed into another—a silhouette of her father when she was eight. Peering through the banisters, she’d watched his heavy boots collide with the wooden floor, the front door swinging open to release a rebellious gust of wind that hinted at freedom, only for him to vanish into the unknown, leaving behind the relentless tremor of a closing screen door.
Her breath caught as the old pain flared anew, splitting open unhealed wounds. But amid this tumult of haunting recollections, a tiny seed of defiance began to stir—a raw, tentative determination that struggled to overcome her conflicted heart.
Fuck them, it screamed.
