The Guitar

            Nick struggled to walk in the door, juggling his bag and keys in one hand, and a few groceries in the other. It was cold enough outside to see his breath in front of him. He had removed his gloves, so his hands were numb, making it even harder to put the key in the lock. When he finally managed to push the door open, he heard his ringtone. He glanced inside his bag to check who was calling and glimpsed his stepdad’s phone number. He heard a faint sound of eggs cracking on the floor, but somehow Nick didn’t register that he had dropped all his grocery bags. He froze in place, unable to process his dad’s phone call or answer.

            Finally, the phone stopped ringing, and he snapped back into reality. He cursed at the mess he made on the floor and walked inside his small apartment to clean it up. He put all his stuff away and scrubbed all the egg yolk off the floor until the entryway reeked of Clorox. After he made sure everything was clean, he sat down on a chair to check his phone.

            There was a voicemail message in his inbox, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it. He had been here before, staring at his dad’s name on the screen, trying to conjure up the courage to call or text. But when he recalled the last venom-filled words he told his dad before he left home at sixteen, he always erased every message he started typing,

He winced at the memory of the way the words had pierced his dad’s eyes, how they had clouded over. The image of the hurt on his dad’s face as he nodded and shut the front door on him haunted his mind when he lay awake at night. He had broken his relationship with his parents, so he ran away and moved in with his biological father, Marcos. He was his father in name only. Marcos gave him a place to stay, but for all intents and purposes, it was clear he didn’t belong. He could only handle that rejection for a few months before he had enough to live on his own. Now that he lived alone, Nick knew he had destroyed everything when he uttered the words, “You’re not my real dad.” He might as well have said he hated him; it had the same effect.

A year later, it was his dad who he wished he could talk to. His mom started calling every so often, and his little brother would text him to give him updates about his life, but his dad had never reached out. Nick never expected that from him. But now here he was, calling Nick. He ran his hands over his face and braced himself to hear whatever angry message his dad had left.

            “Hey, Nick. I guess I caught you at work. Your mother told me you started working the night shifts at the hardware store, but I wasn’t sure if you were still there.” There was silence for a beat or two, and then, “Anyway, call me whenever you can. I know there’s a lot to talk about, but… we want you to come home.”

            The message finished, and the breath Nick had been holding finally escaped from his lungs. He felt like someone was squeezing his insides. He tried to swallow the giant lump in his throat, but the tears spilled over onto his face. He didn’t know what was going on, but he wasn’t going to be stubborn this time. For whatever reason, his parents were extending an olive branch, and this time he would grab onto it with every bit of strength he had left. Maybe it was just a simple white flag. Nick returned the phone call, not caring if it had only been a few minutes since his dad had called.

            After only a few rings, his dad’s hesitant voice filled the small speakers. “Hello?”

            Nick took a deep breath. “Hey, dad.” He paused long enough to realize he had no idea how to explain how sorry he was, how much he missed home. He wished he could just talk to his dad the way he used to before everything fell apart. Before the silence dragged on, he cleared his throat and asked, “Hey, have you seen the new Elvis movie?”

            “I have, actually. I was wondering if you had, too.”

⁛

            A few months had passed since Nick had moved back in with his family. The weather was finally cool enough for Nick to take walks outside again. Flowers were beginning to bloom; rain washed away the old and brought fresh life to the earth again. It had been a rocky few months, full of awkward meals and disjointed conversations, but Nick was slowly repairing all the destruction he had left behind.

            One night after dinner, they all sat around the dining table reminiscing on past Christmases. Nick enjoyed listening to their stories, especially about the Christmas he had missed out on with his younger brother. He was laughing so hard that he could barely breathe. His mom had a big smile on her face, and she glanced over at his dad.

            “Hey, remember the year you bought Nick a guitar?”

            His dad stopped laughing and wiped the tears from under his eyes. “Oh, yeah, that was a good present.”

            Nick chuckled softly and watched his dad clean his glasses on his t-shirt. “I loved that guitar.”

            “Whatever happened to it? Did you take it with you when…” she trailed off.

            Suddenly, the air in the room was heavy. Nick’s eyes darted to his dad, but his face was unreadable. The lights were dim, so the shadows made it harder to tell if his dad looked upset.

            Nick hesitated for a beat before he answered. “No, I left it here.”

            His mom smiled softly and rested her hand on his dad’s arm. “You should start playing again.”

            “I wish I could. I don’t know if it’s even playable anymore.”

            “Why?”

            “The strings are all messed up, and it wasn’t used that whole time, so it probably has a few problems.”

            His dad finally spoke up. “That’s too bad. You were really good.”

            “I should go try to get it fixed sometime.”

            His mom stood up and yawned. “Yeah, you really should.” She patted his shoulder on her way upstairs to her room. “Goodnight, son. Love you.”

            His dad got up, too. He wouldn’t meet Nick’s eyes, but his shoulders were slumped. “Goodnight, Nick.”

⁛

            A few days later, back from his work, Nick noticed that there was no one home. He looked around, reheated some leftovers from the fridge, and walked to his room with his plate in hand. When he set his food on his desk, something shiny caught his eye.

            It was his guitar, polished and restrung, that someone had placed on his bed. Tears of emotion clouded Nick’s eyes, and he almost missed the note lying on top. He picked it up to read it, and the drops silently dripped onto the paper. He knew that his relationship with his dad would still be a struggle, but this was one more reminder that he never had to question who his real father was, he would never have to worry about feeling accepted ever again.

            In his dad’s large, messy handwriting, the note read, “Hope you learn Jailhouse Rock. I love you, son.”