Page 96 of Pack Me Up

Her face lights up. She holds out her hands, eyes zeroed in on the box. “Pass it over!”

I do, and she practically snatches it out of my hand.

She’s already digging through the bubble wrap, careful but greedy. The case comes free with a satisfying pop. She runs her hand over the logo, then looks up at me, half-guilty, half-giddy.

“Is it safe?” she asks, and the way she says it, I know she’s not talking about the instrument.

“Already scanned it,” I say.

She unzips the case, slow at first, then faster. Inside is a gleaming electric violin, bone-white with black hardware, every edge still wrapped in cellophane. She makes a noise, not quite a gasp, not quite a laugh, and runs her finger along the fingerboard like it’s the spine of a cat.

“You should have let us buy it for you,” I say, trying to sound teasing, not critical. “If you wanted it that bad, you know you don’t have to spend your own—”

“It’s fine,” she says, not looking up. “I bought this with my first check from the tour and that…. feels good.”

“Yeah, but—” I stop myself. I want to say she’s pack and all the money, all the everything, belongs to the pack. That’s how it’s supposed to work. But the words turn sour in my mouth, and I let them die. If she wants to feel the pride of spending her tour money on an instrument for the first time, then I won’t take that away from her.

She lifts the violin out, reverent, holding it up to the light. The body is polished to a mirror, the bridge delicate and perfect. She cradles it.

“I’ve always wanted to try the electric violin, but my parents thought it wasn’t dignified,” she confesses.

I shake my head. “And you never have to worry about what they think again.”

She blushes and nods like she believes me.

I clear my throat. “If you want to use it, I can listen, or not listen. I don’t have to be here.”

I would have to stand right outside the bus since I’m her security right now, but I could at least leave her alone here on the bus.

She studies me, gaze sharp. “Do you want to leave?”

“No. Not even a little.” It comes out faster than I mean. I can feel the tips of my ears burn.

She grins. “Then stay.”

So I do. I sink into the booth opposite her, arms folded, watching her fingers fuss with the latches and the bow hair. She’s acting as if she lets go, the whole thing might vanish.

I want to say, you deserve this. You deserve all of it, and more. I want to tell her that her happiness is my new job description, that every cell in my body wants to see her like this, bright and open and safe.

Instead, I say, “You know the twins are going to be jealous I heard you first.”

She laughs, the sound real and bright, and leans back against the seat.

She taps her thumb against the case, then looks up at me, eyes softer. “Thanks for not making a big deal out of it.”

I shrug again, pretending like it’s nothing, even though it’s everything.

She looks around, then stands up. “Let’s work in the nest.”

I stand up to follow her as she migrates to the nest at the back of the bus with the violin case tucked under her arm. She moves through the aisle with omega grace. I follow, trying not to hover, but she glances over her shoulder and smiles at me. Brittney drops cross-legged onto the pile of blankets and pillows with the violin across her lap, then starts fiddling with the fine tuners. She moves with a precision I’ve only ever seen on stage, fingers strong, movements tiny and exact. The instrument is new, but the ritual is old.

“You’ve been researching it already?” I ask and she nods.

“I think I know what to do, but it’s always different when you get the instrument in your hand.”

She starts playing, tongue poking out in concentration. At first, the sound is thin and a little unappealing, but she works through it, testing and refining it. The sound improves with each attempt. She hums a few bars to herself, matching the pitch, then runs the bow across the string. The next note is awkward, too raw and too loud in the hush of the bus. She flinches, then laughs at herself, the tension breaking.

I settle on the edge of the nest, far enough not to crowd her but close enough to feel the static charge of her focus. She glances up, eyes sharp, then goes back to tuning. A few more seconds, and she tries again. This time the note is brighter, more sure.