That afternoon my phone buzzed with texts coming through another thread, since Clare’s number wasn’t technically blocked on that account. She was writing in short bursts. Insurance denied the claim. Intentional submersion isn’t covered. Derek still owes eighty seven thousand dollars. The bank wants monthly payments on a car sitting at the bottom of a lake. We’re ruined, she wrote. Marcus, you have to help fix this. I read every message, then deleted the thread and went back to work. I had a recording session at three that afternoon.
That evening I opened my phone and found the family group chat sitting at forty seven unread messages. Aunt Linda had started it. Marcus destroyed Derek’s car over a guitar, she’d written. This is unforgivable. Uncle Tom piled on right after. A one hundred thousand dollar car over a guitar, he wrote. Marcus has lost his mind. Then cousin Sarah surprised me. Hold on, she wrote. Tyler destroyed Marcus’s eight thousand dollar guitar first. Derek told him to do it. Cousin Mike jumped in next. Derek has been acting superior for years, he wrote. About time someone checked him. Barbara tried to mediate. Everyone stop, she wrote. We need to heal as a family. Clare answered immediately. Heal, she wrote. Marcus destroyed our lives. Sarah fired right back. You mean like Tyler destroyed Marcus’s guitar. Uncle Tom again. A guitar is not the same as a one hundred thousand dollar car. Mike answered. Then maybe teach your nephew not to destroy expensive things. Aunt Linda tagged me directly. You’re tearing this family apart, she wrote.
I had stayed silent the whole time, reading, watching them fight over me as though I weren’t even in the room. I typed one response. I didn’t tear anything, I wrote. You chose sides yesterday. Then I muted the chat entirely.
The next morning an email arrived at 7:42. Subject line, Intent to Sue, Property Damage. Derek’s attorney was some man out of Louisville. The demand letter listed everything. Car replacement. Emotional distress. Lost work time. A total demand of one hundred twenty three thousand dollars. I forwarded it to my own attorney, Joel Ramos, a Nashville guy who’d handled contracts for half the musicians I knew personally. He called ten minutes later, laughing. This is the funniest demand letter I’ve seen all year, he said. They have no case, I asked. They have problems, he said. The kid destroyed your guitar first. Derek’s role in that matters legally. If they sue, we counter, and hard. They may end up regretting they opened this door. Draft the response, I told him. We’ll file a counterclaim, he said. Guitar, related damages, emotional distress, family interference. We’ll ask for fifty thousand. Do it, I said.
Two days later someone knocked on my studio door while I was mixing tracks. I opened it and found Clare standing there with Tyler beside her. He held a folded piece of paper and looked down at his shoes. Tyler has something to say, Clare told me.
He unfolded the paper and read from it in a flat, rehearsed voice. Dear Uncle Marcus, he read. I’m sorry I broke your guitar. I didn’t know it was expensive. I promise to be more careful. Please forgive me. Love, Tyler. He folded the paper back up and looked at Clare. Can we go now, he asked.
