Rocking the Second Act - Chapter Nine

Six Strings and Small Talk

Rocking the Second Act is still very much a work-in-progress — I’m going back, polishing, and shifting things around as I go — so thank you for reading along in real time. If you’re new, you can find all the chapters here: Chapter index.

Author’s Note:
It’s been a while since we’ve had a Zack chapter, so let’s check in on how he’s doing in rehab.

Zack

Noah came by again today.
Third visit. He doesn’t say it, but I think he’s making them weekly now.
I don’t know if it’s for me or for him – or if he’s trying to balance the karmic spreadsheet of being the “good son” – but I don’t push it.

He brought decent coffee.
Flat whites from a real place, not that bitter, beige institutional drip we get here that tastes like regret and bleach. Motherfucking decaf.

We sat outside.
Plastic chairs. Patchy grass. A tree that might’ve once been alive.

He handed me my cup and sat like he always does — too straight, too still, like he’s worried that any slouch might stain his credentials.

“Frankie says hi,” he said.

I blinked. “She knows I exist?”

He smirked. “Hard to avoid it when you’re trending on her Spotify.”

I choked on the coffee. “Sorry – what?”

He reached into his jacket and pulled out his phone, tapping the screen a few times, then held it up.

Midnight Ashes.
Underwater Sundays.
52 million streams and counting.

“She found it through the Driftline soundtrack,” Noah said, slipping the phone away again. “They used it in the trailer. And then Spotify shoved it on a couple of retro-alt playlists. You’re basically viral again. You didn’t know?”

“I knew they licensed it,” I muttered. “Didn’t realise anyone was listening.”

Noah gave a quiet chuckle. “Well, Frankie’s been playing it on repeat. She’s a sucker for that echoey, sad-boy anthem vibe. Told her the frontman was her uncle.”

“And?”

“She didn’t believe me.”
He took a sip of his coffee, letting the silence settle between us. “Then I showed her the music video.”

“Oh no.”

“Yeah. You in eyeliner. Shirtless. Covered in paint.”

I groaned. “We were experimental.”

“She said – and I quote – ‘Uncle Zack used to be hot.’”

I laughed despite myself. “Used to be, huh?”

“Well, she’s thirteen. You’re basically ancient.”

Noah leaned back, smirking. “She also said you looked like Yungblud’s uncle.”

I blinked. “Who the fuck is Yungblud?”

“Dom Harrison. Kid from Doncaster. Pink socks, eyeliner, chaos energy. Basically you at twenty-one — if you’d been smart enough to monetise the meltdown.”

I shook my head, muttering, “Christ.”

I shook my head and looked down at my hands. They didn’t look like the hands of someone who used to be hot. They looked like someone who used to burn.

“Nick’s obsessed too,” he added. “They’ve both started learning guitar.”

That flicker of pride caught me off-guard.
I looked up. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. We got them starter acoustics for Christmas. Pink and blue. Horrendously ugly. They hate their teacher.”

Now I was properly grinning. “I’ll give them some real lessons. Once I’m out of here.”

Noah arched an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”

“What, that I’ll be out of here?”

“No – that you can teach anyone anything without turning it into a monologue about string tone and artistic integrity.”

“Shut up,” I said, laughing. “I’m great with kids.”

“You stole my first guitar.”

“That was a long-term loan.”

“You wrote ‘this guitar belongs to ZACK’ on the back in permanent marker.”

“Branding,” I said. “It’s called branding.”

He shook his head. “Mum cried.”

“I was fourteen and playing Bowie covers in a garage. I was Bowie.”

“You were a pain in the arse.”

“Still am.”

That shut us both up for a minute.
The quiet didn’t feel heavy. Just… worn-in. Familiar.

I glanced over. “Thanks for coming, by the way.”

He nodded. “You look better.”

“I feel better.”
That surprised me a little.
But it was true.

Noah didn’t mention Dad.
He never does.
He knows better.

Instead, he looked at the horizon like it owed him something, then turned back to me.

“Girls would love to see you. When you’re ready.”

I nodded. “I’d like that.”

And I meant it.
Even if I didn’t know how to be an uncle.
Even if part of me still felt like a ghost at the family table.

***

Nights in rehab get long. Too much time to think, not enough noise. One evening I sat at the shitty communal computer and typed my own name into YouTube, half expecting nothing.

There it was.
Grainy footage from some dive in Berlin, me shirtless, smeared in paint, screaming like the walls might cave in. The camera shook with the crowd. I moved like a fuse burning too fast.

I didn’t even remember that gig, but watching it was like staring into a mirror that didn’t recognise me anymore.

The sound was rough. Raw. Dangerous.
And for the first time in months, I felt it — a spark in my chest, the old engine coughing once, deep under the rust.

It scared me.
It thrilled me.
And then it was gone.

But I didn’t want that kid back — not the crash, not the chaos.

I shut the browser before I could hit play again and sat there, staring at the login screen. For some reason I pictured Frankie and Nick with those ridiculous little starter guitars.

I didn’t know what it would feel like to teach them. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. But the thought sat there, small and stubborn, like a handhold on a cliff face.

God help those kids if I’m their teacher.

The room was still quiet, but it didn’t feel quite so dead anymore.