Garage Riffs

When Blake woke up, the sun was shining brightly through the window, birds chirping and a light breeze wafting in through the open glass. He blinked the sleep from his eyes and reached for his phone.

8:04 AM exactly.

After a quick shower, he threw on a T-shirt and jeans, ruffled his still-damp hair, and padded downstairs, drawn in by the unmistakable smell of bacon. It was rich and salty, floating through the air like some magical spell. Half-asleep or not, it was impossible to resist.

As he stepped into the kitchen, the warmth of the stove hit him, along with the soft sizzle of eggs and bacon in the pan. Claire stood barefoot at the stove, her messy bun half-falling apart as she worked with practiced ease.

“Morning, sis,” Blake said, rubbing his eyes. “Smells fantastic.”

She turned and beamed. “Hey, sit down. Breakfast’s almost ready.”

He pulled out a chair and dropped into it, slumping with a sigh. “Where are Mom and Dad?”

“Still asleep. Figured I’d help out since I’m here for the weekend,” she said, flipping a strip of bacon with exaggerated flair.

“You’re the best.”

Claire raised a brow. “You say that because I saved you from another cereal breakfast, or are you finally admitting I’m the superior sibling?”

Blake smirked. “Let’s not get carried away. It’s definitely just the bacon talking.”

“Sure,” she said, turning back to the pan. “You’re welcome anyway.”

Just then, footsteps creaked on the stairs. Their dad, Thomas, shuffled in first, hair tousled and wearing his old college sweatshirt and sweatpants. Elise followed, tying the sash on her floral robe, still blinking away sleep.

“Well, look at this,” Thomas said with a yawn, leaning in to kiss Claire on the head. “You’ve made breakfast and kept your brother from burning toast?”

“Miracles do happen,” Claire said sweetly.

Elise smiled, easing into the chair beside Blake. “This is a lovely surprise, honey. And thank you, Blake, for not eating half a loaf of bread trying to make grilled cheese again.”

“That was one time!” Blake groaned. “And technically, it was a toastie.”

Thomas chuckled. “We still haven’t recovered from the smell.”

Claire plated the eggs and bacon and brought them over. “Okay, okay, stop roasting the chef and eat.”

As they dug in, the kitchen filled with clinks of forks and the cozy murmur of conversation. Thomas asked Claire about her classes, and Elise fussed over whether she was getting enough sleep. Claire answered with her usual blend of sarcasm and affection, poking fun at her professors while praising her newfound love for late-night takeout.

“What about you?” Elise turned to Blake. “Still jamming with your friends?”

“Actually,” Blake said, between bites, “yeah. We’ve got a session this morning at Ethan’s.”

“Ooh,” Claire teased. “Guitar boy on a Sunday morning. Sounds serious.”

Blake rolled his eyes. “We’re just messing around. Nothing huge. You know, just to lose myself in the music and relax.”

Thomas grinned. “That’s how the Beatles started.”

“Dad, please.”

Elise reached over and tousled Blake’s hair. “Well, whether it’s noise or music, it makes you happy. That’s what matters.”

By the time the plates were cleared, the kitchen felt like the warm heart of the house — the kind of morning that didn’t happen often, but lingered long after.

Blake helped Claire with the dishes while their parents moved to the living room, coffee mugs in hand. As the water ran and plates clinked in the sink, Claire elbowed him.

“Don’t mess up the jam today.”

“Me? Never,” he said with a grin, shaking his hands dramatically like a concert pianist.

By 9:30, Blake was out the door with his guitar slung over his back. The morning air was still crisp, the sun glinting off the pavement as he pedaled through the familiar streets of Resin Grove. Trees swayed gently overhead, their green leaves starting to hint at autumn’s gold.

Ethan’s garage was already open when he rolled up. Sunlight spilled across the driveway, dust dancing in the beams like glitter. Inside, Ethan was hunched over his bass, adjusting the knobs with way too much intensity.

Nick was setting up his drum kit in the corner, sticks tapping idly against his knee.

“Right on time,” Ethan called, not looking up.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” Blake replied, parking his bike against the wall.

The space was a glorious mess — half music room, half junk pile, with cables snaking between boxes of Christmas lights and an old ping pong table stacked with amps. But it felt right.

Blake plugged in his guitar and gave it a few warm-up strums, adjusting the tone knob as Nick did a quick kick-snare-hat check.

“You guys ready?” Ethan asked, picking up his bass.

Blake gave a nod, then turned to Nick. “Warm-up groove?”

“Yeah, something easy,” Nick replied. “Let’s shake off the rust.”

They started slow — a loose, aimless kind of jam. Blake tapped out a mellow progression, Nick followed with a lazy backbeat.

And then Ethan, grinning like a gremlin, launched into Never Gonna Give You Up on bass.

Blake stopped mid-chord. “You didn’t.”

“Oh, I did,” Ethan said, laying it down proudly, even throwing in a little shoulder shimmy.

Nick snorted. “Bro. Are we really getting Rickrolled at 10 a.m.?”

“I regret nothing,” Ethan said. “It’s a timeless classic.”

Blake sighed dramatically. “We could’ve been legends. But instead… this.”

“Just admit it’s a banger,” Ethan grinned.

They played along for a few bars, Blake adding overly dramatic power chords, and Nick throwing in some off-tempo fills just to mess with the vibe. By the end of the chorus, all three were cracking up.

“Okay, okay,” Blake said, wiping a tear from his eye. “Reset. Let’s actually try something.”

Ethan nodded, this time settling into a groove with a bit more intention.

Blake leaned into a riff — something funky, just a little syncopated. Ethan caught on immediately, matching the rhythm with a playful bounce, and Nick locked them in with a clean snare-kick combo.

It clicked.

They exchanged a glance — that unspoken wait a sec moment.

Blake played it again, sharper now. “Hold up… this actually slaps.”

Ethan grinned. “Let’s build on it.”

Nick spun his sticks and counted them in.

And just like that, the goofiness faded into focus — three friends, messing around in a garage, maybe onto something.

Still just jamming.

But something was starting to happen.