passed since that night with Cole, but the aftermath lingers like a persistent shadow, infiltrating every quiet moment with echoes of what should have been forgotten.
Sleeping with him – or more bluntly, fucking him – was a mistake. It felt like reopening a wound I thought had healed, the raw pain sharply reminding me of a past I’m struggling to leave behind. I had convinced myself I was protected by hatred and disdain, immune to any residual feelings. Yet, beneath that facade, a part of me longed for one final moment, a last encounter to definitively end what we had. But instead of the closure I sought, it was more like ripping off a bandage prematurely, leaving the deep, aching emotions exposed and raw.
He may not have intended to hurt me that night, not physically at least, but the aftermath of his actions remains. The pain in my hand is a constant reminder of the night his friend attacked me. The scars are not only physical; they’re etched deep within, coloring every memory of us with a hue of pain and betrayal.
In the middle of my own resurrected heartache, I find an unexpected kinship in Poppy’s own breakup. Ethan’s betrayal has shattered something inside her that I recognize all too well in myself. Supporting her becomes my escape, a way to channel my grief into something constructive. Yet, when I look at her tearstained face, I see a reflection of my own hidden pain, a silent understanding of loss and disillusionment.
Finding Poppy curled up on the sofa, I notice she’s distracted, her attention away from the Hallmark movie playing as her phone buzzes relentlessly on the table. Lifting her legs, I sit beside her,letting them rest on my lap—a small gesture of comfort in our shared space of healing.
“Ethan again?” I ask, though I already know the answer. His relentless calls have become a background score to our lives these past few days.
“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the screen, her voice tinged with resignation.
“Why not block his number?”
“I did,” she sighs, burrowing deeper into her blanket. “But the calls keep coming from private numbers. I can’t just turn it off… what if my mom calls?”
Her words resonate with me, echoing the dilemma I face with Cole’s texts. Some are demanding, others disturbingly intimate, recounting our past encounters in explicit detail. I’ve considered blocking him, but something holds me back—defiance and the futile hope that maybe he might say something that brings closure.
“What are we doing?” Nessa asks, her voice cutting through my thoughts as she settles into a chair across from us.
“Moping,” I reply, trying to find humor in our shared misery.
“Cool, cool. Mind if I join the mope fest?”
Her attempt to lighten the mood draws a chuckle from me, a brief respite from the heaviness that has settled over us. “The more the merrier,” I say, giving Poppy’s foot a gentle squeeze. “Want to come home with me for the break? I’m sure my dad will be happy to see my friends again.”
She turns to look at me. Her eyes are a little swollen, and her nose is red from her tears. She looks at me for a couple of minutes, seriously considering it, but she shakes her head with a sigh.
“I would offer for you to come to LA with me, but I think you’re depressed enough. That might take you over the edge.”
Poppy smiles but shakes her head again. “No, I need to stay here. It would break my mom’s heart if I went, and there’s still a lot to do in the new house.”
Observing Nessa, her usual facade of abrasive humor does little to mask the genuine tension beneath. She doesn’t want to go home, and I can’t help but wonder what happened between her and her family. I wish she would open up sometimes instead of trying to be strong all the time. But at the same time; I understand because there’s the fear that if you do, you will never be able to close up again. It can be cathartic, though.
“Let’s have a girls’ night before you leave for California.” I suggest, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up within me. “I’ll come back from the center loaded with sweets. We can forget about everything for a night.”
Nessa nods, a smile breaking through her usually stoic expression. “Sounds perfect. I could use a night of just… fun.”
Poppy, still nestled in her blanket, manages a small smile. “I’m in.”
The late morning air is crisp as I step out of the apartment, keys jingling in my hand. The drive to the community center is a quiet one on a Saturday morning. I let the familiar streets guide me, my mind a whirlpool of thoughts about Cole, Poppy, and the fragments of my own unsteady future.
Arriving at the center, I take a deep breath before stepping inside. The familiar smell of polished wood and the sound of scattered notes from various instruments greet me. It’s comforting, a reminder of why I’m here.
Today’s class is a small group of enthusiastic children, each clutching their violins with varying degrees of awkwardness. I begin with the basics, correcting postures and bow grips, smiling at their earnest efforts. Wayne, the little boy with the promising talent, is here again, his eyes focused and bright. Watching him play, seeing his small fingers deftly maneuver the strings, rekindles a warmth in my heart.
“Remember, it’s not about playing the notes. Feel the music,” I advise, demonstrating a particularly emotive piece. “Let it speak through you.”
The children watch, some with awe, others with budding understanding. Music, is more than a series of notes and rhythms; it’s a language that speaks of emotions and stories untold.
After the class, as the children pack up, I spend a few extra minutes with Wayne. “You’re doing great,” I encourage him. “Keep practicing. It’s about more than skill; it’s about passion.”
“I feel it here when I play,” he says, resting his hand on his chest.
My heart squeezes in my chest at the memory of the moment when I, too, knew violin was my destiny. It’s bittersweet to see the birth of the passion, but it’s also healing in a strange way.
I look up to see his older brother standing in front of the door. “Oh, here we go,” I say with a sheepish smile, helping him put everything away.
“I’m sorry for keeping him,” I tell his brother, extending Wayne’s violin case to him. “He really has a gift.”
He looks down at Wayne, who’s beaming at us, and rolls his eyes. “Oh yeah, he can’t stop talking about you at home. Trying to impress the teacher, aren’t you?”
I can’t help but chuckle at Wayne’s look of betrayal as his cheeks turn pink.
“Someone has a crush on his teacher…” he continues, teasing.
“You’re so mean, Jason!” Wayne barks, stomping on his older brother’s foot. “I’m telling Mom!” he adds, storming out of the room.
“That will teach you not to touch my PlayStation!” Jason calls behind him before turning toward me and giving me a sheepish grin.
Shaking my head, I chuckle. “That’s not kind,” I remark lightheartedly.
He shrugs. “But it’s true.”
I’m about to tell him that Wayne could use more lessons and that I’m willing to give them for free when the front desk secretary comes down the corridor.
“Eva, sorry to interrupt, but your boyfriend is here.”
“My what?” I ask, certain I’ve misheard her.
“Boyfriend.” She points behind her. “He’s waiting in the main hall.”
I purse my lips while putting the bag on my shoulder. “Thank you, I’ll be right there.”
Walking down the corridor, the sight of Cole standing there in his varsity jacket, blue jeans, and combat boots is no surprise, his presence commanding the space.
He sees me and starts walking toward me with a grin but his gaze hardens when he sees Jason next to me, his jaw tightening just enough for me to notice. The subtle clench of his fists, a telltale sign of his simmering jealousy, reminds me of the many times he saw threats where there were none.
“Sweetheart.” He extends his hand toward me, and I don’t want to cause any drama, not in this center when most children here already have drama in their lives. They come here to get peace, so against my better judgment, I reach for his hand and let him pull me beside him. He kisses my forehead before turning toward Jason.
“And who do we have here?”
I have to stop myself from rolling my eyes at the primitive tone in his voice. Asshole.
“This is Jason, the brother of my student Wayne.” I hate how he is running his thumb across my knuckles. I hate that I enjoy it, and I need to force myself to remember the cruelty he is capable of.
“Oh, that’s nice… And where is Wayne?”
“Probably in the car with our mom. I’ll see you later, Eva.”
The tightening of Cole’s hand around mine is the only sign the comment bothers him.
“I’ll see you later, Paula,” I say to the receptionist, who is eyeing us with barely veiled interest.
Even in the height of our secret, when we went on dates in other towns, we always got that look. The “Why is he with her?” look, the one that should have been enough to warn me of how doomed we were.
My attempt to free my hand from his grip is met with increased resistance as he starts pulling us toward his car.
I pull again. “Let me go.”
“We need to talk, Angel. Let’s go for lunch.”
Dragging my feet to a stop, I’m thankful for once for the extra weight. “No.”
He sighs and turns around. “We need to talk.” He jerks his head toward the shawarma place across from the center.
“Let’s go there then. No car needed”
His insistence irks me, but I know arguing here, in full view of the community center, isn’t the best idea.
“I just want you to answer my questions.”
“Fine,” I relent with a sigh, “but only because I’m starving.”
We cross the street to the shawarma place, and immediately, there’s an energizing shift in the atmosphere. Inside, the restaurant buzzes with vibrant energy, a lively contrast to the quiet of the community center. The air is fragrant with the aromas of spices and grilling meat – cumin, garlic, and lamb create a tantalizing bouquet.
After ordering at the counter amidst the colorful tapestries and paintings that evoke a faraway bazaar, we find a table toward the back. Here, the din of the restaurant mellows into a pleasant backdrop. The tables are simple and unadorned, suited for the lunch crowd.
Our server soon arrives with plates of shawarma, steam rising from the tender meat tucked into soft pitas. The bright colors of pickled vegetables and fresh herbs add to the appeal. Each bite is a delicious harmony of flavors – savory meat, tangy sauce, crisp pickles, and onions, perfectly capturing the lively essence of our surroundings.
Despite the inviting ambience and the delicious food, the tension between us remains palpable, a stark contrast to the relaxed and joyful atmosphere around us. The warmth of the restaurant does little to thaw the chill that has settled between us, a reminder that no amount of external comfort can ease the turmoil brewing in our conversation.
“So, why didn’t you go to Juilliard?” he asks abruptly, his gaze unyielding.
Stiffening at the question, my fork pauses midair. “Who said I didn’t?” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.
“Because I went there looking for you.”
I choke on my breath at the surprise and ease of his admission.
Why did he come after me? Did he want to apologize? No, Cole Westbrook doesn’t apologize. No, I won’t ask; I won’t take the bait.
He keeps staring at me as if he’s expecting me to ask, but I look down at my food and start to eat again.
After a minute, he sighs. “Why don’t you play violin anymore? You barely touched it, even during your classes.”
That’s a sore subject, but it also confirms what I suspect—he didn’t want me to be physically hurt and lose my dream. He has been cruel, that is certain, but not to the point of destroying my dream, and this is why I’m allowing this small respite, this little cease-fire, to find a more or less peaceful way for him to leave me be.
“How do you know I don’t play during classes? Are you spying on me?”
He takes a bite of his wrap and shrugs, but I wait for him to admit what I’m suspecting.
“There’s no point denying it. You refuse to give me answers, and you’re not receptive to a more direct approach. What choice do I have?”
“Let it go and move on?”
He lets out a full, throaty laugh. “Oh, Angel, you know me better than that.”
Shaking my head, I pick up some meat on my plate. My left hand starts cramping, and I put it under the table, opening and closing my fist, trying to loosen the muscle.
His eyes dart to where my hand is, showing he doesn’t miss a thing. “Why are you not playing anymore?” he asks again, his voice far more serious than it was before.
“It has nothing to do with you.” At least not directly.
He lets out a sigh and leans back on his chair. “I’ll find out.”
I sit back too, my appetite now gone. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to know.”
We stare at each other—in a silent standoff, and I should have known I’d be the first to cave.
“What will it take for you to leave me be?”
“I need you to stop lying to yourself.”
I frown, confused. “What do you mean?”
He gives me a little smile, but it’s not mocking; if anything, I would almost call it sad.
“You didn’t have to sleep with me to blackmail me. You know my body by heart like I know yours.” He leans forward. “Every mole, every blemish, every curve and dip.”
My breath accelerates; he’s right, though, of course he is. I could have faked it, but… “If I admit it, will you walk away?”
He reaches out, and I flinch before his fingers touch my cheek.
His jaw tightens as his nostrils flare, but he lets his hand fall back on the table. “No. Once you admit it, we can keep moving forward and forget about the past.”
Looking at his beautiful face, I feel the pain all over again. How can I move on knowing the cruelty he’s capable of?
His eyes narrow a little. “What is it you want, Angel? For me to apologize for what I did? Admit that I’ve fucked up?” He sighs. “I’m sorry. I should have listened. Are we good now?”
That’s probably the worst type of apology known to man, but I also know it’s probably not something he has a lot of experience in.
I shake my head. “I have to go.”
“We’re not done talking.”
Feeling the walls around my heart tremble, the resolve to keep him at bay wavers, but memories of pain and betrayal remain strong. I know I can’t give him another chance. I won’t walk that close to the flame again.
“My friends are waiting for me. We have plans tonight,” I say, standing up. My voice is firmer now; the decision made.
He’s visibly frustrated but nods. “Tomorrow. Come to dinner with me tomorrow. Let’s finish this discussion.”
I nod in agreement, knowing it’s a lie. As soon as I leave this place, I’ll be running again. Running from him, from the past, from the temptation of a flame that’s too dangerous to touch.
I’ll go home early, speak to Max, and rebuild my crumbling defenses. Because with Cole, the risk is too great, and I’m not willing to get burned again.
