I clutch the bloodstained dress, the fabric crumpled and heavy with the weight of my regrets. Max has held on to it for all this time to give it to the culprit, for him to face his actions, and the culprit is me… Cole Fucking Westbrook.
I’m outside the gym now, gasping for air, my stomach churning with nausea. Every fiber of my being screams in anguish. Eva… my Eva, she almost…
I can’t finish the thought. My throat constricts with unshed tears, the reality of her pain, her near loss, crashing into me like a tidal wave. I jump into my car, mind racing, heart pounding. I have to find her, see her, and make sure she’s real and alive.
Driving aimlessly, my thoughts are a blur of fear and desperation. Parking above the path, I leave behind the haunting symbol of her pain and sprint toward the bridge—Memory’s River. I don’t need to check the tracker. It’s where I’ll find her, I know it. And there she is, just leaning over the edge, her gaze lost in the dark water below.
“Step away from the ledge, Angel,” I call out, my voice no more than a hoarse whisper.
She startles, her eyes wide with surprise. “I’m not going to jump.”
The words cut deeper than she knows. “No, but you almost did once. If it weren’t for Max… there would be a reality where I exist, and you don’t.” The mere thought has bile rising in my throat. I take a step toward her, my movements cautious, afraid.
“What happened that night?” I ask, needing to understand, to know.
Her eyes flash with anger and distrust, yet she sees the desperation in my face. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m not the girl I used to be.” Her words sting, a harsh reminder of the pain I caused.
“Please, Eva.”
“I don’t owe you anything, Cole Westbrook.”
“No, you don’t, but I do.” My voice is low, filled with a pain I can’t hide. “I never should have done what I did.” I never wanted to go back in time more than I do today.
“You know I never told anyone about your… condition. I never would have.” She looks down at her scarred hand, a physical reminder of the night that changed everything. “A couple of weeks before prom, Jenny told me you belonged to her, that you were endgame, no matter what you were playing at with me.”
Jenny… The name sends a surge of anger through me, mixed with self-loathing for involving her in my twisted games.
“I only wanted to hurt you by humiliating you at prom,” I confess, the words tasting bitter in my mouth. “I wanted to make you pay for a crime you didn’t commit.”
Her eyes meet mine, fierce and cold. “Even if I had told your secret. You had no right to unleash this on me. And did you have to tell them about our sex life?”
The accusation stings, but it’s her shivering in the cold that draws my attention. “You’re cold.” I open my coat, wanting to wrap her in my warmth, in my apology, in my regret.
“No, I’m not your responsibility.”
She is, in so many ways, she can’t fully understand. “What do you mean, our sex life?”
She rolls her eyes. “High school boys,” she mutters, stepping away from the ledge. My heart eases a fraction, and as she tries to walk past me, I wrap my jacket around her shoulders.
“I mean, how I enjoyed your… dominant ways,” she says, her cheeks flushed with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
“Did he think it was okay? Him, forcing himself on me, under my dress… Did you tell him to keep going if I said no?” Her words hit me like a truck, freezing me in place. My mind struggles to process her accusation, and a torrent of fury rises inside me, threatening to overwhelm my senses.
Trying to breathe is a chore; my lungs are locked tight, refusing to work. My vision blurs, the world around us dissolving into a fog of shock and horror. My chest is a furnace of anger and panic, burning so fiercely that I feel like I could implode.
Her hand, gentle on my cheek, snaps me back to the present. She’s looking at me, her eyes filled with worry. Worry for me. “Did he…?” I can’t finish the sentence. My voice breaks, crumbling under the weight of the monstrous possibility. The thought that she might have suffered something so vile because of me is excruciating. Unbearable.
Her hand remains on my cheek, a small anchor in the storm of emotions that threaten to engulf me. “No, I fought.”
She shows me the scar on her hand, and I realize now why she’s not playing anymore. It’s not because she doesn’t want to. It’s because she can’t. I love her, and I love that scar, even if it stole her dream.
“Angel, if you believe only one thing I say today, know that I’ve never said anything about our sex life to anyone. Ever. I never would have disrespected you that way.”
She looks at me for a second, and I think she sees I mean it because she nods slowly.
Grabbing her hand, I press kisses to the raised scar. “Let me drive you home,” I plead, desperate to do something, anything, for her.
She nods, and a small wave of relief washes over me. She’s not fighting me on this, not this time.
As I drive toward her house, I’m careful to keep the pace slow, not ready to part ways just yet. The silence in the car is heavy, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions.
Finally, I can’t keep the question inside any longer. “Your hand…” I begin, my voice trailing off, unsure how to address the elephant in the room.
She pauses and takes a deep breath. “I cut it when I fought him off,” she says, her voice steady but strained. “Deep enough to sever nerves and tendons.”
My heart sinks. “Can’t it be fixed?” I ask, clinging to a shred of hope.
She shrugs, the gesture hiding the depth of her despair. “We did everything we could. Used up my college fund, Dad’s savings, he even took out a second mortgage on the house.” Her voice is filled with resignation and bitterness. “I couldn’t let him go further into debt, and I made my peace with it.”
She said all they could do, not all that could be done. I nod to myself; I will be fixing this, no matter the cost.
As we pull up to her house, I can’t bring myself to unlock the doors just yet. “You know I love you, right?” The words tumble out, desperate for her to understand, to see the truth in my heart.
But her expression doesn’t change, and my heart sinks lower.
“Can we at least be friends?” The question feels like a plea, a last resort.
She bites her lip, then winces as if the thought causes her physical pain. “No, I can’t do that.”
Her rejection is like a punch to the gut.
“I can offer ‘not enemies,’ though,” she extends, and it’s a small consolation, a start.
Glancing at her hand again, the scar is a visible reminder of the pain she’s endured. “Who did this?” I ask, needing to know.
She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Cole, it’s not—”
“Who?” I insist, my voice growing harder. “Derek?” I guess, and her body tenses at the name. Of course, it was Derek. The predator. I should’ve seen it, should’ve stopped it.
“See you later, Angel,” I say, resigned. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she turns to me, her eyes holding mine.
“Nothing happened. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you didn’t want this for me.”
Her belief in me, even now, is a balm to my wounded soul. “You believe that?”
She nods, and with that, I unlock the door. “I’ll see you later.”
As she steps out of the car, the distance between us feels like a chasm. But her belief, her acknowledgment, gives me a sliver of hope. Maybe there’s still a chance for redemption.
Once she disappears in the house, I feel the fury that was simmering burst through the surface, and all I want is revenge.
I find myself at Derek’s house, the home of the one who hurt her, who tried to take from her what wasn’t his to take. His house is unassuming, nestled in a middle-class neighborhood. His mother, I know, works at the school administration. His only reason for being there in the first place.
Derek answers the door and my vision tunnels. “Hey, man,” he greets, but the sight of him ignites something primal in me.
Without a second thought, I grab the back of his head, smashing his face against the doorframe. “You tried to rape her? My girl?” My voice is a growl, unrecognizable to my own ears.
Derek, clutching his bleeding nose, blood seeping through his fingers, stammers in confusion. “I didn’t do anything to Jenny!”
“Not Jenny, you idiot! Evangeline! The coach’s daughter!” I roar, my hands shaking with rage and despair.
He looks genuinely lost, a flicker of realization crossing his bloodied face. “You… you asked me to,” he whispers, fear creeping into his voice.
Frozen, the impact of his words is like a physical blow. “I asked you to?” My voice is a hoarse whisper, disbelief and horror mingling inside me.
He nods, his voice trembling. “Jenny told me to make Eva regret betraying you. And when I came back to the ball… I told you I took care of her. You said ‘good.’”
The memory crashes into me—the night of the ball, the alcohol clouding my judgment, the gaping hole where Eva should have been by my side. I was drunk, so drunk, and missing her so desperately.
Without thinking, my fist connects with Derek’s face again and again. Each hit is a release, a futile attempt to undo what’s been done, to erase the pain I’ve caused, the pain I’ve allowed.
As Derek slumps to the ground, the reality of my actions, of my indirect involvement, crashes down on me. I’ve been a puppet in a cruel game, a game where Eva paid the price.
“Hey!”
Turning toward the shrieking voice, I see Derek’s mother in the hall, phone in hand. “I’m calling the police!”
Standing above him, breathing hard with anger, I glare at his crying mother.
“Yes, call them! Tell them you raised a rapist and see what they do with that information!”
The phone is clutched against her chest, and at that moment, I realize she knows. She knows her son is a predator, just like I suspected he was, and never did anything about it, and by doing nothing, I’m almost as guilty as he is.
I leave Derek there, a broken mess on his doorstep, a mirror of the destruction I’ve caused in my own life. The late afternoon air is cold against my heated skin as I stumble away, each step heavier than the last. My fists ache, stained with his blood, a visceral reminder of the violence I unleashed. The fury still simmers inside me, but a profound sense of emptiness and despair now overshadows it.
Driving aimlessly, houses and trees become nothing but blurred shapes on the periphery of my vision. My thoughts are consumed by her, by the myriad of ways I have failed her, hurt her. The realization that I had been the catalyst for so much of her suffering is a bitter pill to swallow. I have always prided myself on being in control, on being the one who called the shots. But in this moment, I have never felt more helpless, more out of control.
Stopping at a traffic light, the sight of the tattoo shop catches my eye, and for some reason, I feel like I have to brand this day in my memory forever. I need to have a reminder of what my pride almost cost me. I need to remember how the thought of losing Eva and hurting the person I loved the most made me feel. I can never forget.
I park the car haphazardly in front of the shop. It is closed already, but I know Luke; he’s the one who did all my tattoos, and I need that tattoo now.
I knock at the door of the tattoo shop, the streetlights casting a muted glow on the sidewalk as dusk settles. My knock is initially tentative but grows more insistent as I wait, driven by a sense of urgency that I can’t quite explain. The door swings open, revealing Luke, his expression shifting from annoyance to recognition.
“Cole Westbrook, as I live and breathe. What brings you here at this hour?” He steps aside, letting me into the familiar interior of the shop.
“I need a tattoo, Luke,” I say, my voice more strained than I intend.
He raises a pierced eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “You need a tattoo? That’s a first.”
Giving him a sharp nod, I’m not sure I can explain why. It’s not even clear to me.
He rubs one of his tattooed hands on his jaw and nods. “Fine.” He sighs. “Come at six a.m. tomorrow. I—”
“No! Tonight, Luke. It’s important.”
Luke shakes his head. “I’ve got a date with my boyfriend tonight, and if I cancel aga—”
“Please, Luke, I need it! It’s just… I need to remember today. I’ll pay you twice the full-day rate. You can buy him the best present. Please.”
I’m not one to beg, and Luke knows. He looks at me silently for a few seconds and lets out a sigh.
He runs a hand through his hair, his expression turning serious as he catches the urgency in my voice. “Alright, man. Let me make a call. I’ll need a few minutes.”
As Luke disappears to call his boyfriend, I’m left alone with my thoughts. The idea of the tattoo struck me suddenly, an impulsive need to mark this day, this turning point in my life. The thought of losing Eva, of the pain and destruction I’ve caused, it needs to be etched in my skin, a permanent reminder of my vow to change, to do better, to be better… for her.
When Luke returns, his face is a mix of resignation and curiosity. “Okay, let’s do this. What did you have in mind?”
I explain the concept, my voice low. “I want a violin with musical notes flowing from it, constructing a bridge. And beneath it, the words ‘Angel’s memories,’ in a feminine script.”
Luke nods, a spark of artistic interest in his eyes. “I can do that. It’s going to take a while, though.”
“I’ve got time,” I reply, settling into the chair.
“Where do you want it?”
Turning to the side, I point to my right rib cage. “Here.”
As the needle buzzes to life, the pain is sharp, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil inside me. Luke works meticulously, his skilled hands bringing my vision to life. The violin, a symbol of her dreams. The bridge, a representation of the precipice she had once stood on. And the words, a homage to the memories we shared, to the love that still burns in my heart.
The hours pass in a blur of pain and introspection. As Luke finishes, he wipes down the tattoo, and I look down at the artwork on my skin. It’s more than ink; it’s a vow, a promise to myself and to her.
Stepping out of the shop, I realize it’s late. The sky is dark, the street quiet. My shirt sticks to my skin, a mix of sweat and residual ink. It’s time to face the consequences of my actions, whatever they might be.
As I drive home, the weight of my father’s potential disappointment and the possibility of police involvement due to the altercation with Derek all looms over me. At this moment, none of it seems to matter as much. My mind is consumed by thoughts of Eva, of the need to make amends, to fix the chaos I’ve unleashed.
Pulling into the driveway of my home, I brace myself for whatever awaits. My father’s car is in its usual spot, a silent indicator of the inevitable conversation that looms. But as I step out of the car, my new tattoo aching on my skin, I feel a strange sense of peace. No matter what comes next, my resolve is clear.
I will do whatever it takes to earn her forgiveness, to right the wrongs of my past. The journey will be long and fraught with challenges, but the image on my skin will serve as a constant reminder of the promises I’ve made. For her, for myself, and for a future that I hope can still happen.
