door, I’m a mess of emotions, my shirt stained with blood. The serene ambience of the living room contrasts starkly with my internal turmoil. Mom’s there, her artist overalls a canvas of paint splatters, her feet bare, and the quirky sight of paint brushes in her hair. She’s sitting on my father’s lap, who is still dressed in his suit. They could not be more different, and yet they love each other with a passion that I used to find gross growing up but that I envy now. It’s the kind of love I know we can have, Evan and I. We are so different, too, but we complete each other the way my parents do.
My father says something in my mom’s ear, and she giggles, burying her face in his neck. They look like teenagers in love more than people about to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary.
Finally, I take the step to make myself seen, and I notice my father tense immediately.
He sits straighter, wrapping his arm around her waist to prevent her from falling off.
Mom’s soft voice cuts through the tension. “It’s not his blood, sweetheart,” she reassures him, getting off his lap.
Mom, the only woman I know who studied at Harvard, majoring in art with a minor in forensic science—just in case, she always joked. Her unique blend of creativity and analytical thinking has always fascinated me.
She walks toward me with a little smile and stands on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek with a warmth that momentarily eases my distress.
“Everything will be alright, my boy,” she says, even though I know it’s completely irrational because she has no idea what’s happening. Yet I believe her.
My father stands up. All the softness has disappeared from his face now that my mother has left the room. The air between us grows thick with tension. He’s the first to break the silence.
“Office, now!”
We walk in, and he pours himself a drink.
His eyes narrow, taking in the bloodstained shirt and split knuckles. “I thought college would change you,” he says, his voice heavy with disappointment. He sits down with a sigh. “Who do I need to pay this time?” I think I would prefer him shouting at me instead of sounding so weary. Like he doesn’t expect anything more than disappointment from his volatile son.
Eva always saw more; she always made me believe I was more. For her, I used to be more.
My hands tremble as my gaze drops to my clenched fists. “Eva… she lost Julliard. Her hand, her music…” My voice breaks, the words trailing off. I can’t even bear to complete the thought.
“You caused her injuries?” he asks, leaning on his desk, and this time there’s barely veiled disgust.
“You know about her—” I stop. It doesn’t matter. Of course he knows; my father knows everything. “Involuntarily, yes.”
He leans back in his chair, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Involuntary or not, Cole, did you admit liability to anyone?”
His words hit me like a slap in the face. Liability? Is that all he cares about? “Dad, do you hear yourself? She lost her dream because of me!” My voice rises with guilt and frustration.
He rubs his temple. “No, yes, it’s tragic, but you didn’t admit it to any witnesses, did you? Do you have any idea what a lawsuit could cost us, both in money and reputation? She was a violin prodigy!”
I stare back at him, disbelief and anger intertwining. Am I really hearing this? “I don’t think you’re getting it, Dad. I’m responsible for what happened to her. I’m the one who broke her.”
He looks at me as if I’ve lost my mind. “Cole, be reasonable! Think about the implications!”
Anger bubbles up inside me. “So, what? I should pretend like nothing happened? That I didn’t ruin someone’s life?”
“Let me look into it. I’ll fix your mess like I always do.”
Fuck no! I jump off my seat. “No, it’s different this time. I won’t just walk away. I love her Dad, and I hurt her. How would you feel if you hurt Mom?”
His expression softens, but his eyes are still angry. “I would never hurt your mother, and when I told you that she’s too good for you, I meant it. I hoped you would never rekindle this silly romance, and yet, here we are.”
“You’re—” I stop. “Rekindle?”
He rolls his eyes. “She came to see me a few weeks before prom. Made me promise not to tell you. She explained to me what you had and asked me not to get frustrated with you, said that you were smart and good and that with the help you need, things would be better.”
I sit back heavily on the chair across my father’s desk. “She came to see you.”
He lets out a tired laugh, putting his drink down. “Yes, and only a fool in love could face me the way she did.”
This revelation is making me feel worse, and I feel tears start to prickle at the back of my eyes. I don’t deserve her; I never did, and yet I will have her anyway.
He sighs again. “Who’s blood is it?”
“Derek Reynes.”
“Uh… Why?”
“He tried to hurt my girl.”
“Tried?”
I look up. “Yes, tried because if he actually succeeded, he would be in a grave right now.”
My father nods, understanding in his eyes. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Thanks.” I stand to leave, but he stops me.
“I want to ask you to stay away from her, but it would be useless, wouldn’t it?”
I turn toward him. “Would you stay away from Mom if you were asked to?”
He shakes his head with defeat. “I’ll deal with it.”
“Thanks, Dad. I didn’t expect… this.”
“I may not always understand your choices, but I do want you to be happy. Just… be careful,” he replies, and I’m too drained to ask more.
I walk out of the office, releasing a weary breath as I make my way down the hallway. Each step feels heavy, laden with the day’s revelations and confrontations.
As I enter the kitchen, my mother’s voice breaks through my thoughts. “She didn’t lose her essence; she only thinks she did,” she says, her gaze radiating deep empathy. She is sitting casually on a stool with a large bowl of ice cream in front of her—chocolate and pistachio, my favorites.
“You listened to all that?” I ask, taken aback. My mother usually steers clear of the dramas that unfold in my father’s office.
She nods toward the intercom on the wall. “Of course I did. You’re my son.” She pats the stool beside her, beckoning me to join her. Her eyes, warm and understanding, meet mine as she continues. “Artists often doubt themselves, but that’s where they falter. Eva’s talent with the violin was impressive, yes, but it was her extraordinary spirit that made her music resonate. Technique brings skill, but it’s the soul an artist pours into their work that elevates it to something genuinely remarkable.”
Settling next to her, I let her words sink in. They offer a perspective I haven’t considered, shining a faint light of hope into the darkness of my guilt and regret.
She pushes the bowl of ice cream toward me, a silent offering of comfort. I scoop up a mouthful, the familiar flavors a small solace in the turmoil of my emotions.
“I took that medium of expression from her,” I murmur, the guilt continuing to gnaw at me.
Shaking her head, she maintains her empathetic gaze. “No, Cole. You may have altered the way she expresses herself, but you haven’t erased her essence. She’ll find new ways to channel that extraordinary spirit, with or without the violin. That’s just who she is.”
Reflecting on her words, my admiration for her swells. “She’s stronger than I ever realized,” I confess, my voice tinged with newfound respect and a hint of awe.
“She must be,” my mother replies softly. “To love you, to endure all she has, and still remain resilient—that’s not mere strength. That’s a rare kind of resilience, truly extraordinary.”
Sitting beside my mother, her words offer a comfort I desperately need. Eva’s strength and resilience, qualities I’ve underestimated, now stand out to me as the key to possibly mending things between us.
“So you really love that girl, huh?” she asks, a knowing smile playing on her lips.
“Desperately,” I admit, feeling a warmth spread across my cheeks. “But she’s not exactly my biggest fan right now,” I add, the understatement hanging heavily in the air.
Her smile widens, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, her touch reassuring. “She’ll come around. You’re a good man.”
Filled with self-doubt, I make a face. “I messed up badly.”
“You know, in art, we often talk about the process of breaking down and rebuilding,” she begins, her voice taking on the lecturing tone I remember from my childhood. “It’s not just about creating something beautiful. It’s about understanding the structure, the elements that make it whole, and then reassembling them to bring new meaning, new life.”
Sitting beside her, I’m drawn in by her words. “Are you talking about art or life?”
She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Aren’t they the same, in a way? Your situation with Eva… It’s like a complex piece of art. You can’t slap paint over the parts you don’t like and expect it to be better. You need to analyze it, understand every layer, every color that contributed to the current picture.”
I lean back, processing her analogy. “So, what? I strip everything back to the canvas?”
“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she replies, her gaze now fixed on the half-finished painting that is exposed on the kitchen wall. “It’s about deconstructing the hurt, the mistakes, and then rebuilding with care and understanding. It’s meticulous. Analytical. But it’s also creative and empathetic. It’s not about erasing the past, Cole. It’s about transforming it into something meaningful, something that speaks of growth and understanding.”
“Eva and I—we’re not like Dad and you.” I hope we will be, though.
She waves her hand dismissively. “Your father and I didn’t have the smoothest start either. He was the uptight MBA student, and I was the free-spirited art freshman. We had our fair share of hurdles.”
Leaning against her, I seek comfort in her presence like when I was a little boy and not a man of almost twenty. “What should I do?” I ask, feeling more vulnerable than I have in a long time.
“Listen,” she says simply, chuckling at the confused look on my face. She tenderly brushes a blond strand of hair—a mirror of her own—behind my ear. “It sounds simple, but it’s effective. You’re like your father, charging forward until walls break. But that’s not fair to her. Give her what she needs, even if it’s space, and she’ll come to you.”
I frown, skeptical of her optimistic view. “What if she doesn’t?”
“She will,” she says with unwavering conviction.
“How can you be so sure?”
Standing up, she kisses my forehead. “Because she must. The way you love her so fiercely—she must have loved you just as intensely for you to fall this deeply. She will, Cole. She will.”
I eat the ice cream, feeling a bit steadier with my mom’s words. There’s still this burning edge inside me. I need to fix things with her, listen to her, understand her. There’s another part of me, a part that can’t just sit back. Jenny and everyone else who messed us up… they can’t get away with it. Tomorrow’s for Eva, but after that, I’m sorting this out. My way.
