streets away from her building, the walk there feels heavier with each step, the key’s weight in my pocket a constant reminder of the line I’m about to cross. I know I’m taking it a step too far, but what else can I do when she refuses to admit that she knew me once? The place is empty, and it’s too good of an opportunity to let it slip. My pulse quickens with anticipation and something darker, a need to delve deeper into Eva’s world and find the answers she’s refusing to give me.
Slipping inside, the stillness of the apartment echoes around me. Unsure which room is hers, I move cautiously. Pushing open the second door, a sense of certainty washes over me—this is it. This room, with its neat, unassuming decor and the faint scent of orange blossom, screams Eva. As I step into her room, a wave of familiarity and an unexpected sense of calm washes over me. The door closes with a soft click behind me, and I take a moment to absorb the essence of her space, a physical manifestation of the girl I’m so relentlessly pursuing.
Something is missing, though: her love for her violin. It’s not on the stand as it used to be at home. There are no medals, no prizes. In fact, nothing in this room would lead you to believe she plays the violin.
Running my hand over her desk, I notice her notebooks neatly piled by size. The urge to mix them up, a playful habit from our past, almost overcomes me. Approaching her bed, I lean down and inhale deeply into her pillow, a bit like a creep, I admit. The scent of her lavender shampoo and orange blossom perfume is intoxicating, turning something so innocent into a potent aphrodisiac.
I keep my face on her pillow for a couple minutes more, taking in the smell I miss so much and hoping to transfer my own there. She used to love my smell, too, and her favorite place to bury her face was into my neck. I feel that ache in my chest again at the memory, an ache that appears only when I think of her and the things I miss. I even miss when it was cold and she pressed her freezing nose against my neck.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I have about an hour left, but I can’t really slack. My eyes are drawn to a cozy nook in one corner, a comfortable chair with a reading lamp—a sanctuary within a sanctuary. It’s easy to imagine her there, lost in a book with thick woolen socks on. Lord, even then, I found her sexy.
Next, I move toward her wardrobe, sliding the door open with a sense of familiarity. The thing is, no matter how much she denies it, I know my girl. She’s changed. That much is true, but I know that the core of what makes her so special is still the same.
Pushing aside her hanging clothes, the violin case comes into view, nestled in a corner. Pulling it out, my eyes fall on a sweater, carelessly resting on the floor, bringing a smile to my lips.
“Ah, Eva, you are still the same,” I whisper as I move the sweater and pick up the shoebox under it.
She used to have the same hiding box back home where she kept her contraceptive pills and condoms, as well as some trinkets from our secret dates.
I sigh. She might not seem like it now, but she was once a hard-core romantic. Picking up the shoebox, my fingers brush over its familiar surface as memories flood my mind, pulling me back to when I discovered her secret shoebox for the first time.
“What is all that?” I asked her one day when I sneaked through her window uninvited.
She’d jumped, her face beet-red. I love when she blushes; it makes her green eyes even greener, and I know how it spreads all over her body.
“N-nothing. Aren’t you supposed to be at that soccer party with my dad?”
I faked a cough. “I couldn’t go, I’m sick.”
She laughed and tried to close the box, but I was too fast. “What do we have in here, huh?”
“No, I—”
Silencing her with a kiss, she looked at me, stunned, as if every time I kissed her was a marvel. I was not sure why she was reacting like that. It seems like she thought she and I together were an anomaly.
“Cole…” she whined when I opened the box and threw herself on her bed, her head buried in her pillow.
“So… Oh, the pill!” I looked at the prescription date. Two weeks ago.
She said something muffled in her pillow, and I chuckled despite the excitement filling me. My girl was planning the next step for us, and I loved it.
“Condoms… okay.” I’d never had sex without a condom before, but with her, I wanted to. I wanted to feel everything. I kept on looking in the box and found the receipt she kept from our date in that small diner outside of town, the movie tickets for the afternoon showing, again out of town, and it saddened and frustrated me all at once. I’d put the box away and ran my hand up her leg, under her skirt, and stopped as I reached the curve of her ass.
“We don’t have to keep it a secret, Angel.”
She’d turned her face from her pillow, looking at me pensively.
Gently squeezing her soft, plush flesh, the words came out with sincerity, “I mean it. I’m proud of being your man.”
She was silent for a few more seconds. “I love you, Cole.”
Those words were unexpected, but fuck, how they made me feel. I’d looked down at my chest, almost believing there was a hole there, as my heart jumped out of it.
Hearing “I love you” wasn’t new, but often, it was said out of habit, a confusion between lust and love, or just what they thought I wanted to hear. But not her, not my angel. She said it with a kind of dread, as if loving me was her greatest fear.
A smile broke across my face, feeling like a superhero. “You love me? Why are you saying it like you’re doomed?”
She blinked back tears. “Because I am. I love you despite my best efforts, and I know you’re going to hurt me and break my heart. It’s logical, and it’s for stories like ours that Tchaikovsky wrote the second movement of his violin concerto.”
I didn’t know what she meant by that, but I knew I hated how sad she looked when our story was just starting. “No, he didn’t, and you know why?”
“No, why?” she asked with a feeble voice.
“Because I love you too, Evangeline Sinclair.” And it was the night she and I made love for the first time. The night I took her innocence, and she branded herself into my flesh. The night when she became mine, and I, too, became so ardently hers. Even when she betrayed me, I was hers, and even now that she doesn’t want me, I am still hers.
Brushing my hand over the smooth surface of the box, I’m jolted back to the present as the burden of the memory feels like a suffocating weight on my chest. I didn’t realize before how much I missed that time.
Opening the box, I’m not surprised to find completely different contents. There’s a hospital bracelet with her name, but the other element has faded. There were droplets on it, or maybe tears? I frown, not really liking that this is in her memory box. The next thing is a handkerchief. The initials MR are on it. Who even carries these anymore? It has a stain on it despite having been washed. I trace the pattern and the light-pinkish color that I know is blood. I have had blood too many times on my shirt not to recognize it. I find a photo booth strip, too, one taken at the big mall a town over. I remember those days vividly. Before, I was right beside her in these photos, our smiles matching in carefree joy. Now, there’s a glaring hole where my face used to be, a physical manifestation of the void between us. Fishing out the keys from my pocket, I fiddle with the Arsenal keychain. With a press on the underside, a thin slate pops out. As I pull it, I’m greeted by Eva’s smiling face, her joy infectious even in print. It’s a photo from the same set, a memory of a time when we were inseparable, when our smiles were genuine, and our love was simple.
At the bottom of the shoebox, there is a piece of paper folded in half. My name at the top sends a shiver down my spine. Pulling it out, the paper feels like a relic of a past life, one that’s been haunting me more than I care to admit.
Unfolding the paper, my heart hammers against my chest. It’s my math test; it’s the math test. The one that sparked the chain of events leading to the worst decision of my life. The memories flood back—the arguments, the accusations, Jenny’s manipulative words. She had painted Eva as a traitor, someone who mocked my deepest insecurities.
As I stare at the test, something doesn’t add up. The corrections in the margin, the meticulous handwriting—it’s unmistakably Eva’s. She had stepped into the battlefield for me, in her own way, fought a silent war on my behalf. She must have switched our tests, allowing me to pass.
A wave of confusion washes over me. Was Jenny lying? Had I been so blinded by my own pride and jealousy that I twisted the truth? The thought makes me pause, a cold unease settling in my stomach.
I’d asked Eva to cheat for me on this test. Her refusal had pissed me off, feeding into Jenny’s narrative. We fought, words flying like knives. I was convinced she was disloyal, that she was using me. My fingers tremble as they trace the corrections on the paper. This isn’t a test; it’s a revelation. A testament to Eva’s loyalty, to her unwavering support, even when it went against her principles.
Even if I managed to pass the test, it felt empty. Then I heard she had betrayed me, told Jenny my secret. That led to the prom prank, a misguided revenge.
Now, holding this test in my hands, it’s clear—she cheated for me. She went to war for me and fought in her own way. And if I was wrong about this, what else was I wrong about?
Sitting there with the paper in my hands, the room appears to shrink. How could I have been so blind, so swayed by jealousy and pride?
I stand, folding the test and placing it back. Eva wasn’t the traitor I made her out to be. I thought the prank was payback, but it was an unfair strike at her.
The box goes exactly where I found it, not wanting her to know yet that I discovered all her secrets, but the violin stays out because, as irrational as it is, I want her to know I was here.
Leaving her room, I’m hit with a sense of loss. I’ve been chasing lies, losing her trust, respect, and possibly a real chance with her.
I scoff and shake my head. No, absolutely fucking not. I’m Cole Westbrook, and Eva is mine. I haven’t lost anything! She will be mine again; that much is clear.
Some slight tweaking of my plan is all that’s needed.
Driving home, my mind’s a whirlwind; no solid plan yet, but I’m ready to fight. When I arrive, Ethan and a few of the players are lounging around, but I’m not in the mood for their usual banter. The urge to retreat to my room to craft a plan overtakes me. My thoughts are a chaotic mix of strategies, each more devious than the last.
I give the guys a distracted wave. “Got work to do,” I mutter, heading for the stairs. My mind races with possibilities—taking her to my father’s house in the Caribbean. I still have one plane trip, and the house is far enough from civilization she can’t escape. Then, a name stops me cold.
“Eva—”
Did I hear that right? Am I so obsessed that I’m hearing her name now?
“Which one is Eva?” Peters asks.
Backtracking, I frown.
“Poppy’s roommate,” someone clarifies.
“The scary one or the curvy one?”
My frown deepening, I take the last steps down.
Ethan winces when I step back into view. Good, let him feel a bit of fear.
“She’s the curvy one,” I say, fixing Ethan with a hard stare. “Why are you talking about her?”
“Oh, um, Poppy might go to the varsity ball with me, but I need dates for her roommates.”
I’m not a man who believes in fate, but this, this has to be. It’s a twisted chance to set things right, to give us the prom night we never had.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll take her,” Peters volunteers.
Over my dead body. “No, you won’t,” I assert, my glare sharp.
“No, seriously, I don’t mind. She’s cute.” Peters is clueless, but Ethan’s wince tells me he understands the gravity.
Throwing him my best death glare, I clench my fist. “She’s not cute. She’s fucking beautiful, and you’re not taking her. None of you are. She’ll go with me!” I insist, punctuating my claim with a jab to my chest.
Peters jerks back, and Ethan groans, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Listen, man, I don’t think—”
“It’s me or no one, Hawthorne! Eva Sinclair is mine.” I look slowly at the five other guys in the room. “Mine,” I repeat, and they all look away. I concentrate on Ethan again. “So you have a choice; it’s either me or your Poppy won’t go.”
The room falls silent, tension hanging heavy. Ethan looks like he’s wrestling with a response. “She’ll be pissed.”
“Nah, I’ll smooth things over with her before the night’s out,” I counter, confident despite his skepticism.
Ethan sighs, resigned. “Fine, man, she is yours.”
I roll my eyes. As if there was ever any doubt. “Okay, good talk. See you guys later.”
I head back upstairs, my mind already racing through plans for the perfect evening. Mission Getting Eva Back is now in full force, and I’m not one to back down.
