Page 19 of When Hearts Collide

Belle’s eyes turn sad. “Still living with my parents. They don’t like animals.”

She blinks and shakes her head, clearly trying to dispel her melancholy. Belle is the kindest, most down-to-earth person I know, despite her privileged upbringing. She doesn’t talk about her family a lot, but I have a feeling they have her on a tight leash and deep down, she’s very lonely in that large mansion of hers.

“I mean, Belle has a point there. You’re studying abroad in a way. It’s the perfect time to be in a casual fling,” Grace comments.

Taylor scoffs. “You’re one to give advice. You don’t date either.”

“Neither do you!”

“All of us are going to die as spinsters. When we’re old and wrinkly, we can buy a big house with a nice garden and live together with fifty cats and a few dogs,” Belle drawls, her lips twitching in humor. “And maybe…we can also adopt some children and raise our own family. I’ve always liked kids.” Her voice turns soft at the end, the smile now seeming a little more forced on her face.

I furrow my brows, wanting to ask her about the loneliness in her eyes, but she smiles and gives me a wink. Maybe I’m thinking too much.

“No distractions. No men. Not right now,” I repeat. Too much is at stake. “I need to focus my energy on class and applying to the honors program. Less than point five percent of the applicants get in. My grades must be excellent, my resume stellar, and my reputation spotless, if I even want a shot of getting in. There’s no time for unreliable men.”

Who’ll probably want me because I’d be a steppingstone to get to Adrian.

No, thank you.

“Ugh. No fun,” Taylor grumbles.

“But hey, Millie.” Belle snaps her fingers to get my attention. “If anyone can do it, it’ll be you. Remember what you told me? ‘The best way to predict your future is to create it.’ That’s what you’re doing now.” She gives me a saucy wink.

I smile, the strange unease from earlier today almost dissipating.

Almost.

A pair of haunted stormy eyes floats to the forefront, and my chest clenches.

Chapter 8

After disconnecting from the call, I let out a satisfied sigh. Leaving New York and the girls behind has been harder than anticipated. While it’s nice that Adrian is close by, things just aren’t the same without my girls around.

Belle’s parting words reverberate in my mind as I slowly rise from my chair and traipse toward the bookshelf in the corner of my room.

I pull out a thin volume, my fingers tracing the worn glossy cover of my seventh-grade yearbook, flip it open, and gingerly take out the yellowed pages of my handwritten essay nestled there. I smile at the scribble on top of the page, the words bringing back a fond memory during a dark time.

Excellent job, Millie. “The best way to predict your future is to create it.” Even if the road is hard and the skies are gray, you’re bravely walking forward, one step at a time, and one day, you’ll find yourself on top of the mountain, the sun shining on your face, and you’ll look down and be amazed at how far you’ve climbed.

I looked up at Mr. Roberts as he handed me back my paper at the end of English class. The topic was to write a personal essay about a difficult life experience that had a significant impact on us.

I remembered feeling the burst of anger when I received the prompt. When was life not difficult for our family? For Dad? For Adrian? For me? Especially in the last five years, with Adrian at Cornell and barely at home, Dad doing marginally better than when we were in LA, when he buried himself in photo albums and video recordings of Mom with the bottle as his best friend.

When I got back to our cramped apartment on the outskirts of Brooklyn after school a week ago, my notebook in my hand, because we couldn’t afford a laptop, I angrily scribbled the darkness living inside my heart on the yellow, lined pages. The festering, molding darkness which was growing into a monster of its own.

I wrote about how unfair life was. How my life turned upside down when Mom was diagnosed with cancer ten years ago. How I barely, just barely, remembered the good moments when everyone was happy. And how I’d hold on to those memories like they were a lifeline.

Mom and Dad dancing in the kitchen to some song on the radio when I’d clap in glee because they looked like the princes and princesses from the fairy tales Mom read to me at bedtime, the stories that always ended with “and they live happily-ever-after.” How Adrian would make a puking sound when Mom and Dad threw their heads back and laughed before Dad planted a loud kiss on Mom’s mouth. How Mom would blush and giggle afterward. Our apartment was small, the linoleum already peeling on the kitchen counters, the bathroom door had a broken lock, but we were so happy back then.

Beautiful, bittersweet memories of the past. Colorless, hopeless gray of my future.

My essay was a mess of graphite on crinkled paper, angry slashes nearly digging holes into a sheet which was dotted with the dried spots of my tears. I poured my heart into it and told whoever was reading I hated my life.

I hated how I had to put on a brave face every day at home so Dad wouldn’t worry about me or feel guilty about his sadness. After all, how could you ever recover from losing the love of your life?

I had to pretend life was great whenever Adrian visited from Cornell, because I wanted to see my older brother happy, but even that seemed impossible because he only turned more withdrawn after we left LA.

I knew he tried his hardest to pretend everything was fine whenever he came home, but I also knew the anger I felt inside me was twenty times more in him, because he was older and he knew a lot more about our situation, and how could two angry people comfort each other?

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