Page 39 of Broken Rivalry

We cross the room and every brush of our hands sends sparks skittering across my skin. His lips, tender yet assertive, become my entire world, and I drown willingly in the sweet urgency of the moment.

My fingers weave into his hair, drawing him impossibly closer, while his hands, gentle yet firm, find the small of my back, anchoring me. The world dissolves, leaving only the feeling of his lips whispering silent promises against mine and the tender caress of his breath mixing with my own.

When we part, a sigh of mingled breaths remains between us. His forehead finds mine, and his voice, a low, husky whisper, sends shivers cascading down my spine.

But as Ethan’s lips linger, a sweet, tantalizing promise, the reality of our closeness, the unveiled emotions, crashes over me like a tidal wave. My breath catches, eyes darting away from his, unable to bear the raw vulnerability shimmering in his gaze.

His fingers, still tenderly cradling my face, coax me back, but I’m already retreating, walls hastily rebuilding. “Poppy,” he breathes, a plea, a prayer, but I’m spiraling, the intimacy of the moment too stark against the chaos of my thoughts.

I step back, the physical distance a meager attempt to shield my now exposed heart. His hand falls away, the loss of his warmth a stark contrast against the heat of his kiss. My voice, when it comes, is barely a whisper. “I can’t, Ethan.”

His eyes, a tumultuous sea of confusion and longing, search mine, but I’m already turning away, fleeing from the intensity of what transpired. My feet carry me swiftly out of the room, away from a moment too potent, too real.

This kiss was a mistake, but how could a mistake feel so right, and why is it that I want to do it again?

Chapter 14

Ethan

Iroyally fucked up. Grabbing the baseball bat Eva discarded, I smash the TV, releasing all my pent-up frustration.

The sound of shattering glass mirrors the chaos inside my head. Each swing of the bat amplifies my regret. I’m haunted by the memory of Poppy’s lips, her warmth, and the coldness that followed.

Why did I bring Cole along? Why interfere in her healing? At the ball, she revealed her bottled-up pain, and it haunted me. I wanted to support her, but instead, I complicated things.

The bat connects with a porcelain vase, sending shards flying in all directions. The destruction around me is a mirror of the mess I’ve made of things. I should’ve respected her boundaries and given her the space she needed. But no, I had to play the hero, the fixer. And in doing so, I might’ve pushed her further away.

I can still hear her voice, the tremor in it as she said, “I can’t, Ethan.” Those words sting more than any physical blow ever could. I thought that moment, that kiss, was the beginning of something beautiful, something real. But now, it seems like the end of a dream I was foolish enough to believe in.

Surrounded by broken objects, I drop the bat, my hands shaking. I sink to the floor, overwhelmed by my mistakes. Closing my eyes, all I see is her confused and hurt expression.

I am good at fixing things, at making things better for people, unless it’s Poppy. Why do I always screw things up with her? Like that stupid “Pauper” nickname back in junior year. I thought I was being funny, trying to get her attention. But all I did was hurt her. And then, instead of fixing it, I made it worse.

I think back to how I accidentally gave her the “Pauper” nickname at the beginning of our junior year, and then I was too proud to take it back. I attempted to invite her for a weekend in Aspen, and, misinterpreting her frown while with my friend, I made a foolish remark about showing her what true wealth was, as opposed to being a pauper. That’s when my friend blurted out, “Poppy the Pauper,” and the name stuck. I was a foolish, self-centered boy feeling rejected—a view she still seems to hold when she looks at me, and my actions today certainly didn’t help, intruding on a moment that should have been solely hers.

Running my fingers through my hair, I feel at a loss. I’m desperate for her to see I’m no longer that clueless kid. That I genuinely care about her. But that realization is hard to prove if I repeat past errors.

I don’t need to apologize. I need to show her, not only with words but with actions, that I’ve changed.

I leave the rage room, the door slamming behind me with a finality that echoes my own sentiments. The facilitator, Ted, looks up, his mohawk slightly askew, probably from all the commotion earlier. I pull out my wallet, handing him some extra cash. “For the trouble,” I mutter, not meeting his eyes.

He takes the money, nodding. “It’s not every day we get that kind of drama,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Hope you sort things out.”

I grunt in response, heading to my car. The drive home is a blur, my mind racing with thoughts of Poppy, of the mess I’ve made, how I can fix things, and also of Cole. That guy is a ticking time bomb, and I have a sense he is about to explode.

Arriving home, my suspicions are confirmed. I walk in to find him half-drunk, sprawled out in the living room, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. My anger, which was back to simmering just below the surface, boils over. Without thinking, I kick the chair out from under him, sending him crashing to the floor.

He shoots up, his face contorting in rage. “What’s your problem, Hawthorne?” he barks.

I point at him, my voice thick with anger. “You promised, Cole! You said you’d back off from Eva, that you wouldn’t push her anymore. You gave me your word. Why can’t you leave her alone?”

Struggling to his feet, Cole’s eyes blaze with defiance. “You think you can control everything, Ethan? She’s not your concern.”

“She’s Poppy’s friend, and it’s hurting her!” I shoot back. “You promised you’d give her space, let her heal. But you can’t help yourself, can you?”

Cole sneers, taking a defiant swig from his bottle. “Eva and I have history. Something you’ll never understand.”

His voice takes on a bitter edge. “She betrayed me, Ethan. Do you even know what betrayal is?”

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