Page 33 of Broken Hearts

I’ll leave, but this isn’t over. I’ll uncover the truth, fix whatever I’ve messed up, and Eva will be mine again. She has to be.

Chapter 14

Eva

A few days have passed since that night with Cole, but the aftermath lingers like a persistent shadow, infiltrating every quiet moment with echoes of what should have been forgotten.

Sleeping with him – or more bluntly, fucking him – was a mistake. It felt like reopening a wound I thought had healed, the raw pain sharply reminding me of a past I'm struggling to leave behind. I had convinced myself I was protected by hatred and disdain, immune to any residual feelings. Yet, beneath that facade, a part of me longed for one final moment, a last encounter to definitively end what we had. But instead of the closure I sought, it was more like ripping off a bandage prematurely, leaving the deep, aching emotions exposed and raw.

He may not have intended to hurt me that night, not physically at least, but the aftermath of his actions remains. The pain in my hand is a constant reminder of the night his friend attacked me. The scars are not only physical; they’re etched deep within, coloring every memory of us with a hue of pain and betrayal.

In the middle of my own resurrected heartache, I find an unexpected kinship in Poppy’s own breakup. Ethan’s betrayal has shattered something inside her that I recognize all too well in myself. Supporting her becomes my escape, a way to channel my grief into something constructive. Yet, when I look at her tearstained face, I see a reflection of my own hidden pain, a silent understanding of loss and disillusionment.

Finding Poppy curled up on the sofa, I notice she's distracted, her attention away from the Hallmark movie playing as her phone buzzes relentlessly on the table. Lifting her legs, I sit beside her,letting them rest on my lap—a small gesture of comfort in our shared space of healing.

“Ethan again?” I ask, though I already know the answer. His relentless calls have become a background score to our lives these past few days.

“Uh-huh,” she murmurs, her gaze fixed on the screen, her voice tinged with resignation.

“Why not block his number?”

“I did,” she sighs, burrowing deeper into her blanket. “But the calls keep coming from private numbers. I can’t just turn it off… what if my mom calls?”

Her words resonate with me, echoing the dilemma I face with Cole’s texts. Some are demanding, others disturbingly intimate, recounting our past encounters in explicit detail. I’ve considered blocking him, but something holds me back—defiance and the futile hope that maybe he might say something that brings closure.

“What are we doing?” Nessa asks, her voice cutting through my thoughts as she settles into a chair across from us.

“Moping,” I reply, trying to find humor in our shared misery.

“Cool, cool. Mind if I join the mope fest?”

Her attempt to lighten the mood draws a chuckle from me, a brief respite from the heaviness that has settled over us. “The more the merrier,” I say, giving Poppy’s foot a gentle squeeze. “Want to come home with me for the break? I’m sure my dad will be happy to see my friends again.”

She turns to look at me. Her eyes are a little swollen, and her nose is red from her tears. She looks at me for a couple of minutes, seriously considering it, but she shakes her head with a sigh.

“I would offer for you to come to LA with me, but I think you’re depressed enough. That might take you over the edge.”

Poppy smiles but shakes her head again. “No, I need to stay here. It would break my mom’s heart if I went, and there’s still a lot to do in the new house.”

Observing Nessa, her usual facade of abrasive humor does little to mask the genuine tension beneath. She doesn’t want to go home, and I can’t help but wonder what happened between her and her family. I wish she would open up sometimes instead of trying to be strong all the time. But at the same time; I understand because there’s the fear that if you do, you will never be able to close up again. It can be cathartic, though.

“Let’s have a girls’ night before you leave for California.” I suggest, a spark of enthusiasm lighting up within me. “I’ll come back from the center loaded with sweets. We can forget about everything for a night.”

Nessa nods, a smile breaking through her usually stoic expression. “Sounds perfect. I could use a night of just… fun.”

Poppy, still nestled in her blanket, manages a small smile. “I’m in.”

The late morning air is crisp as I step out of the apartment, keys jingling in my hand. The drive to the community center is a quiet one on a Saturday morning. I let the familiar streets guide me, my mind a whirlpool of thoughts about Cole, Poppy, and the fragments of my own unsteady future.

Arriving at the center, I take a deep breath before stepping inside. The familiar smell of polished wood and the sound of scattered notes from various instruments greet me. It’s comforting, a reminder of why I’m here.

Today’s class is a small group of enthusiastic children, each clutching their violins with varying degrees of awkwardness. I begin with the basics, correcting postures and bow grips, smiling at their earnest efforts. Wayne, the little boy with the promising talent, is here again, his eyes focused and bright. Watching him play, seeing his small fingers deftly maneuver the strings, rekindles a warmth in my heart.

“Remember, it’s not about playing the notes. Feel the music,” I advise, demonstrating a particularly emotive piece. “Let it speak through you.”

The children watch, some with awe, others with budding understanding. Music, is more than a series of notes and rhythms; it’s a language that speaks of emotions and stories untold.

After the class, as the children pack up, I spend a few extra minutes with Wayne. “You’re doing great,” I encourage him. “Keep practicing. It’s about more than skill; it’s about passion.”

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