Page 23 of Broken Hearts

I nod.

He lets out a little chuckle and shakes his head. “It’s not for sale, but if you’re looking for vintage cars, go to Wills after Junction 16. He’s the best.”

“Wills, okay. And who should I say referred me?” Give me your name, asshole.

His smile widens, as if he can see right through my plan, and it unnerves me even more. It’s a cat-and-mouse game, and I’m not used to being the mouse.

“No referral needed.”

“But—”

As he walks away, he calls over his shoulder, “Sometimes it’s best to just let go, don’t you think? Knowing when to give up is sometimes the smartest thing to do.”

Standing there, watching him disappear back into the bar, frustration and curiosity swirls inside me. Who is he? And how does he fit into her world? My mind races with questions, but one thing is clear—I need to keep an eye on Eva. I slide back into my car, the leather seat cool against my skin. As I watch his black car from my spot, everything becomes clear. I know what I have to do next.

Chapter 11

Eva

The pawnshop’s air is thick with the musty scent of old wood and metal, a testament to the countless items that have passed through its doors. Dust motes swirl in the beams of light coming through the dirty windows, creating long shadows across the cluttered shelves. The creak of the floorboards under my feet sounds loud in the small, cramped space, a reminder of the many desperate deals and reluctant sales that have taken place here. As I place my violin on the counter, I can’t help but notice the faint sound of an old radio playing a crackling tune, adding to the shop’s somber ambience.

The old man behind the register barely glances at it. “Four thousand to buy, two thousand for a six-month hold.”

“It’s a Bernd Hiller Stradivari!” I protest. Memories flood back—the first time I played it, the way it felt like an extension of my own soul.

He shrugs nonchalantly. “Listen, I don’t know much about violins, but you can get a new one online for fifty bucks, so…”

I want to scream, to tell him that this isn’t just any violin. It’s a part of me, a reminder of a dream that once consumed me. This violin represents my family’s sacrifices. Their unwavering belief in my talent. It was a gift for winning a prestigious musical prize, a triumph that took me to the London Royal Academy of Music when I was thirteen.

“You want me to keep it for you, right?” he asks, pulling me back from my memories. “I’ll need good collateral for a loan. It’s two thousand if I hold it, four thousand if I buy it. You pick.”

Two thousand dollars. It’s a pittance compared to its worth, but it’s what I need right now. The repairs for my car are going to cost nearly that much. At least with this, I won’t have to ask my dad for more money, not after everything he’s already done trying to save my hand. And I can’t pull another favor from Max. He’s been a lifeline, already getting his friend at the garage to fix my car at cost. Borrowing money from him is out of the question.

“You’ll hold it for six months?”

He nods.

“I’ll take the loan,” I say, the words tasting bitter.

As I watch him count out the money, a wave of emptiness washes over me. I look at my violin one last time, tracing my fingers over its polished surface. Maybe I should leave it, forget about it, and move on. But how can I? Every curve, every string holds a piece of my past, a reminder of what could have been, what was supposed to be.

As I take the money, the bills feel as heavy as lead in my hands. Stepping outside, I lean against the cold brick wall of the pawnshop, resting a hand over my heart. The violin is mostly in my past, so why does its absence feel like a gaping hole in my present?

“You always lose everything you love, Evangeline Sinclair. You’re born to lose,” I whisper to myself. Even though deep down, I know it’s not about losing. It’s about letting go, about finding the strength to move forward even when it feels like you’re leaving a part of yourself behind.

Pushing off from the wall, I tuck the money into my bag. As I walk away, a part of me lingers at the pawnshop window, gazing longingly at the violin that holds so many of my dreams. It’s more than wood and strings; it’s a testament to my journey, to the love and support of my family, and to the passion that once defined me.

The next step is clear: finding a job to repay the loan for the violin and cover the interest. The plan is to pick up the car first, then head to the community center recommended by the teaching assistant. Maybe helping others explore their talent will help me heal. Pretending I’ve never played clearly didn’t help, and I started feeling better when I admitted the truth out loud to my friends and roommates.

And maybe it’s not the end of my story with the violin. Maybe it’s just an interlude, a pause before the next movement begins. With each step, I feel a flicker of hope, a whisper that perhaps, in some way, I can still make music—not with my violin, but through others.

The bus ride to Titan Garage feels like a journey to the edge of my hopes. Owned by Sawyer “Titan” Trent, an ex-Navy SEAL like Max, it’s reputed to be one of the best in town. As the doors open and I get off, I brace myself for the inevitable bill, my heart heavy with the weight of this added financial burden.

Sawyer emerges from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. He’s an imposing figure, tall and muscular, with striking green eyes that contrast vividly against his dark skin. There’s an air of authority about him, but it’s his eyes that truly mesmerize. They hold stories of seas and storms, of battles fought and won.

He greets me with a wide smile. “Eva, right on time. Come.” He jerks his head for me to follow, and as he leads me to where it’s parked and starts explaining the additional work he’s done, my heart sinks with each word. The repairs, the replacements—it sounds like a litany of expenses I can’t afford.

I brace for the cost as he opens the car door and hands over a bill.

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