Page 35 of Broken Hearts

Dragging my feet to a stop, I’m thankful for once for the extra weight. “No.”

He sighs and turns around. “We need to talk.” He jerks his head toward the shawarma place across from the center.

“Let’s go there then. No car needed”

His insistence irks me, but I know arguing here, in full view of the community center, isn’t the best idea.

“I just want you to answer my questions.”

“Fine,” I relent with a sigh, “but only because I’m starving.”

We cross the street to the shawarma place, and immediately, there's an energizing shift in the atmosphere. Inside, the restaurant buzzes with vibrant energy, a lively contrast to the quiet of the community center. The air is fragrant with the aromas of spices and grilling meat – cumin, garlic, and lamb create a tantalizing bouquet.

After ordering at the counter amidst the colorful tapestries and paintings that evoke a faraway bazaar, we find a table toward the back. Here, the din of the restaurant mellows into a pleasant backdrop. The tables are simple and unadorned, suited for the lunch crowd.

Our server soon arrives with plates of shawarma, steam rising from the tender meat tucked into soft pitas. The bright colors of pickled vegetables and fresh herbs add to the appeal. Each bite is a delicious harmony of flavors – savory meat, tangy sauce, crisp pickles, and onions, perfectly capturing the lively essence of our surroundings.

Despite the inviting ambience and the delicious food, the tension between us remains palpable, a stark contrast to the relaxed and joyful atmosphere around us. The warmth of the restaurant does little to thaw the chill that has settled between us, a reminder that no amount of external comfort can ease the turmoil brewing in our conversation.

“So, why didn’t you go to Juilliard?” he asks abruptly, his gaze unyielding.

Stiffening at the question, my fork pauses midair. “Who said I didn’t?” I reply, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Because I went there looking for you.”

I choke on my breath at the surprise and ease of his admission.

Why did he come after me? Did he want to apologize? No, Cole Westbrook doesn’t apologize. No, I won’t ask; I won’t take the bait.

He keeps staring at me as if he’s expecting me to ask, but I look down at my food and start to eat again.

After a minute, he sighs. “Why don’t you play violin anymore? You barely touched it, even during your classes.”

That’s a sore subject, but it also confirms what I suspect—he didn’t want me to be physically hurt and lose my dream. He has been cruel, that is certain, but not to the point of destroying my dream, and this is why I’m allowing this small respite, this little cease-fire, to find a more or less peaceful way for him to leave me be.

“How do you know I don’t play during classes? Are you spying on me?”

He takes a bite of his wrap and shrugs, but I wait for him to admit what I’m suspecting.

“There’s no point denying it. You refuse to give me answers, and you’re not receptive to a more direct approach. What choice do I have?”

“Let it go and move on?”

He lets out a full, throaty laugh. “Oh, Angel, you know me better than that.”

Shaking my head, I pick up some meat on my plate. My left hand starts cramping, and I put it under the table, opening and closing my fist, trying to loosen the muscle.

His eyes dart to where my hand is, showing he doesn’t miss a thing. “Why are you not playing anymore?” he asks again, his voice far more serious than it was before.

“It has nothing to do with you.” At least not directly.

He lets out a sigh and leans back on his chair. “I’ll find out.”

I sit back too, my appetite now gone. “Trust me when I say you don’t want to know.”

We stare at each other—in a silent standoff, and I should have known I’d be the first to cave.

“What will it take for you to leave me be?”

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