Page 41 of Broken Hearts

She shows me the scar on her hand, and I realize now why she’s not playing anymore. It’s not because she doesn’t want to. It’s because she can’t. I love her, and I love that scar, even if it stole her dream.

“Angel, if you believe only one thing I say today, know that I’ve never said anything about our sex life to anyone. Ever. I never would have disrespected you that way.”

She looks at me for a second, and I think she sees I mean it because she nods slowly.

Grabbing her hand, I press kisses to the raised scar. “Let me drive you home,” I plead, desperate to do something, anything, for her.

She nods, and a small wave of relief washes over me. She’s not fighting me on this, not this time.

As I drive toward her house, I’m careful to keep the pace slow, not ready to part ways just yet. The silence in the car is heavy, filled with unspoken words and lingering emotions.

Finally, I can’t keep the question inside any longer. “Your hand…” I begin, my voice trailing off, unsure how to address the elephant in the room.

She pauses and takes a deep breath. “I cut it when I fought him off,” she says, her voice steady but strained. “Deep enough to sever nerves and tendons.”

My heart sinks. “Can’t it be fixed?” I ask, clinging to a shred of hope.

She shrugs, the gesture hiding the depth of her despair. “We did everything we could. Used up my college fund, Dad’s savings, he even took out a second mortgage on the house.” Her voice is filled with resignation and bitterness. “I couldn’t let him go further into debt, and I made my peace with it.”

She said all they could do, not all that could be done. I nod to myself; I will be fixing this, no matter the cost.

As we pull up to her house, I can’t bring myself to unlock the doors just yet. “You know I love you, right?” The words tumble out, desperate for her to understand, to see the truth in my heart.

But her expression doesn’t change, and my heart sinks lower.

“Can we at least be friends?” The question feels like a plea, a last resort.

She bites her lip, then winces as if the thought causes her physical pain. “No, I can’t do that.”

Her rejection is like a punch to the gut.

“I can offer ‘not enemies,’ though,” she extends, and it’s a small consolation, a start.

Glancing at her hand again, the scar is a visible reminder of the pain she’s endured. “Who did this?” I ask, needing to know.

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “Cole, it’s not—”

“Who?” I insist, my voice growing harder. “Derek?” I guess, and her body tenses at the name. Of course, it was Derek. The predator. I should’ve seen it, should’ve stopped it.

“See you later, Angel,” I say, resigned. But she doesn’t leave. Instead, she turns to me, her eyes holding mine.

“Nothing happened. Don’t do anything stupid. I know you didn’t want this for me.”

Her belief in me, even now, is a balm to my wounded soul. “You believe that?”

She nods, and with that, I unlock the door. “I’ll see you later.”

As she steps out of the car, the distance between us feels like a chasm. But her belief, her acknowledgment, gives me a sliver of hope. Maybe there’s still a chance for redemption.

Once she disappears in the house, I feel the fury that was simmering burst through the surface, and all I want is revenge.

I find myself at Derek’s house, the home of the one who hurt her, who tried to take from her what wasn’t his to take. His house is unassuming, nestled in a middle-class neighborhood. His mother, I know, works at the school administration. His only reason for being there in the first place.

Derek answers the door and my vision tunnels. “Hey, man,” he greets, but the sight of him ignites something primal in me.

Without a second thought, I grab the back of his head, smashing his face against the doorframe. “You tried to rape her? My girl?” My voice is a growl, unrecognizable to my own ears.

Derek, clutching his bleeding nose, blood seeping through his fingers, stammers in confusion. “I didn’t do anything to Jenny!”

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