Page 42 of Broken Hearts

“Not Jenny, you idiot! Evangeline! The coach’s daughter!” I roar, my hands shaking with rage and despair.

He looks genuinely lost, a flicker of realization crossing his bloodied face. “You… you asked me to,” he whispers, fear creeping into his voice.

Frozen, the impact of his words is like a physical blow. “I asked you to?” My voice is a hoarse whisper, disbelief and horror mingling inside me.

He nods, his voice trembling. “Jenny told me to make Eva regret betraying you. And when I came back to the ball… I told you I took care of her. You said ‘good.’”

The memory crashes into me—the night of the ball, the alcohol clouding my judgment, the gaping hole where Eva should have been by my side. I was drunk, so drunk, and missing her so desperately.

Without thinking, my fist connects with Derek’s face again and again. Each hit is a release, a futile attempt to undo what’s been done, to erase the pain I’ve caused, the pain I’ve allowed.

As Derek slumps to the ground, the reality of my actions, of my indirect involvement, crashes down on me. I’ve been a puppet in a cruel game, a game where Eva paid the price.

“Hey!”

Turning toward the shrieking voice, I see Derek’s mother in the hall, phone in hand. “I’m calling the police!”

Standing above him, breathing hard with anger, I glare at his crying mother.

“Yes, call them! Tell them you raised a rapist and see what they do with that information!”

The phone is clutched against her chest, and at that moment, I realize she knows. She knows her son is a predator, just like I suspected he was, and never did anything about it, and by doing nothing, I’m almost as guilty as he is.

I leave Derek there, a broken mess on his doorstep, a mirror of the destruction I’ve caused in my own life. The late afternoon air is cold against my heated skin as I stumble away, each step heavier than the last. My fists ache, stained with his blood, a visceral reminder of the violence I unleashed. The fury still simmers inside me, but a profound sense of emptiness and despair now overshadows it.

Driving aimlessly, houses and trees become nothing but blurred shapes on the periphery of my vision. My thoughts are consumed by her, by the myriad of ways I have failed her, hurt her. The realization that I had been the catalyst for so much of her suffering is a bitter pill to swallow. I have always prided myself on being in control, on being the one who called the shots. But in this moment, I have never felt more helpless, more out of control.

Stopping at a traffic light, the sight of the tattoo shop catches my eye, and for some reason, I feel like I have to brand this day in my memory forever. I need to have a reminder of what my pride almost cost me. I need to remember how the thought of losing Eva and hurting the person I loved the most made me feel. I can never forget.

I park the car haphazardly in front of the shop. It is closed already, but I know Luke; he’s the one who did all my tattoos, and I need that tattoo now.

I knock at the door of the tattoo shop, the streetlights casting a muted glow on the sidewalk as dusk settles. My knock is initially tentative but grows more insistent as I wait, driven by a sense of urgency that I can’t quite explain. The door swings open, revealing Luke, his expression shifting from annoyance to recognition.

“Cole Westbrook, as I live and breathe. What brings you here at this hour?” He steps aside, letting me into the familiar interior of the shop.

“I need a tattoo, Luke,” I say, my voice more strained than I intend.

He raises a pierced eyebrow, a smirk playing on his lips. “You need a tattoo? That’s a first.”

Giving him a sharp nod, I’m not sure I can explain why. It’s not even clear to me.

He rubs one of his tattooed hands on his jaw and nods. “Fine.” He sighs. “Come at six a.m. tomorrow. I—”

“No! Tonight, Luke. It’s important.”

Luke shakes his head. “I’ve got a date with my boyfriend tonight, and if I cancel aga—”

“Please, Luke, I need it! It’s just… I need to remember today. I’ll pay you twice the full-day rate. You can buy him the best present. Please.”

I’m not one to beg, and Luke knows. He looks at me silently for a few seconds and lets out a sigh.

He runs a hand through his hair, his expression turning serious as he catches the urgency in my voice. “Alright, man. Let me make a call. I’ll need a few minutes.”

As Luke disappears to call his boyfriend, I’m left alone with my thoughts. The idea of the tattoo struck me suddenly, an impulsive need to mark this day, this turning point in my life. The thought of losing Eva, of the pain and destruction I’ve caused, it needs to be etched in my skin, a permanent reminder of my vow to change, to do better, to be better… for her.

When Luke returns, his face is a mix of resignation and curiosity. “Okay, let’s do this. What did you have in mind?”

I explain the concept, my voice low. “I want a violin with musical notes flowing from it, constructing a bridge. And beneath it, the words ‘Angel’s memories,’ in a feminine script.”

---