Page 43 of Broken Hearts

Luke nods, a spark of artistic interest in his eyes. “I can do that. It’s going to take a while, though.”

“I’ve got time,” I reply, settling into the chair.

“Where do you want it?”

Turning to the side, I point to my right rib cage. “Here.”

As the needle buzzes to life, the pain is sharp, a physical manifestation of the emotional turmoil inside me. Luke works meticulously, his skilled hands bringing my vision to life. The violin, a symbol of her dreams. The bridge, a representation of the precipice she had once stood on. And the words, a homage to the memories we shared, to the love that still burns in my heart.

The hours pass in a blur of pain and introspection. As Luke finishes, he wipes down the tattoo, and I look down at the artwork on my skin. It’s more than ink; it’s a vow, a promise to myself and to her.

Stepping out of the shop, I realize it’s late. The sky is dark, the street quiet. My shirt sticks to my skin, a mix of sweat and residual ink. It’s time to face the consequences of my actions, whatever they might be.

As I drive home, the weight of my father’s potential disappointment and the possibility of police involvement due to the altercation with Derek all looms over me. At this moment, none of it seems to matter as much. My mind is consumed by thoughts of Eva, of the need to make amends, to fix the chaos I’ve unleashed.

Pulling into the driveway of my home, I brace myself for whatever awaits. My father’s car is in its usual spot, a silent indicator of the inevitable conversation that looms. But as I step out of the car, my new tattoo aching on my skin, I feel a strange sense of peace. No matter what comes next, my resolve is clear.

I will do whatever it takes to earn her forgiveness, to right the wrongs of my past. The journey will be long and fraught with challenges, but the image on my skin will serve as a constant reminder of the promises I’ve made. For her, for myself, and for a future that I hope can still happen.

Chapter 17

Cole

Stumbling through the front door, I’m a mess of emotions, my shirt stained with blood. The serene ambience of the living room contrasts starkly with my internal turmoil. Mom’s there, her artist overalls a canvas of paint splatters, her feet bare, and the quirky sight of paint brushes in her hair. She’s sitting on my father’s lap, who is still dressed in his suit. They could not be more different, and yet they love each other with a passion that I used to find gross growing up but that I envy now. It’s the kind of love I know we can have, Evan and I. We are so different, too, but we complete each other the way my parents do.

My father says something in my mom’s ear, and she giggles, burying her face in his neck. They look like teenagers in love more than people about to celebrate their twenty-fifth anniversary.

Finally, I take the step to make myself seen, and I notice my father tense immediately.

He sits straighter, wrapping his arm around her waist to prevent her from falling off.

Mom’s soft voice cuts through the tension. “It’s not his blood, sweetheart,” she reassures him, getting off his lap.

Mom, the only woman I know who studied at Harvard, majoring in art with a minor in forensic science—just in case, she always joked. Her unique blend of creativity and analytical thinking has always fascinated me.

She walks toward me with a little smile and stands on her tiptoes to kiss my cheek with a warmth that momentarily eases my distress.

“Everything will be alright, my boy,” she says, even though I know it’s completely irrational because she has no idea what’s happening. Yet I believe her.

My father stands up. All the softness has disappeared from his face now that my mother has left the room. The air between us grows thick with tension. He’s the first to break the silence.

“Office, now!”

We walk in, and he pours himself a drink.

His eyes narrow, taking in the bloodstained shirt and split knuckles. “I thought college would change you,” he says, his voice heavy with disappointment. He sits down with a sigh. “Who do I need to pay this time?” I think I would prefer him shouting at me instead of sounding so weary. Like he doesn’t expect anything more than disappointment from his volatile son.

Eva always saw more; she always made me believe I was more. For her, I used to be more.

My hands tremble as my gaze drops to my clenched fists. “Eva… she lost Julliard. Her hand, her music…” My voice breaks, the words trailing off. I can’t even bear to complete the thought.

“You caused her injuries?” he asks, leaning on his desk, and this time there’s barely veiled disgust.

“You know about her—” I stop. It doesn’t matter. Of course he knows; my father knows everything. “Involuntarily, yes.”

He leans back in his chair, his gaze sharp and calculating. “Involuntary or not, Cole, did you admit liability to anyone?”

His words hit me like a slap in the face. Liability? Is that all he cares about? “Dad, do you hear yourself? She lost her dream because of me!” My voice rises with guilt and frustration.

---