Page 45 of Broken Hearts

She pushes the bowl of ice cream toward me, a silent offering of comfort. I scoop up a mouthful, the familiar flavors a small solace in the turmoil of my emotions.

“I took that medium of expression from her,” I murmur, the guilt continuing to gnaw at me.

Shaking her head, she maintains her empathetic gaze. “No, Cole. You may have altered the way she expresses herself, but you haven’t erased her essence. She’ll find new ways to channel that extraordinary spirit, with or without the violin. That’s just who she is.”

Reflecting on her words, my admiration for her swells. “She’s stronger than I ever realized,” I confess, my voice tinged with newfound respect and a hint of awe.

“She must be,” my mother replies softly. “To love you, to endure all she has, and still remain resilient—that’s not mere strength. That’s a rare kind of resilience, truly extraordinary.”

Sitting beside my mother, her words offer a comfort I desperately need. Eva’s strength and resilience, qualities I’ve underestimated, now stand out to me as the key to possibly mending things between us.

“So you really love that girl, huh?” she asks, a knowing smile playing on her lips.

“Desperately,” I admit, feeling a warmth spread across my cheeks. “But she’s not exactly my biggest fan right now,” I add, the understatement hanging heavily in the air.

Her smile widens, and she wraps an arm around my shoulders, her touch reassuring. “She’ll come around. You’re a good man.”

Filled with self-doubt, I make a face. “I messed up badly.”

“You know, in art, we often talk about the process of breaking down and rebuilding,” she begins, her voice taking on the lecturing tone I remember from my childhood. “It’s not just about creating something beautiful. It’s about understanding the structure, the elements that make it whole, and then reassembling them to bring new meaning, new life.”

Sitting beside her, I’m drawn in by her words. “Are you talking about art or life?”

She smiles, a hint of mischief in her eyes. “Aren’t they the same, in a way? Your situation with Eva… It’s like a complex piece of art. You can’t slap paint over the parts you don’t like and expect it to be better. You need to analyze it, understand every layer, every color that contributed to the current picture.”

I lean back, processing her analogy. “So, what? I strip everything back to the canvas?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes,” she replies, her gaze now fixed on the half-finished painting that is exposed on the kitchen wall. “It’s about deconstructing the hurt, the mistakes, and then rebuilding with care and understanding. It’s meticulous. Analytical. But it’s also creative and empathetic. It’s not about erasing the past, Cole. It’s about transforming it into something meaningful, something that speaks of growth and understanding.”

“Eva and I—we’re not like Dad and you.” I hope we will be, though.

She waves her hand dismissively. “Your father and I didn’t have the smoothest start either. He was the uptight MBA student, and I was the free-spirited art freshman. We had our fair share of hurdles.”

Leaning against her, I seek comfort in her presence like when I was a little boy and not a man of almost twenty. “What should I do?” I ask, feeling more vulnerable than I have in a long time.

“Listen,” she says simply, chuckling at the confused look on my face. She tenderly brushes a blond strand of hair—a mirror of her own—behind my ear. “It sounds simple, but it’s effective. You’re like your father, charging forward until walls break. But that’s not fair to her. Give her what she needs, even if it’s space, and she’ll come to you.”

I frown, skeptical of her optimistic view. “What if she doesn’t?”

“She will,” she says with unwavering conviction.

“How can you be so sure?”

Standing up, she kisses my forehead. “Because she must. The way you love her so fiercely—she must have loved you just as intensely for you to fall this deeply. She will, Cole. She will.”

I eat the ice cream, feeling a bit steadier with my mom’s words. There’s still this burning edge inside me. I need to fix things with her, listen to her, understand her. There’s another part of me, a part that can’t just sit back. Jenny and everyone else who messed us up… they can’t get away with it. Tomorrow’s for Eva, but after that, I’m sorting this out. My way.

Chapter 18

Eva

In the kitchen, the aroma of dinner preparations blends with the sound of laughter and chatter. Susan is more than a guest, and I can see by the ease with which she’s moving around the kitchen that she’s been here for some time.

“So, you’re really taking that medieval poetry class?” she asks, chopping vegetables. “I took it in college too. It was fascinating.”

I nod, stirring the sauce simmering on the stove. “Yeah, I am. And I got a position assisting Professor Marlowe with some of his smaller research. It’s a big opportunity for me, though. Apparently, they rarely offer that to first-year students.”

Susan looks up, her eyes shining with genuine happiness. “That’s fantastic! You never cease to amaze me. I’m not surprised, though. In my fifteen years of teaching, you’ve always stood out as one of the best students.”

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