Page 28 of Pucks, Lies, and Sticktape

Matthieu stood frozen, staring at the wreckage around him. Water pooled on the floor, splattered across the counter, dotting the walls—each droplet a reflection of his own scattered, chaoticemotions. His breath came uneven, chest rising and falling as the weight of his failure settled deep into his bones. He dragged a hand through his damp hair, the sweat of his earlier run still clinging to his skin, an uncomfortable, sticky reminder of his own shortcomings.

“I am such a loser,” he muttered to himself, the words tasting bitter as they left his lips.

His gaze drifted toward her closed bedroom door. The urge to fix this, to undo the damage, twisted inside him like a knife. He could call his mom, spill everything, and beg for advice like he always had when life left him lost.

But Jeannie—who did she have?

In the two weeks he had known her, not once had he seen her call anyone. No one ever called her. The only proof she even owned a phone was the one time it had buzzed from a wrong number.

She lived in a quiet, lonely bubble, spending her days doing things he couldn’t quite figure out. And tonight, he had reached for her, finally tried to bridge that chasm between them—and then snapped that fragile connection in half with his carelessness.

A sickening realization punched through him.

Was she going to cry again?

His stomach twisted at the memory of her muffled sobs the night before, the way her pain had curled through the walls and kept him wide awake, staring at the ceiling, helpless and gutted.

No.

Not tonight.

Pain and exhaustion could wait—he couldn’t take another round of Jeannie’s tears.

With renewed urgency, he moved. His footsteps were quick and decisive, cutting through the water-streaked floor. He didn’t hesitate. He didn’t second-guess himself. He stormed throughthe living room, straight to her door, and without a thought, turned the handle.

The sight that met him stopped him cold.

Jeannie stood with her back to him, her figure silhouetted by the soft glow of her bedside lamp. She was barefoot, the sheer fabric of her stockings shimmering faintly in the dim light. Her dress, once perfect, now hung half open, the zipper stuck at an awkward angle. And her hands—her delicate, trembling hands—were pressed against her face, as if trying to hold herself together.

Something inside him cracked.

“Jeannie…” His voice was low, hesitant, almost a plea.

Her shoulders stiffened at the sound, but instead of turning, she let out a tearful, broken laugh. The sound of it carved through him, deep and merciless.

“Can you believe that the stupid zipper broke?” she whispered, her voice fragile, laced with unshed tears. “Everything is broken, and this is just one more thing…”

Matthieu swallowed hard. He could hear it, the unspoken weight in her words. This wasn’t about a zipper.

“It’s not broken,” he said quietly, taking a cautious step forward, his pulse hammering against his ribs. He felt a deep, visceral fear—because this moment felt too important, too raw. “We’re not broken. We are just… learning.”

She let out a shaky breath, shaking her head. “We’re broken, Matthieu.” Her hand lifted, gesturing vaguely behind her. “The door lock. The zipper. Us… everything. Just leave me alone.”

He hated the way she said it. Defeated. Like she had already decided that this—whatever they were—was doomed before they even had a chance.

Matthieu exhaled slowly, steadying himself. Then, with all the tenderness he could muster, he whispered, “I’m sorry about tonight.”

Her back remained turned, but he saw the slightest tremor in her shoulders.

“I don’t want to let you down,” he murmured, taking another step closer. “Or ruin your night.”

He swallowed hard, heart thudding against his ribs as he forced himself to say the words that mattered most.

“So let’s go.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

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