Page 13 of Shattered Rhythm

I exhale a long breath, blowing a lock of hair out of my face. It’s early afternoon, and I’m sitting on the floor, trying to understand the instruction manual for assembling my new desk. I spent the morning studying and had planned to go to the studio in the afternoon, but I thought I’d better spend a couple of hours tidying up my small apartment after the embarrassing encounter I had with Gunner earlier. I even put away everything I brought with me or bought. The only thing left is to put together my TV stand, desk, and desk chair before trying to install the TV.

I groan. God, I was never good with working with my hands. I would like to do these things on my own, but at the risk of sounding like a cliché, I just never had to. My father did all this stuff. A pang of loss fills my chest. He would have had the furniture built in less than an hour. I soon realize that I need more tools than I have at home to do the job.

“Fuck,” I mutter and let myself lie back on the ground. A moment later, I sit up, startled by a knock on my door.

“What now?” I mutter under my breath, but I get up and approach the door. After opening it just a bit, I see Gunner standing there. He’s dressed in jeans and a navy Henley that accentuates his muscular chest, holding a toolbox in his hand.

“Hey,” I say with a raised eyebrow. “What are you doing here?”

He grins. “I can’t stand the thought of your poor furniture gathering dust in their boxes while I have these tools and functioning hands to help them out.”

“You want to help my furniture?” I ask, and I can’t help but smile at his offer.

“Yes, it’s almost animal cruelty not letting them out,” he replies with a nod.

I chuckle. “It’s furniture, not pets.”

“Furniture cruelty, then.” He shrugs. “Let me in?”

I step aside, feeling grateful for his unexpected help.

“Well, I would applaud you for tidying up, but it looks like the furniture assembly got away from you,” Gunner says, smirking as he takes in my apartment. It’s much neater than this morning, but the furniture pieces are scattered all over the floor. I put a hand over my eyes and let my head fall back.

“I know,” I say on a groan. “I tried, but I’m just not good at this.”

“Stop that. You just don’t know how, but it’s okay. That’s why I’m here to help you out,” he says, setting the toolbox down on the floor.

“You have no idea how grateful I am. Can I offer you something? I don’t have much here, but I was planning to order pizza, anyway. Feeding you is the least I can do to thank you for your help,” I say, sitting on my bed.

“No problem. Happy to help,” he replies with a grin. “But I never say no to pizza. Meat lovers, please?”

I grin and order us pizza and breadsticks via the app.

As he starts to assemble my desk, I watch him in amazement. He seems to know exactly what he’s doing, and the pieces come together effortlessly in his hands. He has the desk and desk chair put together in no time, then he takes a break to eat the pizza when it’s delivered. We talk about nothing important, but he’s funny and a kind person.I think I like him.

“Gunner, why are you doing this?” I ask him as he’s in the final stages of installing my TV.

“So you have cable?” he asks, unsure, and I laugh.

“No, why are you helping me?”

He smiles and looks at the floor. “Because I could use a friend too.”

CHAPTERELEVEN

Liv

It’s the second week on campus, and the coursework is getting tougher. In choreography class, we have a group project in assigned teams of three with topics randomly picked from a bowl. I was paired with Camilla and Sofie, but I haven’t spoken to them much. They’re the cool girls of the class, and I don’t fit in, but it’s just a project. What I don’t particularly like is the topic we pulled out of the bowl, which was domestic violence. It’s an important issue and relatively easy to portray, as there are a lot of good songs and specific movements that work for it, but it hits a bit too close to home for me and I’m worried about my emotional state. I can’t lose it in front of the queen bees.

Camilla and Sofie are talking animatedly about what music we should choose, and there are some good suggestions.

“I love ‘Warrior’ by Demi Lovato, because it speaks about how she is stronger after the abuse,” I say, and it’s the first thing I’ve said besides hello.

They both look at me, and Camilla smirks. “Huh, that’s a good idea, Olivia. I like it. What do you think, Sofie?”

I freeze, my blood running cold.

“Her name is Liv, Camilla,” Sofie says and rolls her eyes. “You know that.”

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