Page 11 of Broken Hearts
I roll my eyes when the movie reaches its climax. It’s so obvious I can’t help but snort.
“Oh, look, another grand romantic gesture that would totally be creepy in real life. Sure! Break into my house and watch me sleep… that’s not a red flag at all.”
Nessa nudges me with her socked foot under the blanket we’re sharing. “Oh Eva, your cynicism is like a breath of fresh air.”
Poppy chuckles, popping a kernel in her mouth. “Come on, it’s not so bad.”
“Of course you would say that, Miss ‘I hate Ethan Hawthorne’, and yet you get googly eyes every time you see him.”
Poppy scowls, but her blush makes me smile. Being in love is quite cute, and despite not being an expert, I hope he’s sincere.
“He doesn’t seem that bad,” I offer with a shrug. “If you feel like giving the guy a chance, then you should.”
“Yeah, and if he hurts you, I’ve got nails, and she has a baseball bat,” Nessa says, pointing her finger at me.
“No, I have a golf club. It’s lighter and does more damage.”
They both laugh, thinking I’m joking. I am not. It’s a tip from Max, and he’s even the one who bought me the golf club I have under my bed.
As the movie nears its end, the heroine is left crying on a bridge in the pouring rain – a scene that, in reality, would mark the end. She’d cry in the freezing rain until no tears are left, and she’d grow stronger. But no! This is Hollywood, where the sweet lie of a love that conquers all is the preferred narrative.
“Oh, please. Like love ever works out like that in real life,” I scoff, my words sharper than intended.
Nessa’s laughter rings out, clear and bright. “You’re like the Grinch of romance. I love it. Your dark soul is speaking to mine, girl.”
I shrug, a half smile playing on my lips. “That’s too cheesy for me.”
The night wears on, filled with movies that paint love in broad, unrealistic strokes. Nevertheless, surrounded by Nessa and Poppy, I feel the icy shell around my heart begin to crack, their warmth seeping in.
Nessa nudges me. “You know, it’s true not all love stories are fairy tales. Some are written with truth and pain. But sometimes it happens, it really does.”
Her words resonate within me, and for a moment, I let myself believe in their world of happy endings and love conquering all. The laughter, the shared looks, the comfort of being understood—it’s a different kind of music, one that soothes the soul.
As the night draws to a close, I realize that while my past may be a symphony of lost dreams, my present is a melody of friendship and new beginnings. So, perhaps, that’s enough to keep me playing, believing, and living one day at a time to create brand-new music that will be fitting for the new me.
Chapter 6
Cole
Parking a couple of streets away from her building, the walk there feels heavier with each step, the key’s weight in my pocket a constant reminder of the line I’m about to cross. I know I’m taking it a step too far, but what else can I do when she refuses to admit that she knew me once? The place is empty, and it’s too good of an opportunity to let it slip. My pulse quickens with anticipation and something darker, a need to delve deeper into Eva’s world and find the answers she’s refusing to give me.
Slipping inside, the stillness of the apartment echoes around me. Unsure which room is hers, I move cautiously. Pushing open the second door, a sense of certainty washes over me—this is it. This room, with its neat, unassuming decor and the faint scent of orange blossom, screams Eva. As I step into her room, a wave of familiarity and an unexpected sense of calm washes over me. The door closes with a soft click behind me, and I take a moment to absorb the essence of her space, a physical manifestation of the girl I’m so relentlessly pursuing.
Something is missing, though: her love for her violin. It’s not on the stand as it used to be at home. There are no medals, no prizes. In fact, nothing in this room would lead you to believe she plays the violin.
Running my hand over her desk, I notice her notebooks neatly piled by size. The urge to mix them up, a playful habit from our past, almost overcomes me. Approaching her bed, I lean down and inhale deeply into her pillow, a bit like a creep, I admit. The scent of her lavender shampoo and orange blossom perfume is intoxicating, turning something so innocent into a potent aphrodisiac.
I keep my face on her pillow for a couple minutes more, taking in the smell I miss so much and hoping to transfer my own there. She used to love my smell, too, and her favorite place to bury her face was into my neck. I feel that ache in my chest again at the memory, an ache that appears only when I think of her and the things I miss. I even miss when it was cold and she pressed her freezing nose against my neck.
Glancing at my watch, I realize I have about an hour left, but I can’t really slack. My eyes are drawn to a cozy nook in one corner, a comfortable chair with a reading lamp—a sanctuary within a sanctuary. It’s easy to imagine her there, lost in a book with thick woolen socks on. Lord, even then, I found her sexy.
Next, I move toward her wardrobe, sliding the door open with a sense of familiarity. The thing is, no matter how much she denies it, I know my girl. She’s changed. That much is true, but I know that the core of what makes her so special is still the same.
Pushing aside her hanging clothes, the violin case comes into view, nestled in a corner. Pulling it out, my eyes fall on a sweater, carelessly resting on the floor, bringing a smile to my lips.
“Ah, Eva, you are still the same,” I whisper as I move the sweater and pick up the shoebox under it.
She used to have the same hiding box back home where she kept her contraceptive pills and condoms, as well as some trinkets from our secret dates.