Page 5 of Broken Desires
I sigh, looking back at the papers in my hand. I look at the girl—Poppy Donovan—nineteen… She looks cute, yes, but she’s not a groundbreaking beauty, not someone I expected to turn Ethan’s brain upside down. But then again, what do I know about Ethan Hawthorne’s true taste in women? The second one, Evangeline Sinclair, possesses a kind of innocent beauty that instantly makes me feel sorry for her, having attracted Cole’s attention. On his best day, this man is like a bull; one can only pray for that girl’s sanity.
I turn the page, and I freeze at the view of the third roommate. The girl from the café is staring back at me, a scowl on her face that almost makes me smile. The name Vanessa Caldwell jumps out at me, and as I read on, Simone’s presence fades into the background. I wince at her age. Fuck, she’s only eighteen. The fact that she’s so young hits me harder than I expected. With my twenty-second birthday looming, the age gap feels like more than just numbers—it’s a gulf of life experiences and choices.
Suddenly, Simone’s hand trails up my arm, her body pressing against mine, but my feeble desire is dampened by the entire situation.
“That’s amazing, thank you,” I say, kissing her forehead in a gesture of gratitude rather than passion.
Simone moves closer, deliberately allowing the soft curve of her body to brush against my arm, a silent invitation left hanging in the air. “What if we took the rest to the bedroom?”
I look at my watch and let out a sigh; it’s late enough to be a viable excuse. “I’m sorry, babe, but it’s getting late, and we have our first training session tomorrow. I really should get some rest.”
“Come on, you don’t have to stay all night,” she insists. Okay, more alarm bells ring—she’s not only jealous, she’s clingy too. That’s really the end of it.
“No, I have to go,” I say a little more sternly. “I’m the captain, Simone—I need to be there in top form, and you have a way of tiring me,” I add, trying to soothe her.
I notice a shadow of disappointment in her eyes, quickly hidden behind a practiced smile. It’s moments like these that remind me of the complexity of our arrangement.
“Soon?” she asks, a note of hope in her voice that tugs at my conscience.
I nod, not committing. I actually hate lying to her, and I will end things but not right now when she’s dressed like that and she’s in her apartment. I’ll do that tomorrow in a public place. Less drama.
“Well, thanks again.” As I leave Simone’s, the revelations hang heavy on my mind, casting a web of questions I hadn’t anticipated. In the quiet of the night, I find myself grappling with thoughts of Vanessa, Poppy, and Evangeline, each bringing their own set of unknowns into my well-constructed world.
Chapter 3
Nessa
The first class of the day, art history, is more than just a course to me—it's a statement. I'm determined to prove that I'm not the failure my family and everyone else expect. While I'm currently undecided about my major, hence my enrollment in general studies, my passion for art has always been a constant. This passion, I believe, fueled my previous commitment to pursuing a career in ballet.
My look, all goth and edgy, usually keeps people at bay. But in this world of art enthusiasts, it seems to attract a particular crowd. Like now, two girls are excitedly inviting me to a party at Delta Sigma. Parties haven’t been my scene since juvie, but the idea of letting loose for a night is tempting, and maybe a night of wild sex with a senior would also help.
I’m spared from having to answer as the professor enters the room, and I settle into my seat. I open my laptop and discreetly activate a special program—one of the perks provided by the scholarship administrators. It records the professor’s lecture, capturing every word even when she turns away from me. It’s a game changer, allowing me to follow along without missing a beat.
The professor, a middle-aged woman with a passion for art that’s almost tangible, begins the lecture. “Today, we delve into the Renaissance, a pivotal era that redefined the boundaries of art and thought,” she starts, standing in front of her desk.
She talks about the shift from the medieval focus on religious themes to a celebration of human experience and the natural world. “Artists like Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo didn’t just create art; they breathed life into it. Their work was revolutionary, showcasing not only skill but an unprecedented understanding of human anatomy, perspective, and emotion.”
I watch her intently, lipreading while my laptop diligently records her every word. “Consider the Medici family of Florence,” she continues, turning to write on the board. “Their patronage was crucial. They didn’t just fund artists; they fostered an environment where creativity and innovation thrived.”
The Renaissance comes alive under her narration, a world where art wasn’t just seen but felt—where every brushstroke told a story of discovery, of pushing beyond known limits. As the professor speaks, I’m transported to the cobbled streets of Florence, surrounded by the burgeoning spirit of humanism.
I’d never set foot in Florence, or anywhere outside California for that matter until I came to Massachusetts. Yet, as the professor describes it, vivid images of the city spring to life in my mind. I can almost see its bustling streets, lined with the rich legacy of Renaissance art—a vivid tapestry of history and culture.
By the time the lecture ends, I feel oddly energized, my mind buzzing with images of frescoes and sculptures, of a world both ancient and alive in its artistic legacy. As I pack up my things, the girls stop me by the door again, giving me encouraging smiles.
“So, have you thought about it? Will you come?” the shorter one of the two asks, looking at me with expectation.
“You’re so cool, so unapologetically you. Please come.”
“I’ll think about it.”
As I walk away, their words echo in my mind. Unapologetically you. It’s a strange yet empowering thought. Maybe this party is actually what I need.
Returning to an empty apartment, I find that Poppy is off to work, which seems to be her constant state these days. I pull out my phone and shoot a text to Eva.
Me: Party at Delta Sigma tonight. Wanna come?
Eva: I’d rather gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon… no offense.