Broken Hearts : New-Adult Angsty College Romance (Silverbrook University Book 2)
Broken Hearts: Chapter 3

As Professor Marlowe speaks, I lean forward, my eyes sparkling with recognition at each familiar line of Beowulf. Under my breath, I whisper my favorite phrases, feeling a personal connection with each ancient word. I am here, present and captivated, in the medieval poetry class that I adore, where the words of the old become a lifeline to my fervent love for literature.

His voice rises and falls with the rhythm of the alliterative verse, making me feel the pulse of the old English poets beating in time with my own heart. “Notice how the poet uses the tale of heroism to reflect on the inevitability of decay,” he intones, and I’m lost in the echo of his words, seeing not just a classroom but the mead halls of yore.

Without hesitation, my hand lifts into the air, a signal flare of my eagerness. “Isn’t this also a reflection of the time? The struggle to hold on to traditions in the face of a new world encroaching?” I ask, my voice carrying my curiosity and confidence.

“Excellent point, Miss Sinclair,” Professor Marlowe replies, his approving gaze adding a flush of pride to my cheeks. There’s a moment where I feel like I’m part of something larger than myself, a lineage of scholars and thinkers who’ve pondered these very texts.

I try to concentrate on the lecture, but a sudden chill runs down my spine, a sense of being watched. I grip my pen tighter, my focus faltering for a moment as I scan the room, seeking but not replaceing the source of this unsettling feeling. Since I found Cole parked in front of my building, I can feel his intense gaze boring into me wherever I go. Even though I know he’s not here—a quick glance over my shoulder reveals nothing but the normalcy of focused students—the sensation lingers. An unseen shadow tracing my every move.

Shaking my head, I despise how he invades my thoughts even in his absence. I force myself to focus as Professor Marlowe delves into Chaucer’s The Canterbury Tales, the richness of the discussion anchoring me back to reality. My pen dances across the page, eager to capture every insight. Here, in this world of text and thought, I am powerful, untethered from my fears, from my past.

Class ends all too soon, and the students scatter. “Miss Sinclair, a moment, please,” Professor Marlowe calls out. “You possess a passion for this subject that’s quite rare,” he says with a kind earnestness as I reach his desk. “Would you be interested in assisting with my research on the transition from oral to written traditions?”

“Assist with your research?” I pause, a surge of excitement making my heart race. “Yes, absolutely! I’d be honored.” My voice barely contains my eagerness. Violin may not be part of my future anymore, but poetry still is.

Stepping out of the classroom, I carry with me a sense of purpose and achievement. Cole’s shadow may loom at the edges of my life, but in the realm of medieval poetry, I am the one who commands the narrative. Here, I am the master of my story, and no one, not even Cole Westbrook, can take that away from me.

Still buzzing from the professor’s proposal, I feel my phone vibrate. Dad’s name lights up the screen, kindling a warmth in my chest that only his name can spark.

“Hey, Dad,” I answer, trying to keep my voice light, filled with the same ease that our conversations usually hold.

“My plum fairy! How’s my brightest light?” His voice, a tender mix of affection and perpetual worry, envelops me.

Making my way toward the library, I thread through the current of students. “I’m great. Just heading to the library to work on one of my projects. Poppy is coming to help me,” I add, wanting him to know I have friends, a support system here. I really don’t need him to worry more than he ought to.

“Always studying, eh?” He chuckles, and I can almost see the crinkles around his eyes, the sign of his genuine smile. “Are you eating well? And how about sleep? Are you sleeping well?”

My heart squeezes a little. I know what he is asking. How are the nightmares? Something that we never really discuss. “Yes, Dad, I’m doing really well. And my nightmares… they’re few and far between now,” I say, omitting the fact that when they do come, they’re as vivid as ever.

“That’s my girl. I was thinking, maybe you’d like to come home this weekend? Your old man misses you. You can bring your friends with you. Have a girls’ weekend.”

A part of me yearns for the comfort of home, but then I remember the email I received a few days ago. “I can’t this weekend, Dad. Guess what? I won VIP tickets at the poetry mixer–Ronan in concert! I’m taking my roommates.” My voice rises in excitement. I’m really looking forward to it.

“Oh, right, right, Ronan, yeah, makes sense.” There’s a brief silence, and I know he’s scratching at his beard the way he does when he’s thinking hard. “Just be safe, okay? And have some fun for me too.”

I smile, even though a lump forms in my throat. “I will, Dad. Always safe, you know me.”

We both know he’s not just talking about the usual perils of college life.

“I love you, kiddo. You know that, right? You’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” he says, his voice thick with emotion.

“I love you too, Dad,” I respond in a whisper, the weight of what I almost did—what I almost took from him—pressing down on me. “And I’ll try to visit soon, I promise.”

“We’ll have your favorite chocolate chip pancakes,” he offers, a peace offering to both our hearts.

“Sounds perfect. Bye, Dad.” Ending the call, I take a moment, my hand trembling a little. The memories, still vivid, cast a shadow over my heart. I inhale deeply, steadying myself against the wave of emotions.

Glancing back at the phone in my hand, it serves as a reminder of the man who would have been shattered had I gone through with my plan a year ago. The guilt is a stone in my stomach, but it’s also a reminder—a promise to myself and to him—that I will never wander that close to the edge again.

Another deep, steady breath helps to dispel the darkness and guilt. What is done is done. I can’t change the past, but I can concentrate on the future.

With a renewed sense of determination, I push open the library doors and step into the tranquility, letting the scent of old books wash over me, grounding me in the now. My past may be a shadow, but it won’t darken my present, not with so much light left to give.

I settle at my usual table in the far alcove, somehow feeling like I am in my private little nook. A quick glance at my watch tells me there are about twenty minutes before Poppy arrives. Deciding to use this time efficiently, I stand to gather the books we selected last week.

Weaving through the narrow path between the ceiling-high bookshelves, the solitude of the library’s far end envelops me. The Roman history section, predictably, is tucked away in the quietest corner. I reach for a book high above, my five-two frame stretching on tiptoes, fingertips grazing the spine yet falling just short.

Suddenly, a familiar voice breaks the silence. “Let me grab that for you.” Before I can react, Cole’s presence is behind me, a wall of heat and tension. His body presses lightly against my back as he effortlessly retrieves the book. His breath is warm against my ear. “See, you need me, Angel.”

Every muscle tenses, coiled tight. Swallowing the knot of panic and unwanted arousal, I turn, meeting his piercing blue eyes. A surge of emotions battles within me—pain, fear, longing—all colliding in a chaotic storm.

“Do you remember what you and I used to do in the dark corners of the library?” His voice drops to a purr, each word curling around me like smoke, thick with unspoken promises.

Summoning every ounce of detachment possible, my reply is flat, practiced. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?” Despite the controlled tone, my heart betrays me, thudding wildly against my rib cage.

He rests his arm above my head and leans in, the ghost of a smile playing on his lips, his gaze intense. “Really? Maybe I should remind you.” His closeness is overwhelming; his scent, a mix of something woodsy and familiar, infiltrates my senses.

For a moment, I’m transported back to a time when his proximity was my solace, not my torment. But that time is gone now. It’s a specter of a past I can’t afford to revisit.

Stepping back, I create a necessary yet thin barrier of air between us. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” the words come out steadier now.

“Oh, maybe I’ll kiss you then and see if you make that little noise you used to make when I—”

“Hey, what’s going on here?”

Poppy’s voice feels like a relief as his eyes flash with annoyance.

His gaze flicks to her for a mere second before returning to me, fixating on my lips as if drawn by a magnet. “We were only talking. It’s nothing for you to worry about,” he says. His tone is smooth, but I’m not a fool. No matter what I pretend, I know Cole Westbrook. I know him so well that I can see the fire that got me burned, brewing in his eyes.

I push past him. “It’s nothing, Poppy,” I say, and she wraps an arm around me. It’s so good to feel her friendship, her interest in me.

“Eva, we need to talk about—” she begins, her voice laced with concern as I start putting my belongings away with trembling fingers.

Maintaining a composed expression is one thing, but the trembling gives me away, my facade eroding. “Don’t, Poppy,” I say firmly, knowing that I’m too fragile now to talk about it, especially to someone who doesn’t know. The person I need to speak to is Max. The plan is to go home and call him.

My savior who waltzed into my life when I was at my lowest; he is the one who can help, who can listen and understand the Eva I was then.

“But…”

I sigh, meeting her eyes. “We made a deal, and you didn’t want to talk about Ethan. I didn’t press.”

She winces, and I feel a little guilty, but all I want is to get out of here. She nods. “Okay, but know I’m here for you. Whenever.”

I soften, wanting to hug her. “I know, and you don’t know how much that means to me.”

Exhausted and emotionally drained, I slip out of the library, leaving the echo of Cole’s voice behind me. The cool afternoon air feels like a soothing balm as I make my way to my car, the quiet hum of the engine a welcome reprieve from the chaos of the day.

As I drive, the houses and trees blur past in a wash of twilight colors. The road is familiar, a path I’ve traveled back and forth, yet tonight, it feels different, as if every turn brings me further from the person I was and closer to someone I’m still trying to understand.

Once home, I lock myself in my room, a sanctuary of soft pillows and comforting walls. I hesitate for a moment before picking up my phone and dialing Max’s number. He is so much more than the man who saved my life; he’s been a guiding light through some of my darkest times.

“Hey, it’s me,” I say when he answers.

“Kiddo! How are you holding up?” His voice is gruff but warm, like a well-worn leather jacket that’s seen too many storms.

Hesitation grips me, a bite on my lip betraying my uncertainty. “Max, all this time, there was strength inside me, or so I believed. I thought I had moved past everything, that the shadows of the past had faded. Yet, now, facing even a glimpse of my past, I replace myself on the verge of crumbling.”

There’s a pause on the line, and I can almost picture Max’s thoughtful frown. “Strength isn’t about never feeling weak. It’s about feeling those moments and pushing through, anyway. Remember that.”

His words are a gentle reminder, a nudge back toward the resilience I know lives within me. “I… I need to know I can handle this.”

“You can and you will. You know Blaze owns the military bar in town. He can swing by, keep an eye on things if you need, and have a word with whoever needs some talking to.”

Blaze, another member of Max’s close-knit circle of ex-military friends, is as intimidating as they come, but underneath his exterior, there’s a protectiveness that could cause mayhem.

“Thanks, Max, but that won’t be necessary,” I admit, a small smile replaceing its way to my lips.

“Just give the word, kiddo. And remember, it’s okay to feel the weight of the world sometimes. Don’t let it keep you down. You’re stronger than you think, and if you need a pick-me-up, go there.”

“Will do, I promise.”

As I hang up, Max’s words echo in my mind. Strength isn’t the absence of weakness; it’s the will to continue in spite of it. I let out a long breath, feeling a sense of reassurance wash over me. Maybe I don’t have all the answers, but I’m not alone in this journey.

I glance around my room at the walls that have witnessed my tears and laughter. I lift my chin, feeling a newfound resolve steeling my spine, ready to confront whatever challenges lie ahead. With people like Max and Poppy in my corner and the lessons I’ve learned, I’m more than just a survivor. I’m a fighter, ready to face another day.