Chapter 7
7
LENA
The grudge - Olivia Rodrigo
The sound of running water fills the apartment, the dishes from dinner finally done and stacked neatly on the counter. I scrub the last few plates, the warm suds sliding over my fingers, almost soothing in the quiet of the apartment, except for the soft hum of the music playing in the background. It’s a low, mellow playlist, one I’ve played on repeat too many times to count, but tonight it feels comforting, like an old friend. The steady beat pulses through the air, a steady rhythm that almost drowns out the weight of everything else that’s gnawing at the edges of my mind.
I rinse my hands and dry them off with the towel hanging from the oven handle, glancing around the kitchen. The night’s dragging on, and I can feel the pull of exhaustion again, the weight of everything I haven’t dealt with settling into my bones.
The music shifts, the song more upbeat now, but I don’t feel it. My feet drag as I make my way down the hallway, each step heavy with the weight of everything I’ve been avoiding. My muscles ache, sore from the tension of the day, from the quiet battle with myself. I reach the bathroom, the lights flickering on with a hum, casting a soft, dull glow across the room.
I turn the shower knob, and the hot water hits my neck, the heat instantly soothing against my skin. I stand there for a moment, letting the steam curl around me, letting the water seep into my tired bones, as the music continues to play in the background. It’s familiar.
Almost comforting. Almost.
The water hits my skin like a blanket of warmth, coaxing the tension out of my shoulders as it flows over me. I close my eyes, letting the steam rise and fill the bathroom, the heavy scent of lavender and chamomile from my shampoo wrapping around me. I’ve always been a sucker for the calming scent—something about it makes me feel like I’m trying to outrun the world for a moment, like I can forget, even if just for a few minutes.
I lather the shampoo in my hands, the rich foam sliding easily through my hair. The scent, so familiar, almost too familiar. And then it hits me—the memory.
A few years ago, Cruz showed up at the center with a surprise for me—a bouquet of wild lavender. He’d always known how much I loved the scent. It was one of those random, sweet things he’d do that never failed to catch me off guard. The lavender was tied together with a simple piece of twine, the stems still a bit tangled, and the vibrant purple flowers looked like they had been freshly picked, their color almost unreal against the backdrop of the late afternoon sun.
I remember holding the bouquet to my nose, breathing in the deep, calming fragrance. The scent was warm, earthy, like summer wind and sun-soaked fields. It instantly relaxed me, the weight of the day melting away just from the smell. Cruz had this way of knowing exactly what you needed before you even realized it yourself.
He’d grinned, standing there in the doorway of the center, watching me inhale the lavender, his eyes twinkling with that mischievous glint he always carried. “I figured it’d make the place smell better than the usual antiseptic air,” he’d joked, a small laugh following the words.
And for a moment, everything was right. Just Cruz, with his kind heart and effortless charm, making my world a little brighter with something as simple as a bouquet of wildflowers.
I run my fingers through my hair, rinsing out the foam, but the memory lingers, vivid in my mind. Cruz’s laugh, the sound of it echoing over the hum of the tanks filters, making everything feel easy. But as I stand there, the water still warm against my skin, that feeling of ease slips away. The laughter fades, and I’m left with the hollow ache of knowing that day is gone, that he’s gone.
I inhale deeply, the lavender scent thick in the air, but it doesn’t quite cover the emptiness. As the water cascades down my back, I scrub harder, trying to push the thoughts away, but they cling to me—those memories of better times, of a version of myself that still felt whole. Of a version of us that didn’t know how cruel life could be, that didn’t know what it would be like to lose Cruz.
The shampoo’s scent doesn’t reach me the way it used to. Now it feels like a faint reminder of something lost.
I rinse my hair, the water running clear, the tangles finally worked out. It’s so stupid—how something so simple as shampoo can bring all of that back. I’ve been avoiding the thoughts, avoiding feeling anything at all. But sometimes no matter how hard I try to keep them out, they push their way in. Forcing me to face the shit I would give anything to forget. Cruz is gone, and I’m still here, with nothing but these memories and the damn smell of lavender on my skin.
I run my fingers through my hair again, this time just to feel the movement, to ground myself into something that’s real. But the moment doesn’t last. The buzz of my phone on the counter pulls me back to the present, like a slap across the face.
I glance at the phone, not needing to see the name. Revel’s the only one I haven’t pushed away completely. Sure, Bexley, Cece, and even some of the Demons have checked in, but I’ve kept my distance from all of them. I don’t have the energy for fake pleasantries or forced conversations. But Revel? He’s different. He’s been persistent, and for whatever reason, I can’t shut him out the way I’ve shut everyone else out.
I don’t even know why I’m still picking up when he calls, maybe cause I know he wouldn’t give up as easily as everyone else. No, Revel would break down the fucking door if it meant making sure I was okay, so I guess I just know there’s no point in trying to avoid him.
At least, until recently.
The buzzing continues, louder now, breaking the quiet of the bathroom. I swallow hard, pushing away the thought of Cruz—of everything that’s still so goddamn raw—and reach for the phone, the cold edge of the screen a contrast to the heat of the shower.
“Hey,” I answer, my voice low, like it’s a breath I’ve been holding for too long. I try to mask the tension, the way my heart is still heavy from the memories, but it’s there. It’s always there.
“Lena,” Revel’s voice is sharp, laced with worry. “You alive?”
I roll my eyes. “Clearly, since I answered.”
“Funny,” he shoots back. “You’ve been MIA since the strip. I’ve texted you, like, twenty fucking times.”
I grimace, rinsing the siphon under the tap. He’s not wrong. I’ve been dodging all his messages, the calls. “I’ve been busy.”
“Bullshit. You’ve been hiding,” he says bluntly. “Have you even eaten today?”
“I’m fine, Revel,” I snap, though the hollowness in my stomach says otherwise. “I don’t need a goddamn babysitter.”
“You’re right. You don’t need a babysitter,” he says, his tone softening. “You need a friend. Someone to make sure you’re not wasting away in that tiny apartment of yours, talking to your fish and calling it socialization.”
I wince, glancing at Blue. “I don’t just talk to the fish,” I mutter, but it sounds weak even to me.
“Lena.” His voice drops, all the teasing gone. “Come meet me. There’s a diner near your place. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
I hesitate, biting my lip. The thought of seeing someone, anyone, feels exhausting. But at the same time, there’s something in Revel’s voice that makes it impossible to brush him off.
“Fine,” I say reluctantly. “But you’re buying.”
“Deal. See you in twenty.”
The line goes dead, and I sigh, staring at my reflection in the tank. My hair’s a mess, and there are dark circles under my eyes. Grief’s a hell of a look.
The diner is a cozy little hole-in-the-wall, the kind where the booths are worn and the waitresses call you “hon” like they’ve known you forever. I slide into a seat across from Revel, pulling my hoodie tighter around me, almost like it’s armor.
Revel looks exactly like I expect him to: tall, broad-shouldered, his buzz cut barely visible beneath the faint stubble lining his jaw. His blacked-out arm tattoo peeks out from the sleeve of his shirt, and his piercing blue eyes are locked on mine with an intensity I can never shake. I’ve always admired the way he wears his ink, like each tattoo has a story he’s not ready to tell. The man’s a wall of muscle and silent fury, and right now, that wall feels like it’s closing in on me.
“You look like shit,” he says, not unkindly, as he sips his coffee, his voice a little too loud in the quiet diner.
“Thanks, dude. Really needed to hear that,” I mutter, grabbing a menu and hiding behind it.
“I mean it,” he presses. “When’s the last time you slept? Ate? Did something that wasn’t, I don’t know, staring at fish tanks?”
I glare at him over the menu. “I made it this far without a mom you know, I don’t need one now.”
“Well shit, you need something ,” he says, leaning forward, his muscular arms tensing slightly. “Lena, this isn’t sustainable. Cruz wouldn’t want you to?—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off sharply, my appetite vanishing at the mention of Cruz’s name. “Don’t bring him into this.”
Revel sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not trying to upset you. I’m just saying... you’re not the only one who lost him. You don’t have to go through all this shit alone. I might not see eye to eye with those guys, but fuck Lena, everything you’re feeling, they’re feeling too. It wouldn’t kill you to let them in, even a little just to lessen the goddamn burden you’re forcing on yourself.”
“I’m fine,” I say, though the words taste like sandpaper in my mouth.
“You’re not,” he replies simply. “When was the last time you talked to Bexley or Cece even? Hell, even just hung out with someone who isn’t me?”
I glance away, guilt twisting in my gut. It’s been weeks since I’ve seen them. Months, maybe. “I don’t know.”
“Call them,” he urges. “Or text them. Whatever. Get together for a girls’ night. I know they miss you as much as you miss them, even if your stubborn ass doesn’t want to admit it.”
I don’t respond right away. The truth is, I do miss them—miss their laughter, the way they could make everything feel like it was still okay, even if just for a little while. But the thought of having fun without Cruz? It feels wrong. Like a betrayal.
“I’ll think about it,” I say, hoping it’s enough to get him to drop it.
Revel studies me for a moment, his blue eyes unreadable, then nods. “Alright. But do something, Lena. You can’t keep living like this.”
“Like what?” I ask, my tone sharp. “Grieving? Sorry if that’s inconvenient for you.”
“Grieve, yes,” he says, meeting my glare head-on. “But don’t drown in it. Cruz wouldn’t want that, and you know it.”
His words hit harder than I want to admit, and I hate that he’s right. I hate that he knows me well enough to say exactly what I don’t want to hear. The waitress comes by and I place my order, my voice quieter than I’d like it to be. “Burger and fries. And a Dr. Pepper.” She nods, disappearing to put in the order.
I slump in the booth, picking at the edges of my hoodie, watching Revel as he takes another sip of his coffee. I can feel the weight of his gaze, like he’s waiting for me to crack. I wish I could say I don’t care, but I do.
I’ve always cared what Revel thinks.
Back home, the apartment feels smaller somehow. The weight of Revel’s words hangs heavy in the air, and I can’t shake the feeling that he’s right.
I move without thinking, my feet carrying me to the driveway outside my small walk-up apartment. Cruz’s bike is there, parked under the overhanging roof, a tarp shielding it from the elements. It wasn’t his main bike—the one he raced, the one that was totaled in the crash that killed him—but his backup. The one he kept in pristine condition, just in case.
I pull the tarp off slowly, revealing the sleek, black frame. My fingers hover over the handlebars before I finally grab them, my hands trembling as memories flood in.
I’ve ridden it since he died, but never raced. Never pushed it the way he would’ve wanted me to. The idea of racing again terrifies me, but there’s a tiny part of me that wonders if maybe—just maybe—it’s what I need. The adrenaline, the speed, the chaos. Maybe it’ll bring me closer to him.
My heart pounds as I sit on the bike, gripping the bars tighter. I close my eyes, imagining the roar of the engine, the wind whipping past me, the world blurring into nothing but the road ahead.
When I open my eyes, the fear hasn’t gone, but there’s something else there too. Determination.
I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the name I’m looking for.
Jax.
The text is short, but it feels monumental.
Lena: I want in on the next race.
I hit send before I can second-guess myself, my hands still shaking.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel something other than grief.
Hope.