Chapter 9
Nine
“Sometimes silence isn’t absence; it’s the sound of power watching you breathe.”– Aria Boschett.
Idon’t throw the flowers away. Instead, I bring them home, filling a vase with water and placing them on the counter.
For my Little Dove. The words coil around my thoughts like a noose.
I tell myself throwing them away would be too obvious.
I can’t give him a reason to remind me what his ownership means.
My fingers trace the petals absently, red—the color of power and warning.
The shrill ring of my phone shatters my train of thought; I jump. Get it together, Aria. I glance at the screen, Aunt Cathy’s caller ID flashing, and relief sweeps through me. “Hey Aunt Cathy.”
“How’s my favorite niece?”
“Great, now that you’ve called.”
“Guess what?”
“What?”
“Guess who the new head nurse at Boston General is?” I blink, my brain scrambling to keep up. “Wait, Aunt Cathy... Are you saying?”
“Yes! I’m moving to Boston! If my house sells in the next two weeks, I’ll be there even sooner.”
***
Weeks pass: I almost believe I’m just one of the nameless many who crossed Cyan’s path.
Until the next package arrives on my doorstep.
Opening it, I find an ivory box with a black ribbon bow.
Inside, a gold chain with a single pearl pendant.
No card, no explanation, but I don’t need one; it’s from him.
I shove the chain back into the box and bury it in my dresser drawer.
Another month, another delivery. Perfume this time, my favorite scent, hibiscus and coconut, blooms through the air as soon as I unseal the cap, and my throat tightens. The next month, a sleek and expensive smartwatch. The kind that tracks heart rate, sleep patterns, steps.
Tonight, the newest package waits on my bed.
I don’t want to open it, but I do. Inside lies an antique ledger.
Leather cracked with age, pages yellowed and thin.
Inked entries: 1838, 1839, and 1840. My fingers trace the elegant script, the looping letters fading into brown.
My laugh comes out brittle. What is he telling me with this one?
That history is his? That I’m part of some ledger entry I don’t understand yet?
Everyone of these gifts feels like Cyan sending the message. I haven’t forgotten you.
After that gift, I find it so hard to pretend I’m okay.
On one of her weekend visits, Aunt Cathy notices.
She sees how I flinch at shadows, and how sometimes I’m staring off into nowhere.
She pays Pauline to cover the following four-day weekend and insists I visit her in Boston. “Fresh air, new faces,” she says.
That’s how I find myself at a backyard barbecue, pretending I belong, pretending I’m not still waiting for the next package to arrive.
Cathy all but shoves me forward. “Hello there, Ethan.” Her smile is wide, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’d like you to meet my niece, Aria.”
“Nice to meet you, Aria.” He offers his hand.
I take it. “Nice to meet you, too, Ethan.”
Aunt Cathy doesn’t even pretend to be subtle. “Oh, look! I see Georgia. I’ll be right back!” And just like that, she’s gone. Yep, this was planned.
Ethan laughs, shifts his weight from one foot to the other, running a hand through his hair. “So... did we just get set up?”
“Oh, definitely.” I cross my arms. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to entertain me to appease my aunt.”
“But what if I want to?” His lips twitch into a half-smile.
Then, as if realizing he’s come on too strong, he runs a hand through his curls again, laughing a little nervously.
“Wow. That was smooth. Hope I didn’t just fumble my first impression.
” He’s cute in a nervous, boy-next-door way.
And yet, somehow, my brain’s still rerouting to a man whose eyes could set fire to sanity.
I should probably call a psychologist. Or just admit I’m developing Stockholm syndrome and save the copay.
“Aria?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“You totally just spaced out. Are you already shutting me down?”
“What? No!”
“You had that look.”
“What look?”
“The ‘you seem like a nice guy, but I’m not interested’ look. Trust me, I’ve seen it plenty of times.”
I laugh, unable to help myself. “I was going to. Maybe not in those exact words.”
Ethan shifts closer. The movement pulls the fabric of his postal-blue polo across his arms, flexing.
“See? I knew it. Tell you what, I won’t ask you out until the end of this party.
Give me a chance to prove I’m worth your time.
In the worst-case scenario, my ego gets bruised.
Best case? My gym gains finally pay off.
” If I say no now, Cathy will press harder.
I can go out with him, keep it casual, and never see him again.
That should buy me a few months of peace from her matchmaking, and Cyan wouldn’t find out—it’s just one date.
“Okay. You have a deal, Ethan.”
His smile lights up his entire face. “Great.” We fall into easy conversation.
“So, why personal training? Please don’t tell me you’re a health nut. That’d be a major strike against you.”
Ethan laughs. “Mercy, no, it’s one of my jobs. I also volunteer as a PE teacher at an underfunded school and do the personal trainer thing to raise money for the football team’s new uniforms, and that’s how I met your aunt.”
He’s sweet. “Wow, are you the male version of Mother Teresa?” I tease, pushing the regret to the back of my mind. Why couldn’t I have met him before my life blew up?
“Not quite. I went to Richardson High. It means a lot to me to give back.”
“That’s actually really cool.”
“What about you? What do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
His brows shoot up. “Huh. When I think accountant, I picture my guy—old, stodgy, covered in age spots. Not gorgeous and witty like you.” Heat creeps up my neck, and I tuck a stray curl behind my ear, hoping he doesn’t notice the color in my cheeks.
“Numbers have always made sense to me.” Why couldn’t I have met him instead of Hayden? Instead of...
“Smart and beautiful. It’s my lucky day.”
“Laying it on thick, Ethan.”
He arches a brow. “Like peanut butter. Is it working?” I think of the gifts, his mind games. The way he invades even silence. I’m tired of being afraid. Tired of waiting for the shoe to drop. Screw Cyan. I deserve to live my life.
“You know what?” I take a breath. “You don’t have to wait until the end of this party. I’ll go out with you.” We exchange phone numbers, and I text him Cathy’s address.
His grin widens. “Great. I’ll pick you up tomorrow at seven.” His light blue eyes are nothing like Cyan’s. There’s no danger in them, no turmoil, and for tonight and tomorrow, I let myself pretend that’s a good thing.
***
It’s date night, and Ethan has chalked up another point by showing up with a dozen pink roses.
Aunt Cathy swoops in before I can even thank him, plucking them from my hands.
“I’ll put these in water. You two head out and have fun.
” She’s practically glowing. I think she’s enjoying this setup more than either of us.
The Italian restaurant he picks is perfect. Warm mood lighting spills from the chandeliers, catching the rustic wooden beams overhead. The air is rich with citrus, fresh herbs, and melted butter.
The food tastes even better than it smells.
The pumpkin ravioli is velvety and buttery, melting on my tongue, along with the savory, sage brown butter, and I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips.
Across the table, Ethan watches me with a slow, amused grin.
As I wipe a dab of sauce from the corner of my mouth. “Don’t judge me. It’s delicious.”
“No judgment here. I enjoy seeing a woman take pleasure in the little things.”
I laugh, setting down my fork. “How’d you know Italian food is my favourite?”
“I have my ways.” He takes a slow sip of red wine.
“My aunt,”
I caught a spark in his eyes. “If you had a cheat sheet for something you wanted, wouldn’t you use it?”
“Your equation has some validity.” I wink, making him laugh. For the first time in weeks, I feel... normal. Gesturing to his plate. “How’s the duck ragu?”
“Fantastic. Now thanks to you, Aria, I’m a homemade pasta convert.
Cathy says you make amazing pasta dishes.
Maybe one day, you’ll make me one?” Without knowing it Ethan hits a wound.
My grandmother’s voice drifts through my mind.
“Piccolo, when we make pasta, it is our love in physical form.” I blink the memory away, but Ethan catches my shift.
His hand reaches for mine; his touch is gentle.
“Cathy told me about your grandmother. I’m sorry if I upset you. ”
I shake my head. “No, it’s okay. I just..
. miss the person she was, that’s all and—” A chill curls down my spine; the sensation is so strong I freeze mid-speech.
I scan the restaurant, forcing my pulse to slow.
Everything looks normal. Couples leaning in close, whispering over candlelit tables.
Servers bustle from table to table, balancing steaming plates.
My eyes land on a large table in the corner.
The servers move around it, almost forming a barrier, and I can’t see who’s seated there.
“Aria?” Ethan’s voice tugs me back.
I snap my gaze to him, forcing a smile. “Sorry, just lost in thought.” I shake off this sudden unease and put on a smile. “L’amore per la buona cucina,” I say in Italian.
Ethan grins. “So, you’re a math nerd who also speaks Italian? What does that mean?”
“My grandmother taught me. It means the love of good food.”
“What other phases can you teach me?” I point at the table and different things in the restaurant, telling Ethan their names in Italian, and I really enjoy myself.
We’re sharing a decadent tiramisu, the rich espresso-soaked layers melting on my tongue.
Our waiter comes over to do a water glass check.
“Can you please bring me the bill?”