22. Eli
CHAPTER 22
ELI
Absence really did make the heart grow fonder.
Two days since Niall and the team left for Colorado and I felt like I was caught in a tug-of-war between missing him and wondering what things would be like when he got back. Would he want to talk about what happened? Would he ignore it? Did Niall even think about me the way I thought about him?
I shoved his hands into my jacket pockets as I stepped into the Summit Falls Gallery, the space already buzzing with voices. The scent of paint, fresh wood, and something faintly metallic filled the air. Students milled around, chatting in small groups, their conversations a mix of excitement and critique. The whole place had this artsy, industrial vibe—exposed brick, polished concrete floors, and track lighting to highlight the displays.
“Eli! Over here!” Asher’s voice cut through the noise.
I spotted him hurrying toward me, waving with one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his oversized sweater. His hair fell over his eyes as usual, but there was a spark in them, the kind he always had when he was in his element. Gigi walked beside him, bouncing on her toes, dark, tightly coiled hair framing her face as she grinned.
“You actually showed up,” she teased as they reached me. “I was taking bets with Asher that you’d bail.”
I scoffed, pulling off my jacket. “Good to know you have so much faith in me.”
“Hey, we wouldn’t have bet if we didn’t care,” Asher said, smirking. “But seriously, glad you’re here. You looked like you needed a distraction.”
He wasn’t wrong. The whole day, I’d found my mind drifting to Niall. Was he settling into the hotel okay? Was he already on the ice, going through drills? Did he miss me the way I missed him?
Pushing the thoughts aside, I forced a smirk. “All right, let’s see what the two of you geniuses put together.”
Gigi nudged me toward her section first. “You’ll be amazed.”
Her pieces were set up in the corner, and Eli immediately noticed the contrast between them. One was a twisted metal and glass piece, tangled yet balanced, like controlled chaos. The other was a delicate ceramic flower, cracked along its edges, the imperfections making it even more striking.
“Damn,” I muttered, stepping closer. “These are incredible.”
Gigi grinned, crossing her arms. “Say that louder for the people in the back.”
I chuckled. “Not even kidding, though. I don’t know much about art, but these… they make you feel something.”
“That’s the goal,” she said, satisfaction clear in her voice. “The cracks in the flower? That’s intentional. Beauty in imperfection.”
I traced a finger near the sculpture’s edge, careful not to touch. The cracks reminded me of how I felt lately—like something fragile that had been handled too roughly. Maybe that’s why it hit me so hard.
“All right, my turn,” Asher said, shooting me a grin as he led the way to his display. “Prepare to have your mind blown.”
I huffed a laugh but stopped short when I took in Asher’s work. Two large canvases dominated the wall, one with bold red and black streaks slashing through it, raw and unfiltered, like emotion frozen in paint. The other was softer, blues and grays blending together like a storm settling into quiet.
“These are intense,” I said after a beat. “What were you thinking about when you painted them?”
Asher rocked back on his heels. “First one? Anger, frustration, chaos. The second? Regret. The way things linger even after the storm passes.”
Something about that second piece twisted in my chest. Regret. I knew the feeling too well. I thought about Niall again; about the way we left things. Was Niall thinking about me right now? Maybe lying in his hotel bed, scrolling through his phone, debating whether to text? Or was he too focused on the game, on leading the team to a win?
I exhaled. “Damn, dude. You got me all in my feelings.”
Asher laughed, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “That’s the power of art, my friend.”
We spent the rest of the evening wandering through the gallery, stopping to check out other students’ work, critiquing things we didn’t fully understand, and making each other laugh with our ridiculous interpretations. By the time I stepped out of the gallery, the night air cool against my skin, I felt lighter. I was glad I came.
The moment I walked into the apartment, the silence wrapped around me. For once, it didn’t press in on me the way it had the past couple of nights. I set the keys down, grabbed a glass of water, and leaned against the counter.
Niall would be back tomorrow. I mentally crossed my fingers that he would come back in a good mood. And maybe we’d finally talk about everything hanging between us.
* * *
Settling onto my bed, I flipped open my textbook, highlighter in hand, determined to knock out at least a few readings before class on Monday. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the heater. I adjusted the pillow behind my back, scanning the first paragraph.
Two lines in, my focus wavered. My mind drifted back to Niall. By now, he was probably on the ice, maybe in the middle of a shift. Was he locked in, focused, barely thinking about anything but the game? Or did his mind wander, just for a second, the way mine kept drifting to him?
I dragged a hand down my face.
No. Not going there. I’d made a promise to myself. No scouring the internet for game updates, no stalking Niall’s social media. I’d held strong on Thursday. Friday too. But tonight? Tonight, the urge clawed at me.
I grabbed my phone before I could talk myself out of it. One quick check wouldn’t hurt, right? Just to see if Niall had posted anything.
Pulling up Instagram, I searched for Niall’s profile.
Same as always. No updates.
I huffed a quiet laugh. Of course. Niall wasn’t exactly the type to share random thoughts or post locker room selfies.
Still, my fingers hovered over the screen before flicking to Micah’s profile. Micah wasn’t shy about posting. A few taps later, I scrolled through photos of the team practicing, stretching on the ice, and then the game from last night.
Lost by five goals.
A flicker of disappointment curled in my chest. I hated that for them, hated that for Niall. Shaking my head, I moved to Hunter’s page. More of the same—shots from the arena, a photo of the guys joking around in a hallway.
I noticed a couple of notifications at the top of my screen.
New DMs.
My stomach dipped. I clicked the message tab.
Chase.
A whole string of messages, sent over the past few days. I stared at the name in bold, an old tension settling into my shoulders. I could ignore them. Delete them. Pretend I never saw them.
Instead, my thumb moved on its own.
Miss talking to you. Hope you’re doing well.
Remember that time we stayed up all night before finals? Wild. Miss those days.
I don’t understand why you’re still mad at me. Can we just talk?
You can’t pretend like we didn’t have something special.
I swallowed, gripping the phone a little tighter. Classic Chase. Nostalgia baiting. Painting a pretty picture of our past, conveniently leaving out the messier parts.
Then the guilt started.
I get why you left.
Just wish you would have told me it would be so easy for you to get over me.
I exhaled sharply. Easy? That was the furthest thing from the truth.
And finally, the neediness. The passive-aggressive pull.
I’m going through a rough time. Hard not having you around.
My jaw clenched. This was what Chase did. This was how it had been almost from the beginning. A cycle of manipulation wrapped in soft words and half-truths. Back then, I had fallen for it. Again and again.
Until I didn’t.
I closed out of the messages, my pulse drumming in my ears. Should’ve blocked Chase months ago. Instead, I’d left one tiny door open—Instagram. The one app Chase used most often.
At the time, I told myself it was strategic—let Chase see me move on, see me happy, thriving, unbothered. The ultimate middle finger to a guy who’d spent too much time making me feel small.
But scrolling through those messages now, it hit me.
My ex didn’t need to see me winning. I did.
Holding my breath, I clicked on Chase’s profile, tapped the three dots in the corner, and hit Block.
A rush of something settled in my chest. Not victory. Not satisfaction.
Peace .
I powered off my phone and set it face down on the nightstand. The textbook was still open in my lap, the highlighted section mocking me. I sighed, rolling my shoulders. Maybe I’d focus better now.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, I could finally move forward.