Chapter 4
Joel
If Anna’s glare could kill, I’d be six feet under by now.
I lean against the doorframe of her apartment, my guitar case in one hand and a duffel bag slung over my shoulder. She’s standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed and lips pressed so tightly together I’m surprised they haven’t vanished entirely.
“Well,” I say, breaking the silence, “home sweet home, huh?.”
Her eyes narrow, and I’m pretty sure she’s mentally picturing my head on a spike.
“Spare room’s that way,” she says, jerking her chin toward the hallway. “Don’t touch anything, don’t make noise, and don’t even think about staying longer than absolutely necessary.”
“Got it,” I reply, giving her my best attempt at a neutral smile. “Anything else? Should I sign a behavior contract? Swear an oath of silence?”
“Don’t tempt me.” Her eyes narrow. “If you think this is a joke, you’re in for a rough two weeks, Price.”
“Noted,” I say, dropping my duffel bag just enough to flex my shoulder. “So…what’s the curfew? Midnight? Or should I be in bed by ten?”
Anna doesn’t crack. Not even a twitch of her lips. “As long as I don’t see or hear you, I don’t care where you are or when.”
“Wow,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “You really know how to make a guy feel at home.”
Her lips press tighter, but there’s a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Home? Let’s get one thing straight right the fuck now. This isn’t your home. You’re a temporary inconvenience. That’s all.”
“Harsh,” I say, stepping into the living room and closing the front door. “What happened to all that ‘family helps family’ talk from Ethan?”
“That’s Ethan’s rule, not mine,” she snaps, crossing her arms again. “If it were up to me—”
“You’d have thrown me to the wolves,” I finish, cutting her off with a grin. “Don’t worry, Anna. I’ll stay out of your way. Mostly.”
“Good,” she says, her voice cold. “Because if you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
“Got it,” I say, nodding toward the hallway. “Anything else? House rules about toothpaste caps or toilet seats?”
She exhales sharply, clearly done with the conversation. “I’m not your babysitter, Joel. Just… don’t be an asshole. Think you can handle that?”
She spins on her heel before I can respond, disappearing into her room and slamming the door behind her.
Off to a great start.
The apartment falls silent after Anna disappears, leaving me alone in her space.
I shift my weight awkwardly, my duffel bag heavy on my shoulder and my guitar case pulling on my other hand.
The air feels charged, like it’s holding its breath.
Or maybe that’s just me. I exhale, rolling my head from side to side.
I glance around the large open floor plan, taking in my new surroundings. It’s not what I expected—not that I’d spent much time imagining what Anna Chang’s life looked like these days. But still, it catches me off guard.
The kitchen, dining room, and living room are all one big open space, which is pretty unusual in these old Victorian Duluth homes.
It’s neat but not obsessively so. To be honest, that’s the most surprising part. She’s so uptight, I half expected for her to label her silverware drawer. Just to be sure, I open the kitchen drawers to check. Everything seems pretty normal.
The shelves lining the walls are packed with books and little knickknacks—some practical, like a small jade plant sitting in a ceramic pot, and some sentimental, like a framed photo of her and Ethan at a park that looks like it’s from when they were kids.
The furniture is functional, not flashy. A gray couch with a throw blanket draped over the back, a coffee table stacked with what looks like tech manuals, and a simple rug that ties the space together without trying too hard.
The space feels warm—not literally, because she keeps it just this side of freezing—but in the way it’s lived in.
Personal.
Like Anna carved this space out of the world for herself, piece by piece.
My gaze drifts back to the kitchen. There’s a bowl of oranges on the counter, next to a set of knives that look sharper than her glare.
The fridge is covered in magnets—mostly from tech conferences, but one is shaped like a dinosaur.
It’s bright green and slightly crooked, as if it doesn’t quite belong but refuses to be ignored. I kinda like it.
A faint smile tugs at my lips before I catch myself.
Anna Chang has always been full of contradictions.
Sharp edges and soft moments. The same girl who could argue her way into winning any fight could also spend hours quietly writing lyrics that could make your insides flop around or melt into a puddle.
I shake my head, dragging myself out of my thoughts and back to the task at hand—dropping my stuff in my new room for the next couple of weeks.
The hallway creaks under my boots as I make my way to the spare room she pointed out.
The door is already open, and I step inside, taking in the bare-bones setup.
A twin bed pushed against one wall, a small dresser, and a rickety desk that looks like it might collapse if I so much as breathe near it.
The walls are painted a neutral off-white, and there’s a single window with plain blinds drawn shut.
I drop my duffel bag on the bed and lean my guitar case against the wall, letting out a slow breath as I take it all in.
The room is fine. It’s not like I need much—just a place to crash. But the silence of the apartment feels heavy, like the place is holding secrets it doesn’t want to share.
Come on, Joel. Don’t be so dramatic. This is what I wanted, right? Proximity. A chance to fix things.
But the cold shoulder Anna’s giving me makes it clear this is going to be a hell of a lot harder than I thought.
After unpacking just enough to keep my clothes from wrinkling into oblivion, I find myself back in the living room. The apartment is still eerily quiet. I can hear the faint sound of her typing from behind the closed door of what I assume is her office, but otherwise, it’s just me.
I sit on the couch and glance at the coffee table.
A book on the rise of AI sits on top of a stack of programming books, the cover worn and dog-eared.
I flip it open, skimming the underlined passages and notes in the margins.
Anna’s handwriting is precise, almost too neat, but there’s a certain energy to it, like the thoughts couldn’t stay contained.
A soft laugh escapes me. She used to scribble notes in the same frantic style when we were kids, always chasing after some big idea or impossible problem. I remember teasing her about it once, and she told me, “If you don’t keep up with your thoughts, someone else will.”
She was thirteen.
That always amazed me. The depth of her thoughts and emotions for someone so young. I was fifteen and could barely think beyond which Wii game I wanted to play that day.
God, the quiet is suffocating, pressing in from all sides. I glance at the stack of books on the coffee table, then at the framed photo on the shelf. Nothing feels safe to touch, like even breathing too loud might set her off.
Finally, I give in, making my way back to the spare room.
I pick up my guitar, strumming softly to fill the emptiness. The melody comes to me before I even realize what I’m playing.
Her song.
The one I swore I’d never sing again.
My fingers move before I realize it, the notes spilling out in a quiet rhythm.
It was the first song we wrote together, back when everything felt simple.
Her with the lyrics, me with the melody.
Back when I didn’t know how much damage I was capable of doing.
The music carries memories I’ve spent years trying to overcome.
And yet, it’s the one song I can’t seem to forget.
The notes drift through the air, soft and familiar, and for a moment, I forget where I am. It’s become a part of what I’m known for and it’s burned into my fingers—into the part of me that refuses to let go.
It’s not until her voice slices through the haze that I realize I’m not alone.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I look up, startled. Anna’s standing in the doorway, her expression a mix of fury and something else—something raw and unguarded.
“What?” I ask, setting the guitar down carefully, like it’s a bomb about to go off.
“One night. You can’t even go one fucking night,” she snaps, her arms crossing tightly over her chest. “Do not play that song.”
“Anna, I didn’t—”
The words catch in my throat as I think about the envelope. Did she open it?
That envelope was everything I couldn’t say in person. Every apology, every explanation, every damn regret wrapped up in a few sheets of paper. And if she hadn’t opened it? If it’s been collecting dust this whole time?
“I mean it, Joel,” she cuts me off, her voice sharper now. “You don’t get to play that song. Not here. Not ever.”
Her words hit me like a punch to the gut. This isn’t just anger—it’s something deeper. Something I can’t fix with an apology.
“I wasn’t trying to upset you,” I say softly, my hands still hovering over the guitar strings.
“Well, congratulations,” she says, her voice trembling. “You did.”
As she turns, the question slips out before I can stop it. “Anna—did you even open it?”
She freezes mid-step, her back to me, her fists clenched at her sides.
For a second, I think she’s going to answer. But then she turns her head just enough to glare at me over her shoulder. “Don’t,” she says, her voice low and dangerous.
Her shoulders rise and fall with a sharp breath, and for a moment, she looks like she’s holding something back—something bigger than just anger. But the mask snaps back into place, cold and unyielding, and she turns away before I can say anything else.
And then she’s gone, leaving the question hanging in the air like smoke.
I drop back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
You don’t get to play that song. Not here. Not ever.
Her words echo in my head, louder than the quiet of the apartment.
I get where she’s coming from, I do. But damn, if this is how we’re starting, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to fix anything.
I came here for a second chance—to make things right.
I thought being close to her would help, that maybe just being here would start to thaw the ice. But now? Now it feels like I might be making it worse just by existing in her space.
Maybe I was kidding myself.
If she didn’t even open the envelope, I don’t know what fixing this looks like anymore.
Apologizing? Leaving her alone?
I came here to prove I’m not the same guy who screwed everything up.
But maybe I am.