Chapter 10
Joel
I wake up feeling like I got hit by a freight train.
Not from alcohol. I wasn’t drinking last night—not enough to explain the heavy ache in my skull or the knots in my stomach, anyway.
No, this has to do with one thing an one thing only.
Anna.
Anna and the storm that’s been brewing between us since the moment I set foot back in Duluth. Since the moment I saw her again.
Since the moment she looked at me with something other than loathing—something that might’ve been fear.
Not fear of me, necessarily. At least, I hope to hell that’s not it.
I push up onto my elbows, staring at the ceiling. It’s too early for this shit.
And yet, my brain is already spinning out of control, playing and replaying last night.
The way she bolted from Nocté like she couldn’t get away fast enough, the way I found her waiting when I got home—calm on the surface, but with that barely restrained tension humming beneath.
The way we argued in the doorway, her voice sharp, then wavering, then something else entirely. Something I don’t know how to name.
I squeeze my eyes shut and exhale through my nose.
Get a grip, Joel.
This isn’t a second chance or a rekindled spark.
Anna Chang hates me. And she has every right to.
But that look. I can’t shake it.
Something sharp. Something unguarded. Something that cracked through all the walls she’s built between us and let me see what’s still underneath.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration bubbling up beneath my skin. I’m not supposed to think about her like this. Not supposed to remember the way she used to be—before I screwed it all up.
But my mind won’t let it go.
And I know exactly when it started…
Ethan ditched me that night.
Classic Ethan move—meet up at his house, then disappear the second some girl from the soccer team texted him. Which left me stuck, trying to decide whether to hang out in his basement alone or deal with the fact that my dad was on another one of his self-destructive benders at home.
I picked option C. The back porch.
And that’s where I found her.
She didn’t see me at first. She was sitting on the steps, guitar in her lap, strumming out something soft, something unpolished, something real.
Something that made my chest go tight, like I was hearing a secret I wasn’t meant to know.
Then I stepped on a loose board, and she jumped.
“Jesus, Joel,” she scowled, fingers fumbling over the strings. “Ever heard of knocking?”
“It’s a porch.” I smirked, leaning against the railing. “Not a private recording studio.”
She rolled her eyes, but she didn’t tell me to leave.
And that should’ve been my first warning. I mean, alarm bells were going off, but what harm was there in sitting down?
So, I sat next to her, stretching my legs out. “What are you working on?”
She hesitated. Just for a second.
Then she did something that caught me off guard—she slammed the notebook shut.
“Nothing,” she muttered, shifting so her elbow covered it, like she was shielding it from view.
That was new.
Anna never cared when I saw her notes before.
She used to shove them in my face—riddles, puzzles, random facts she found interesting.
And whenever Ethan bailed on me—which was often in our teenage years—she’d show up like it was a given, dropping onto the porch beside me with her notebook in hand.
She’d toss out lyric ideas, let me mess with chord progressions while she scribbled down adjustments.
It was easy. Effortless.
A game we played without overthinking it.
But this?
This was different.
“Didn’t sound like nothing,” I teased, nudging her shoulder in the hopes of softening her edges.
“Well, it is,” she shot back, still not looking at me. Instead, she stared straight ahead, fingers gripping the edges of her notebook like it might fly away if she didn’t hold tight enough.
I studied her, brow furrowing. “Okay, now I really want to see it.”
She scoffed, shaking her head. “Of course you do. That’s exactly why you won’t.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Life’s not fair, Joel,” she said, but the insult had no bite. If anything, she sounded—flustered. Like she was thinking too hard about something.
Which meant I was right. This wasn’t just another song. This wasn’t just a random melody she was messing with.
This meant something.
I leaned in, lowering my voice. “Come on, Ace. I taught you your first chord. I think that earns me some rights.”
She finally turned to me, expression unreadable. “Oh, you think you have rights to my inner thoughts? Get stuffed, Joel.”
“Okay, poor choice of words,” I admitted, holding up my hands. “But seriously, you’re good. You know that, right? I’d just like to hear it—help if I can.”
She exhaled through her nose, staring down at her notebook, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the cover.
“I was just messing around,” she muttered.
“Sounded better than messing around,” I pointed out.
Another pause.
A war was waging inside her, and I could see it in the way she bit her lip, in the way her grip tightened around the spiral binding like she was physically holding herself back.
And for the first time, I really looked at her.
Anna had always been this tiny force of nature—sharp, relentless, always keeping up, even when she wasn’t invited.
But sometime in the past year, she’d started to change.
The roundness of childhood had faded from her face, leaving behind something more defined, more striking.
Her eyes—dark, intense—held something deeper now, something that made my chest tighten if I thought about it too much.
And right now, with the porch light casting a soft glow around her, I could almost see the woman she’d become one day.
The realization came like a slap—hot, sudden, and so fucking wrong that my whole body tensed against it. I felt it everywhere—too much, too fast, like stepping off a curb I hadn’t seen coming. I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze away before my thoughts could go anywhere worse.
Shit.
Bury it. Pretend it never happened.
I shoved the thought away, clearing my throat, refocusing on the moment.
Then, slowly, she shifted.
“Fine,” she huffed, flipping the notebook open—but not to the song.
No, she skipped a few pages forward and landed on something else. Some random collection of lyrics, unfinished lines that she probably didn’t care about.
She handed it over. “Here. Enjoy my garbage.”
I smirked. “Generous.”
I skimmed the page, picking up on the structure immediately. The lines had potential, but they weren’t what she’d just been playing.
“You know this isn’t what you were singing, right?”
Her jaw tensed. “Just take it or leave it, Joel.”
That should have been my cue to drop it.
To take what she was willing to give and move on.
But I was seventeen, and an idiot.
And, more than that, I was curious.
So instead of backing off, I tapped the corner of the notebook, waiting until she finally met my eyes.
“Why don’t you want me to hear it?”
Her lips parted slightly, like she had an answer locked and loaded, but then she snapped her mouth shut. Her shoulders hunched, and her fingers curled around the edge of the page like she wanted to rip it out and set it on fire.
And that’s when it hit me.
This wasn’t just a song.
This was personal.
And personal meant—
Shit.
I straightened, scanning her face, piecing together what should have been obvious.
“It’s about someone you like, isn’t it?”
Her whole body jerked, eyes going wide before she could stop herself.
That was it. That was my answer.
It was about someone.
But before I could process what that meant—before I could even think to ask who—she ripped the notebook out of my hands and slammed it shut.
“You’re so annoying,” she muttered, standing abruptly.
“Hey—”
But she was already moving, grabbing her guitar, tucking the notebook under her arm like she was making a run for it.
“Where are you going?” I asked, standing too.
“Bed.”
“Bed? It’s barely ten on a Friday night.”
She shot me a glare over her shoulder. “Well, some of us don’t have endless energy reserves fueled by bad decisions.”
I rolled my eyes. “Drama much?”
She didn’t answer, just shoved open the back door, stepping inside before glancing at me one last time.
Something flickered across her face—hesitation, conflict, something I didn’t understand at the time.
Then she sighed. “Goodnight, Joel.”
The door clicked shut, leaving me standing there, staring at the spot she’d just been.
And for the first time in my life, I wondered—
Who the hell had Anna Chang been writing about?
I never got my answer.
Not then.
Not until it was too late.
And by then, I’d already ruined everything.
I scrub a hand down my face, dragging myself out of the memory, but it lingers—like smoke, like something burned deep into my brain that I’ll never fully scrub out.
Because I know this is where I messed up.
I just don’t know why I still can’t let it go.
I tell myself it’s guilt. That’s the easy answer. That’s the one I can live with.
I stole her song.
That beautiful song full of longing and embedded with a part of her soul.
That’s why she hates me.
That’s why she stormed out of Nocté like she couldn’t escape fast enough. Why, when I found her waiting for me at her place, she had that look in her eyes—braced, like she knew exactly how much this would hurt. And maybe that should have been enough.
Maybe I should have just left things well enough alone.
But I can’t. Around Anna, it seems like I never could.
Because back then? That’s exactly what I was trying to do.
I was trying to get her to hate me.
I just never expected to hate myself for it.
I don’t know what made her change her mind that day—why she finally let me see the song she’d been working on.
Maybe she got tired of me pushing. Maybe she figured I’d just keep annoying her until she caved.
Or maybe—maybe she finally trusted me.
That thought twists something in my chest, even now.
Because I didn’t deserve it.
Not then. Definitely not now.