Chapter 19 #2
And now it was just Kian and his dad. Two people alone, together.
“Running a catering business must be hard,” she said.
“That’s why he wants me to take over. Make it a whole father-son thing. Which is funny, considering he barely talks to me
unless it’s about prep or orders. When he’s home, he shuts himself in his room. Blasts Celine Dion. Doesn’t notice when I
come or go.”
His knuckles whitened. But underneath the frustration was something quieter. Sadder.
“I want to do music,” he said finally. “Go to Berklee, start a band, as long as I can get a scholarship. My GPA isn’t the
best, but I’m good. Dad doesn’t know any of it. And I’m not planning on telling him.”
“You don’t think he’d be supportive?”
“Nope. Doesn’t deserve to know. It’s not like he cares about anything else.”
Riya glanced toward the piano. “But he kept that.”
“It was Mom’s. She used to teach.” His expression shuttered. “But no one touches that thing anymore.”
Riya’s mind spun with questions. His mom had been a piano teacher? Was that where his love of music came from?
“Your dad seems nice, at least,” she said softly. Though to her own ears, it sounded thin.
“Yeah, well . . .” Kian shrugged. “Sometimes that’s not enough.”
She nodded, slowly. But something tugged at the back of her mind. The rumors Mel had told her: that Kian once broke Jake Townsend’s
nose. That after his suspension, he came back harder, meaner.
She’d believed it all. Such rumors were easy to believe.
But the boy beside her now didn’t look dangerous. He looked like someone who’d learned to brace for impact—and suddenly had
something to hold on to.
Her.
They didn’t mean to keep working.
After the experiments, after the lumpia (crispy, savory, perfect), Riya thought she’d pack up and leave. Instead, they’d slid
into a quiet rhythm—pages turning, keys clacking.
Riya noticed the small green notebook beside Kian again, its edges soft with wear.
“What do you write in that thing, anyway?” she asked before she could stop herself.
Kian smiled faintly. “Lyrics. Random thoughts. My therapist suggested it after I kept getting in trouble. To track what was
going on in my brain.”
“Does it help?”
“Yeah. Writing makes things make more sense.”
She glanced back at his face—creased in concentration, brows furrowed as he scanned his book. He hummed under his breath,
barely aware he was doing it. The sound was a little distracting. But it reminded her that this was someone who wanted to
feel something real. Who wanted to make something beautiful with his music.
Riya’s gaze dropped to the page, guilt needling her.
Eventually, Kian broke the silence. “Is this what researching peri magic is always like? Old books, cryptic footnotes?”
“I’m not exactly working with a database,” Riya muttered. “Peris tend to keep knowledge to themselves.”
“You don’t have a peri mentor? A peri sensei?”
“My khala—aunt—used to teach me.” She adjusted her glasses. “But I stopped my lessons. A while ago.”
Kian raised his eyebrows. “Why would you stop? If I had magic powers, I’d use them every day. I’d be out here like Cupid.
Matchmaking. Helping people.”
Riya didn’t answer at first. Her hand hovered near her notebook, as if hoping the right words might appear between the lines.
“It sounds harmless,” she said finally. “Giving people a push. But it’s not. Not if you’re steering someone else’s feelings.
Making them feel something they never chose.”
Kian tilted his head. “But . . . isn’t that how most feelings work? You don’t exactly choose them. Doesn’t mean they’re not
valid.”
“It’s not the same.”
“Sometimes it takes something outside you—a song or a poem or a movie—to unlock what’s already there. Doesn’t make it any
less real.”
She blinked. “That’s . . . not the worst metaphor.”
Kian grinned. “I’ll take it.” They returned to their books. But a few minutes later, he let out a breath.
“Wait—I think I found something.”
Riya leaned over his shoulder. “What is it?”
“O-oh—uh—” His ears went pink. “You’re really close.”
“Oh. Sorry.” She stepped back. Cleared her throat. Together, they read:
Since the earliest records of peri culture took written form, scholars have debated the reversal of peri love curses. These
manipulations do not merely affect emotions but disrupt one’s perception of events and memories. It is theorized that if a
love curse is broken, the human afflicted may lose all memory of the caster. This may explain the scarcity of documented cases,
as memory loss effectively erases the curse’s evidence.
Silence stretched.
“So . . . ,” Kian swallowed, “if we break the curse, I could lose my memories . . . ?”
Riya’s stomach twisted. It was logical, in a way. Efficient. Merciful, even. But the look on his face—the fearful flicker
in his eyes, the twitching at the corner of his mouth—made it clear it didn’t matter.
“You wouldn’t forget everything,” she said. “Just . . . whatever the curse touched. There might be gaps in the past few weeks.
That’s all.”
“So all the time we’ve spent together would just be . . . gone?” His voice rose. “No. No. I—I don’t want to lose it. Any of it.”
There it was again—that desperate edge. The curse responding, tugging at him, sharpening his ache.
Riya clenched her notebook tighter.
“Even if the memories fade,” she said quietly, not sure if it was true, “maybe the feelings don’t. Maybe something stays.”
Kian nodded too quickly.
“. . . Y-yeah. I—I like that.”
Riya gave him a small tight smile. “I should go.”
“Sure. Okay.” Kian stood. “Thanks. For—for coming here.”
She nodded, gathering her things, her limbs strangely heavy. At the door, she glanced back. Just once.
Kian was still standing there—still watching her, small and hopeful against the yellow walls, the old piano.
The curse was still in him. Burrowed deep. She knew that.
But now it was undeniable: Something was changing in her, too.