Chapter 6
ALANA
“OKAY, SO FOR the basic model, I really think we should start with the plain outline. Keep it simple and to the point. Nothing too fancy. Since I have that dance studio idea, maybe we should just go with that? Or were you thinking…”
I trail off when I notice Jake is dazed out for the third time in the twenty minutes we’ve been working. It’s only our second week meeting at the library, and I’m already gathering that keeping his attention is near impossible.
“Um, hello? Earth to Cooper.” I kick his chair under the table, and he jumps, startled by the motion.
“What?”
“What,” I echo. “You haven’t been paying attention for, like, the millionth time.”
He runs a hand through his hair, but he doesn’t answer. His eyes are sad, almost like he’s suffering. Like he’s preoccupied by something he doesn’t want to give attention to.
You don’t have time for this, my mind warns.
I know, I sigh in reply.
“Look, if you don’t want to do this, it’s fine. I can do it on my own. I really didn’t—”
“No, I do. I’m sorry,” he rushes out. He exhales deeply. “Sorry. Go ahead. Business models. Plain and simple.” His gaze meets mine, and once again, when I want to feel nothing but agitated, my heart squeezes at the gloominess in his gaze.
He blinks a few times as if to clear his head, to expunge it of whatever thought is plaguing his mind. His lips curve upward at the corners, a reassuring smile drawn on them, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It only makes my chest ache more.
I’ve seen Jake before officially meeting him. More than once, actually, and never did he carry this weight with him.
He used to come into the café every Sunday and would always order two almond croissants and a raspberry tart to go. He was always smiling. Always friendly and kind. When he looked at you, it felt like he really saw you. Saw all the parts of you, and it made him smile anyway.
My heart fluttered once or twice at the sight of him, even when he wasn’t alone.
I’d feel bad after, looking at a taken man like that, but I couldn’t help it.
He was so effortlessly charming. Dreamy, even.
And she was perfect for him—shimmering skin, brown doe eyes, and curls that cascaded down her back.
She was always giggling and smiling right there beside him, and all I ever thought was how lucky they were to be in love.
I know you shouldn’t judge people’s lives from such brief interactions, but it's hard to ignore the way your heart warms at seeing a stranger's happiness and not picture everything about them to be perfect.
As a kid, I thought being an adult was like a Folgers commercial—all bright mornings and cheery faces. I saw my parents and how happy they were, and I thought the whole world looked just like it.
Then the ugliness of life caught up to me, and I forgot what happiness looked like.
That’s how it feels looking at Jake right now—like the hardships of life have caught up to me again and stripped me of the little joy I had once believed in.
I take a deep breath, knowing exactly what’s about to happen next.
Don’t do it, Alana, the voice warns.
You don’t have time for distractions, it reminds me.
You can’t save him, either.
I let out another breath, well aware of all that, and knowing it won’t do anything to stop me.
“Come on, let’s go.” I slam my books shut and stuff them into my bag. Jake pushes back in his seat, confusion painting his expression.
“Go where?” he asks as I stand.
“Just come on.” I sling my bag over my shoulder and start heading for the library exit. There’s a fifty-fifty chance he’ll follow me, but I keep moving forward, not looking back once, if only for feigned confidence.
I land at my car, opening the back passenger door and swinging my bag into it. I get into the driver’s seat and start the engine, waiting for the passenger door to open.
When it doesn’t, a sour twist of rejection climbs up my spine, much like it did the very first time I met Jake Cooper.
He’s going to come, I tell myself, but I only half believe it.
When the passenger door does, in fact, swing open, relief washes over me. Jake folds himself into the front seat of my Sonata, and my heart sings in a way that should warn me this is destined for trouble.
He clicks his seat belt and rests his head back on the headrest, his eyes on mine, watching but guarded. “Where are we going?”
“To loosen you up, Tin Man.”
He huffs and shakes his head, giving me a half grin as I hit play on my phone, letting the music pour in through my car’s Bluetooth speakers. When the singer’s voice enters the car, Jake’s face twists in bewilderment.
“Nat King Cole?” he asks in disbelief.
“What, are you not a fan of my music choice? Does the tin man not like Nat King Cole?”
He laughs, unamused. “I mean, I’m impressed it’s not Taylor Swift, but no. I am not a fan.”
“First of all, there is nothing wrong with Taylor Swift. And second, that’s crazy. How can you not like one of the most famous musicians of all time? That’s like not believing in love, or like, hating air or something.”
“Exactly,” he says with a smirk.
“You hate air?” I deadpan.
“No. Air I’m fine with.”
I ignore the hidden meaning in his words. “Well, whatever. You can’t hate Nat King Cole. That’s illegal in at least four states.”
He chuckles. “I highly doubt that.” He looks out his window and leans an elbow on the door.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes. “Sounds to me like you have bad taste.”
“I have bad taste?” His eyes dart to me, then to the radio. “The man built an entire career convincing people love is some magical cure-all for life, which it’s not.”
I gasp.
“Come on. He might be an amazing jazz artist, but the picture he paints is a lie, without a doubt.”
“Oh my gosh, do you even like music?! You cannot hate love songs! They’re literally half the reason music exists! Do you hate puppies and butterflies, too?”
“Oh, please. They’re not even comparable,” he snorts. “And half the reason music exists is because people can’t figure out how to deal with their disappointments, so they just whine into a microphone and claim it’s art.”
I gasp in mock offense. “Whine? Excuse me, sir, but Frank Sinatra, Etta James, Whitney Houston! That’s not whining, that’s—”
“Romantic delusion set to a musical note,” he says matter-of-factly.
“Okay, I’m very close to classifying you as clinically insane, but I’ll settle for the clear fact that you’ve never listened to any song ever, so I’ll let you off the hook.”
He lets out a breathy laugh. “Whatever you say.”
We’re quiet for a second. Given his clear stance, I should probably drop it, but I’ve never been too good at that.
“You know, love songs aren’t just about love. They’re about beauty and hope.”
“Hope,” he scoffs, and for some reason, it makes my chest ache.
“Yes, hope. Hope is what keeps us going when everything else falls apart,” I start.
“When the world is dark and crumbling around us and the loss of it all feels like too much to bear, hope is like…” I pause, searching for the words.
“Like food for your soul. It’s the fuel. It’s a lifeline. People need it.”
He doesn’t answer right away, maybe considering if my words are true or just some fairy tale. Wishful thinking and pretty words, like the lie of a love song.
“That sounds nice and all, and honestly, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but that hope of yours is going to break you one day,” he says dryly. “Trust me.”
I purse my lips, deflated as I try to think of something to say to soften all those hard edges. I let the silence stake its claim over us.
Maybe some things are better left alone. Maybe some people are, too.
I follow the curve of the road away from campus to downtown, thinking deeply about love and loss and all the things in between. How sad it would be to live in a world without believing in the things that bring us the most joy.
“You really don’t believe in it, huh? Love and all that,” I ask softly.
He takes a deep breath, as if wavering on how much he’s about to share.
“I’ve just… I’ve been through it. It’s a rigged game. One person always walks away bleeding way more than the other, and it’s never worth it for the one who bleeds.”
I chew on my lip, trying hard to not say what I’m about to, lest I push him further than I need to. But the unfiltered version of me always speaks the loudest.
“So that’s what you lost? Not just hope, but love.”
His eyes snap to mine, guarded once again. “Who said I lost anything?”
My heart skips a beat at the depth in his eyes. At the chink in his armor I’ve knicked. I tear my eyes away from his, focusing on the road.
“I’ve been through loss before,” I tell him. “I know what it looks like.”
He studies me before his head tilts back onto his headrest, the silence between us thick and pressing.
I almost regret pushing him, almost wish I could pull the words back into my mouth.
But then I realize the most important truth of all: everyone has a story.
Everyone has a hurt they’re running from, a scar they guard like a secret.
He’s not any different, he’s just wearing it more boldly than others. His silence isn’t empty. It’s proof.
I don’t know what hurt him, and maybe I never will. Maybe I don’t need to. Maybe I can just help him let go of it so he can stop suffering the way he is.
I probably shouldn’t be bothered with cleaning up people’s messes, but for a reason I can’t explain, I feel like I’m supposed to help him.
I feel like I need to know this man in a way I never have, and I can’t escape the grappling need to be there for him.
To help him shake whatever it is that’s holding him under water.
To help bring back that smile I once saw from behind the counter of a café.
Or maybe this has nothing to do with him at all.
Maybe this is for me.
Maybe this is my redemption, giving life back to where it was stolen.