I care for Riot more than I’d like to admit, and that kiss was better than I could have dreamed it—which I have many, many times over the past couple of weeks. I don't know if I love him back the way he says he loves me, but I’m as close as anyone could be.
And it’s not because he’s Riot Arden, the rock star. It’s because he’s wonderfully, authentically, Riot. Just Riot. But I just won’t let my heart love him. I know deep down it will just end in heartbreak, and I don’t want to do that to either of us. Dave would absolutely freak out if he knew I was sneaking out to take guitar lessons, and once he found out it was the infamous bad boy Riot Arden… it would all be over. I would never see the light of day again.
So I can't have Riot. I can’t have anything I want. Not really. Not for long. Not when every aspect of my life is so carefully controlled.
I climb through my bedroom window, but instead of going downstairs for a snack, I crawl into bed, looking at the ceiling and trying to blink away the steady pressure building behind my eyes. I’m trying to pull it together, to build the walls around my heart back up brick by shattered brick—but it’s no use.
I’m finallyfeelingsomething, and it’s all happening at once. Like a giant crushing weight on my chest, squeezing my heart while a serrated blade drags across my rib cage, the barbed tips pushing poison into my bloodstream. Fire sears behind my eyes, burning deep within my lungs with each shattered breath, until eventually, I’m not sure where I begin and the sorrow ends.
Still, I don’t cry. I can’t, though I wish I could. Maybe then I could release some of this awfulness brewing just beneath my skin, clawing to get out.
But I can’t. And so, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling and wishing things were different. Half an hour later, there’s a knock on the door. It takes me a few moments to convince my body to rise from bed, and when I finally open the door, no one is there.
There is, however, a shiny Honeycrisp apple sitting on a napkin just past the threshold.
A choked sob echoes in my throat, the pain behind my eyes growing tenfold. I crouch, wrapping my shaking fingers aroundthe apple, sending a silent thank you to the surly guard who left it. It’s both a gesture of kindness and a warning that Dave will be home soon—and I couldn’t be more grateful.
With a deep sigh, I make my way downstairs and sit at the piano. My fingers move over the keys in practiced harmony, playing the Ondine movement from Ravel’sGaspard de la Nuit—a song that’s included in my set next weekend.
I fly through the first act of the piece with ease, but then it changes, becomes something it’s not—was never supposed to be. It’s not a song anyone would recognize, nor one that will ever be repeated. It’s aching and lonesome, broken and soft, a song that comes from a place deep within the chasms of my soul. And it’s in that pit that I face who I’ve let myself become andfeel,when all I’ve been is hollow.
My fingers move, but I can no longer hear the melody filling the air. I can feel it though—pouring over my skin, flooding the air with a desperate yearning that matches the song in my heart.
A while later, Dave comes home, the air of negativity spreading throughout the house signaling his arrival. For a while, he stands in the living room, watching me play like a vulture watches a dying animal. He stays silent until I finish my song, but when the last note rings through the air, he clears his throat, signifying he needs my attention.
I turn in my seat, making sure to keep my expression schooled as I meet his cruel gaze. “Is something the matter?”
“Nope. Nothing at all.” He reaches a hand up to his jaw, scratching at the day-old scruff. “Just making sure you’re ready for tonight.”
“What’s happening tonight?” As far as I know, I don’t have a performance until next week.
“I’m having some business associates over for dinner. I want you to provide the background music while we eat.”
“Oh. I see.”
Instead of the numbness I’m accustomed to, a red-hot wave of rage flows through my veins, simmering just beneath my skin with pulsing, angry fire. Everything I’ve been suppressing for the past decade is bursting through the cracks in my armor, flooding the air and the room with blistering, violent cascades of emotion.
I want to ball up my fist and shove it full force into his smug face, to feel the crack of bone and rush of warm blood on my palm. But instead of that, I give Dave a strained smile and get up from the bench, not trusting my voice to respond appropriately.
I head back upstairs to get ready for the arrival of Dave’s friends, playing the part of the dutiful prisoner. On the inside, though, I’m reeling. I need to get out and away from Dave before I lose my mind and do something I’ll later regret.
I fall back on my door with a sigh, all my weight pressed to the sturdy wood while I attempt to gain control of my emotions. My eyes flit around my bedroom, looking at all the fine furnishings and the expensive piano sitting in the corner. Mine, but not. Nothing in this room—nothing in my life—belongs to me. Not really. Not anymore. Not sincehegot control.
I stare unblinking at my piano, at the keys worn down by use, trying not to scream as the emotion pours and pours, filling me up with nowhere to escape. No outlet.
For years, I lived in blissful numbness. I didn’t realize what I was missing—what I could have been fighting for instead of retreating further into my armor-clad shell.
Now that I’ve experienced a taste of freedom, a taste of Riot… I can’t go back.
I replay our interaction in the guitar shop earlier, and my chest clenches with grief.
He kissed me, told me he loved me, and I was so scared of the repercussions that I ran.
I couldn’t face it, couldn’t face him. Ijustdecided to try to reclaim some of my independence to see where things go withRiot. I never expected him to profess his love to me, and it shook me to my core.
Instead of light, my mind spiraled with all manner of dark thoughts. How someone would eventually find out about us. How Riot would be ripped away from me like everything else. How badly it would hurt to lose him. How it would destroy me.
He probably hates me now—he should, after what I pulled. But just in case he doesn’t…
