He pulled away, and his mouth tipped up in a rueful smile. “You still love me.”
She blinked. No. Somewhere along the way, love dried up. Along with her music.
His smirk taunted her. “You won’t stick to this, Kosh. That kiss told me everything I need to know.”
She wiped her mouth with shaking fingertips. “One kiss changes nothing.” She spun away and strode toward the dorm, furious at herself. She’d acted like a sickening fool.
Again.
She stomped to her room and locked the door behind her.
Then she locked the window.
Closed the blind.
Stood there, expecting tears to come.
And then flung her keys at the wall when they didn’t.
Kasia stepped into the bathroom and turned on the water, washed her face to cool it down. But the humiliation kept her cheeks blood-hot. It was over.
Finished. Koniec.
She wanted to slam her fist into her reflection and smash the glass. Why did he never listen to her? Was she that weak?
Probably.
If she could only be home, near Tatuś for his evening reading. Maybe she could soak in his strength. She dried her face and hung the hand towel on the rack, studied herself in the mirror. What if she got home and couldn’t even look her dad in the eye?
Her heart sank into her feet as a worse possibility hit her. What if those eyes—open and welcoming as home itself—shut her out? Saw who she’d become and turned away? If a pastor couldn’t keep his own household in order…
She flicked off the bathroom light and shut the door.
But what about Lenka? She and her little sister had always been so in tune, the two-year gap practically nonexistent. That didn’t have to change, right? When she got home, they could hike up to their rock as always, just sit and soak in the sunshine and fresh air.
Suddenly, the need for her sister’s voice overwhelmed her. Kasia grabbed the phone.
Lenka picked up right away. “Kosh! When are you coming home?”
Her heart warmed. “Three weeks. You almost done with school?”
“Yeah, summer’s not getting here fast enough. What’s up?”
The reason for the call slammed into her, and she buckled behind the weight of it. “I just broke up with Blake.”
“O jejku. Are you all right? Did he do something?”
“No, nothing different. I felt…niespokojnie.” The Polish word fit better than any English one she could drum up. She’d lacked peace, as much as she’d longed for it. That theme was the soundtrack to her life these days.
“How did he take it?”
Kasia went cold then hot again as she remembered the humiliation of their last kiss. “Not well.” She slumped. “But I probably should’ve handled it better.” Honestly? She deserved to be reamed out for the way she’d made a mess of the breakup.
“I noticed you didn’t say much this Christmas. Is this what it was?” Compassion sang out in Lenka’s voice.
“I guess.” Kasia chose a granola bar from her basket.
“What’d you tell him?”
“‘This is what the Lord wants.’ Sounds like a total copout, I know,” Kasia said. “I just had to get out.” Copout had been an accurate description at the time. But now—only fifteen minutes later—she meant it. If God wanted her away from Blake, wanted her attention for Himself, she would follow through.
“Think it’ll be weird at school with him, still?”
“Not if I don’t run into him. I plan to stay in lots.”
“But you’ll make a point of escaping sometimes, right?”
Kasia rearranged her desk. “I mean, I’ll probably go hang out off campus. I might go catch some live music at Common Grounds tonight.”
“The coffee shop where you used to play? On Fifth?”
Kasia blinked. “Yeah.”
“So I’ll come down and be your date. What time?”
“Lenka, you don’t have to—”
“Actually, why don’t you come home with me for church tomorrow?”
Uh, no thanks. Their church family meant well, but…Kasia wasn’t ready to go under the pastor’s-kid microscope just yet. “I’ve got too much to do. For school.”
“So what time do you head out?”
“Music starts at eight. Are you sure?” She could do this on her own.
Lenka was quiet a beat too long. “Sorry. Mom called me to help cook.”
“What’s for dinner?” Kasia picked a chocolate chip out of her bar and bit it in half.
“Pierogi, I think.”
Mama’s Polish dumplings were ultimate comfort food—Kasia’s favorite. “Lenka? If I ever ask you that again from my dorm room, feel free to tell me you’re having cereal or something.”
Lenka’s laughter got Kasia to smile again. “Right, when I said pierogi, I totally meant Choco Puffs. And I’m pretty sure they’re stale. I love you, nerd. I’ll call if I can’t come for some reason. Otherwise, see you in an hour or so.”
Kasia tore off a bite of her granola bar. It was all she’d get for lunch, because she wasn’t about to venture out to the food court and risk facing Blake. She brushed the crumbs into her hand and threw them away.
The neck of her twelve-string guitar peeked out at her from her the closet. She stood, rolled her neck, stretched her fingers.
The guitar felt cool and solid in her hands. She sat on her stool and fingered a G chord. Strummed. Whoa, that’s flat.
Kasia tuned it, thought of her songs. “Shelter.” “Empty Me.”
Nothing felt right. No melody or familiar chord progression surfaced. Instead, a nameless dread buzzed at the edges of her consciousness, and she couldn’t mute it. Why was she so rattled?
Kasia reached for her mp3 player, selected her indie playlist, and cranked it up. She’d just drown out the fear.
5
Adrenaline pumping through his system, Zan jumped to his feet and gripped the cool chain-link fence in front of him. A cold front had blown through early Saturday morning and perfected the weather in time for the final game in the conference tournament.
Bottom of the ninth, the title was within their grasp—but barely. Of course Firelli would be the batter. There was a full count on the freshman—three balls, two strikes, and two outs. If anyone could produce under pressure…
Zan clapped a few times as he shouted from the dugout. “C’mon, Firelli. You got this. Make it happen.” There was a significant part of him—the part that loved college ball, loved victory—that wanted Firelli to come through no matter what it cost him personally. The other part knew Firelli could seal his fate with this at bat, and he almost couldn’t watch it happen. But he buried the naysayer deep inside and concentrated on the game.
Fans shouted from the bleachers. “Keep it alive, Firelli.”
Firelli dug in, and the crowd stilled. Zan’s heartbeat thundered in his head.
The pitcher threw a low-breaking ball, and Firelli went with it. A metallic ping sounded as the bat made contact. The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
And there it was. Firelli nailed it. The ball smoked through the right-center gap. Kent scored from third, Adams from second. The crowd roared as Adams slid into home. Firelli was their new hero.
Zan swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth and rushed out to the plate with his teammates, allowed himself to get caught up in the rush of victory. Shouts, backslapping, cheers, and laughter culminated in a sweaty dog pile on top of Adams. East Coast Conference champions, again, and Zan was part of the team.
Sort of.
Adams knocked the bill of Zan’s cap down over his eyes and punched him in the shoulder. “Conference champions, Zan! You headin’ to the house for the party tonight?” He leaned over and spoke out the side of his mouth. “Heard there’s gonna be some good stuff.”
“What are you? Popeye? After a game like today, yeah. I’m thirsty.” He smirked. The sooner he could catch a buzz and forget about his life, the better. He’d fi
gure out what to do later.
If there was anything he could do.
Ever the good sport, Zan shook hands with the losing team and felt numb.
For about two seconds.
Then he spotted the perfectly coiffed blond hair of his brother-in-law. Suddenly, he was on fire. Michael Weston stood over the dugout, scanning the stands with a pair of binoculars. Hunting Bailey, no doubt. How good would it feel if his fist could connect with that wifebeater?
With one eye on Mike, Zan shook somebody’s hand. “Good game.” On to the next. “Seriously. Good game.” As he passed the last player, Zan stayed on the path only he could see. Straight as a baseline. Right over the wall and into the stands.
He was in front of Mike before the fool knew it. Zan itched to knock the spit out of him, balled up his fists. “You see her, man? I thought she’d be here for sure.”
Mike lowered the binoculars and pivoted toward Zan. They were dead level.
Zan clenched his teeth. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to watch you sit the bench, little brother. Hey, have you seen my wife?”
Zan’s hate could’ve been clocked at ninety miles per hour. He shoved Mike so hard the loser landed on a bunch of bystanders.
Mike shook it off and lunged back.
“Hey! Break it up!” Hands pulled at Zan from different directions. Well-intentioned but totally ignorant people yanked the two of them apart. They didn’t know—couldn’t know—what Mike was, or they would’ve all turned vigilante and helped Zan take him down.
“Zan! Buddy!” Adams picked his way through the mob. “Come on, man. Get outta here.” He pulled Zan away, back past the dugout, away from the face he wanted to shatter.
Away from Mike’s eyes. Eyes that mocked him and sneered at his sister.
Away from justice.
After the debacle, Zan needed to get lost. Needed his head to be anywhere but on Bailey and Mike.
Or the ball field.
He burned rubber out of there.
~*~
A night out for live music was an act of rebellion. Kasia had a bounce in her step.
Tonight was about her future—without Blake. Flanked by Lenka, stuffed with Mom’s homemade pierogi and cream, Kasia headed toward Common Grounds. “Dinner was awesome.”
“Glad I could deliver it, then.” Lenka’s smile shone brighter than the fading sun, and Kasia soaked in the warmth of it.
“Best pierogi ever.”
Lenka waved off the opinion. “You’ve been away from home too long.”
Kasia winced. She could forego the reminders of her truancy.
Downtown Huntington smelled like coffee, mesquite smoke, and a touch of diesel, courtesy of the city public transportation system.
They crossed the street and took the steps down into the alley entrance of Common Grounds. Muted lights and the warmth of the deep red stucco-and-brick walls welcomed them. A local guitarist provided the soundtrack as quiet conversations hummed in the air around them. The lyrics of his song were spiritual—not overtly Christian.
But Kasia wondered. Maybe God was reminding her He was with her. She inhaled the scent of fresh-brewed coffee and managed a half-hearted smile for Lenka.
Lenka pointed to the only open booth. They sidled over, squeezed between the other patrons.
As Kasia sat, her gaze settled on a thick and tattooed arm propped on a corner table.That guy from the music building. What was his name? He ran a hand through his shock of black hair and whispered something to the artsy raven-haired girl at his side.
She punched his arm and laughed.
He pointed at Kasia. “Hey. We had a class or two together, yeah?”
She nodded. “I think so. Music?”
“Right, right. I’m Jayce, short for Jayson. A.J.’s an art student, so ya might’ve missed her around campus.” Jayce had to be from Massachusetts. Absolutely no r in art.
“Kasia and Lenka.” She pointed a thumb at her sister.
Lenka rolled her eyes. “Lena, actually. Only family calls me Lenka—short for Little Lena. It’s Polish.”
“That’s cool,” A.J. said. “So, do you guys know Kyle or are you just out for coffee?”
Lenka mumbled something about wanting to know Kyle.
A.J. chuckled, her perceptive blue eyes amused.
“Sister date,” Kasia said. “But…we forgot our coffee.”
Serious fingerpicking drew her attention Kyle’s way.
Kasia studied her own fingertips—no longer callused. She shoved her hands in her pockets. Two years away from the stage felt like ages. She missed it all—the sound checks, the travel. The fade to black as the spotlight came up. She used to pretend the auditorium was empty, sing for her audience of One.
“So, Kasia. Music. Just one or two classes, or is that your thing?”
A.J. turned her chair to chat with Lenka about the music. Kyle’s gritty voice really did deserve the stage.
Freshman year, it’d been her major. “I don’t know what I’ll do with it now.” Kasia’s gaze jumped over the wide leather band on Jayce’s wrist and traced the curling lines of ink on his pale skin. She gave his thick northeastern accent a try. “You from Massachusetts?”
A half-smile crept up his cheek. “Yeah. Boston. The Southside.”
“Southie, huh?” That explained his accent, but not the Greek script in his tattoo.
“What do you know about Southie?”
“I saw Good Will Hunting and The Fighter.”
“A.J., you hear this?” His smile stretched the rest of the way.
“Thought it was perfect,” she said.
Lenka laughed and smacked her leg. “We should order something and not just sit here. Can you get me a mocha while I run to the back?” She nodded toward the restroom.
“Yep.” But as she neared the counter, the murmur of Common Grounds turned to white noise in her ears.
Blake.
She should’ve smiled, should’ve disarmed him somehow, but she froze.
“Starting over?” he asked.
“I…just…” Why couldn’t she ever think of what to say around him?
“Nah, it’s good. Making new friends and all.” The words apparently tasted like dirt.
Kasia dropped her gaze, away from all his intensity.
“Come outside.” She felt his fingertips on her face, but his touch made her shudder.
Her feet moved backward.
“Kasia.” His voice had softened. “Don’t do that. Don’t pull away.”
Her mouth opened, but she was mute. She cast a quick glance toward the table but couldn’t see Lenka. Jayce and A.J. were focused each other.
“Outside.” Blake’s vise grip on her elbow maneuvered her out the door and up the alley steps.
Her breath left, along with her confidence.
Outside, the night swallowed the music. They moved down the street toward his Daddy-only-buys-me-the-best custom sports car. The one mercy was that he’d parked right under a streetlamp.
“Sit with me a minute.” He gestured toward the passenger door.
Absolutely not. Light-craving insects whizzed around her head, but she remained under the lamp.
Blake ground the heel of his hand against his eye. “Please?”
Guilt hit her like a gust of wind. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. Like he was broken.
He cleared his throat. “I need to apologize.”
“For?”
“For whatever I did to make you so mad. There’s got to be some real reason you broke up with me. I mean, we went from perfect to nothing. No warning.”
No warning? Did he really believe what they shared was perfect?
He tugged on his collar. “You yanked the rug out from under me, and I…well, I think you owe me a chance to say something.”
The weight of his accusation settled on her shoulders. “Fine.” She met his eyes. “Say something.”
Blake opened the car door, and she tensed. But he pulled out
a bouquet of yellow roses.
Her favorite. She bent to smell them before she realized how weak it would appear. She straightened, lifted her chin.
Blake tossed the flowers on the hood and leaned against it, shoulders slumped, as people meandered past. How could one person appear so miserable? She pulled both lips between her teeth, waited.
“Kasia, do you remember how happy we used to be?”
She dipped her head.
“Don’t you miss this? I wanted us to have forever, you know?”
“I don’t think I did.” She rubbed a hand over her elbow.
“No?” He pulled a picture from his pocket, thrust it at her. “Look at us.” The photo, worn around the edges, bore a slight imprint from a frame.
She knew that picture, the night they’d walked the Kearnsey Creek Trail to get pictures of the autumn foliage. They’d been together six months. Blake called a hiker over to get a picture of the two of them. He’d wrapped his arms around Kasia and pressed his cheek to hers, whispered, “You’re everything.”
Her heart had been so full it ached. In love. There were no other words for it. It ached again. For all that could’ve been, if he’d just—if she’d—
“C’mon, Kasia. What happened to us?” Irritation laced his voice. He stood.
Dissonance replaced the harmony in her mind. She handed the picture back. “I don’t know, but I settled things, and I’m not going back on it. I promised God a lot once—myself, my music, my whole life. I owe Him all of me.”
He laughed. “Your music. When was the last time you sang or played anything?”
She snapped her head his direction. “Maybe that’s my point.”
“You made promises to me too, as I recall.” He leaned in and whispered against her ear.
Shame sapped her indignation. Jesus couldn’t really forgive all that. She stepped closer to the streetlamp—wished she felt more light than shadow.
He grabbed her arm. “I didn’t follow you here so I could be left standing like an idiot again, Kosh. I asked you to come outside and talk.” So much pressure on her wrist bone.
“But you did follow me here.” His grip felt like a nail piercing her joint. “Blake, I am trying to start over. Just let me.”
“Starting over without you is—worthless to me. I want you.” Blake’s grip was relentless.
Strains of Silence Page 4