7. Nessa

He knows!

The weight of his knowledge presses down on me, suffocating me in uncertainty and fear. I'm not ashamed of who I am, but I like the way he looks at me. What will I see on his face when he looks at me now? Pity? Disappointment? I can't bear the thought. The idea of losing that look of admiration, the connection we shared—it's too much.

Lord, please don't let him look at me with pity, I beg, feeling the wave of nausea hit my stomach.

"Can you stop here?" I ask the Uber driver as I see the light of the art building still on. I keep forgetting that this party was for a select few and that life on campus is continuing.

He slows down, I don't hear what he says, and frankly, right now, I don't care. I just want a moment to myself. I don't want to face Eva's kindness or Poppy's concerned questions. I can't handle their well-meaning care, not when my emotions are this raw, this near the surface. I'm not ready to open up, to dissect the night and lay bare my vulnerabilities. Not yet.

I leave the car as soon as he stops. I just need to escape, to be alone with my spiraling thoughts. I quickly exit the car, the cool night air enveloping me as I head toward the building.

The art building stands quiet and inviting. Its silent corridors are a relief, a place where I can just be, away from the complexities of the evening. I don't even realize that I am walking to the dance part of the building, but I take it as a sign as the janitor exits a ballet room.

"Can I use it?" I ask him, and he only shrugs.

I walk into the ballet training room, immediately feeling at ease with its familiar setup. The floor is covered with smooth, cool wooden planks, well worn from use. A large mirror spans the length of one wall, reflecting the room's sparse interior. Opposite the mirror, there are several ballet barres fixed against the wall, their surfaces smooth from constant handling. The room has a simple, functional feel to it, marked by faint traces of resin in the air. It's a no-nonsense space, clearly meant for serious practice.

Slipping off my shoes, I savor the polished floor beneath my bare feet. I approach the barres, running my hands along its familiar surface. Closing my eyes, I rise onto my toes in demi-pointes, lifting my left leg into an arabesque penchée. My calves protest with a sharp pain.

With my eyes still shut, I surrender to the dance for the first time in four years. I move through a routine, oblivious to any rhythm. My muscles cramp and ache, but I push through, haunted by my mother's voice in my head.

It's time to let go of this childish dream, Vanessa.

I attempt a pirouette and stumble.

You're already too tall, Vanessa Claire, and now you're disabled. Stop wasting our time.

I pause, catch my breath, and look at my reflection in the mirror. My mother's words echo in my head, but now, in this moment, alone in the familiar embrace of the ballet room, I find a silent defiance growing within me.

Continuing to dance, each movement becomes a silent rebellion against the harsh words that haunted my past. As I twirl and leap, the shadows of cruelty cast by my family seem to loom over me. I remember my father's cold dismissal after I lost my hearing and started to rebel. You're just not the same person we raised.

With each jump, the harshness of their judgment fades into the background, replaced by the rhythm of my own heart. I recall the disdain in my sister's voice, "You're just the family embarrassment now, Vanessa."

My movements grow more intense, driven by a need to prove them wrong, to prove to myself that I am more than their narrow perceptions. Concentrating on how my body reacts to the movements instead of the events of tonight and all the messed-up events in my life makes me feel better.

Time blurs as I push myself, the dance becoming a raw expression of emotion. Eventually, my body screams for a reprieve as my dress, now damp with sweat, clings uncomfortably to my skin.

I pause, leaning heavily on the barre, my breathing ragged. As I catch my reflection—cheeks flushed with exertion, eyes bright with a mix of fatigue and clarity—a wave of realization washes over me. The Nessa looking back is the girl I used to be, one who found solace and expression in dance. Perhaps abandoning dance entirely was a mistake, not because it was a lost career path, but because it was a part of who I am—a part I loved deeply and sacrificed under the weight of my parents' demands.

With a heavy sigh, I acknowledge my confusion. Decisions can't be made in moments like this, overwhelmed by a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. It's a lesson learned in therapy, one that rings true now more than ever. I need to go home, sleep, and after that, all will be clearer.

I grab my phone, booking an Uber home. The ride is a blur, my thoughts still echoing with the cruel words of my family, now mixed with a sense of accomplishment and defiance.

Arriving home, I'm relieved to find the living room empty. I don't have the energy to face anyone. As I limp to my bedroom, every step is a reminder of the night's physical and emotional toll, but the muscular exhaustion feels almost blissful.

I collapse onto the bed, not bothering to change out of my dress. As soon as my head hits the pillow, exhaustion overwhelms me, dragging me into a deep, dreamless sleep. Despite the pain and fatigue, there's a sense of contentment. Tonight, in my own way, I danced away some of the shadows that have long haunted me.

Stirring from an uneasy sleep, I find myself waking up earlier than expected. The events of last night hover in my mind, leaving me uncertain about facing the girls, especially Poppy. I'm not sure how I can explain my sudden departure from the ball without giving her the whole story, but maybe this is what I need to do now.

My watch vibrates, and I grab my phone from the nightstand. It's a notification from the airline congratulating me on the purchase of my tickets and for the confidence I've placed in them to take me on this "exciting" journey. This turns my mood to a new low, especially with all the dark memories and cruel words that reopened barely-closed wounds.

"Exciting journey to hell." I snort as I sit—my muscles still ache from last night's much-needed session. I can't help but laugh at that. Not the kind of session I would have liked the night to finish on. I would have hoped for this ache to be caused by Liam's raw passion.

I get out of the dress and change into my flannel pajamas with bat prints before stumbling out of my room to the nice aroma of bacon, seeing Poppy opening the fridge.

"Who died?" I grumble, barely awake.

Poppy looks over her shoulder, a bit startled, a bottle of orange juice in her hand. "Died? Why would anybody be dead?"

She motions for me to take a seat. "Because I think it's the first time in three months that anyone is actually cooking anything."

I notice Eva, already dressed in her sophisticated ensemble, and I raise an eyebrow. "How come you're already ready? It's only eight thirty on a Saturday," I huff as I slump onto the counter.

"Yes, it's already eight thirty," she replies, and it's one of the times when I see Eva as being nineteen going on fifty.

Poppy hesitates, then says, "About last night," she pauses, probably trying to choose her words carefully," I think we need to talk."

It's too early for this. I'll need something far stiffer than coffee to spill my heart out.

I roll my eyes and pour creamer into my coffee. "I'm not sure we need to."

"I think we need to let it out. I?—"

Suddenly, there's a shuffle at the door. A worn envelope slips under it. Poppy reads the letter with a frown between your eyebrows.

I can't resist a jab. "Is that a love letter from Hawthorne?"

"Earth to Poppy." I snap my fingers in front of her face. She's lost in her thoughts. "You can't leave us hanging," I prod, curious despite myself.

Poppy waves a piece of paper. "It's for a rage room, booked for lunchtime. Can you believe it?" She looks at us. "Are you game?"

Eva seems unsure, but I'm already grinning. "Smashing stuff for free? I'm so in."

Poppy turns to Eva, who's hesitant. "I'm not sure…"

"Are you scared to let it all out?" Poppy jokes, but Eva's serious response kills the mood. "I'm not sure I'll be able to close the box if I do."

I put a comforting hand on her back. "That's exactly why you need to, Eva. Because we're here to help you close it again."

After a moment of silence, Eva nods. "Okay," she whispers, "let's do it."

And just like that, we're gearing up for a day of destruction and release. Something tells me this is going to be more therapeutic than any of us expect, and it will help keep my mind away from last night, or so I hope.

As we enter the rage room, my heart skips a beat when I spot Ethan, Liam, and Cole already there. The nervous anticipation in my stomach is quickly replaced by a different kind of excitement when I see Liam. His gaze meets mine, and there's no hint of pity or discomfort, only admiration and something deeper that makes my pulse race. It doesn't feel like he's looking at me as the deaf girl but as someone beautiful, someone who matters.

As the safety officer explains the rules, Liam moves to stand close to me, and it's nice to feel his quiet strength. My heart swells as I feel the back of his hand brush against mine.

I glance at him, and he winks at me, making me happier than I have been in a very long time.

"Hey," he says, his voice clear enough for me to read his lips easily. "Glad you could make it."

I smile, feeling a rush of happiness. "Wouldn't miss it," I reply, my heart fluttering at the way his eyes crinkle when he smiles back.

We pick up our weapons, and the tension from the night before seems to dissipate in this unconventional setting.

As I prepare to smash a vase, Eva slams her helmet down and swings with a wild, unrestrained fury, objects splintering beneath her wrath. I can't hear her cries, but the raw look on her face is laced with pain and claws at my soul.

I pull up my mask as I stand to the side, watching her with confusion.

Cole approaches. His expression is a carefully crafted mask of concern. "Angel…" He moves toward her gently, his hand slowly rising in an attempt to still her.

Angel? My brows knit together in confusion.

Eva's grip on the bat tightens, her entire body radiating fury. "Don't touch me," she snarls, swinging the bat with all her might. It slices through the air, stopping mere inches from him.

His reflexes save him, but the threat lingers in the air, charged and volatile. "Do not touch me. Ever again!"

His face morphs, turning almost primal and sending shivers down my spine. "I'll touch you if?—"

She swings again, her movements a chaotic dance of fury and despair.

Ethan steps forward, inserting himself between them. "Chill, bro," he murmurs, a hand resting on Cole's chest.

Cole slaps it away, his eyes ablaze with a dark fire. "You don't tell me what to do with her!" he spits, trying to peer around Ethan at Eva, who now sobs openly.

I rush toward her and encircle her with my arms, cautiously lifting her mask.

"No, but I won't stand by while you scare her," Ethan counters, his stance solid, protective.

Poppy looks at me. "Take the Cherry Bomb and drive her home. I'll be there soon."

I feel completely defeated, about to reveal my ineptitude at helping my friend when she really needs me. "I can't… I'm not allowed to."

"Ethan, move, or I swear to God—" Cole speaks through gritted teeth, his demeanor feral.

"Enough!" Liam slices through the tension, his helmet crashing to the floor. "Enough of this damn drama. No one needs it."

He steps forward, his hand caressing my shoulder, as Eva's cries, now heart-wrenching, are muffled against my chest. I feel so warm inside at his concern and the way he keeps my deafness secret from the others.

His expression softens, eyes tender. "Let me take you home."

I glance at Poppy, who nods reassuringly. "I'll take care of the car."

I nod to Liam, and he reaches down to carry Eva out of the room.

As Liam takes charge of the situation, his presence is both commanding and reassuring. He gently guides Eva, his movements both protective and caring. The intensity of the moment is palpable, and as I follow him, I can't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for his understanding and discretion about my deafness.

Outside, the air feels crisp and sobering. Liam's stride is steady as he carries Eva to the car, her cries now subdued into quiet whimpers. I walk beside him, my mind a whirlwind of emotions. This afternoon has taken a turn I never anticipated, revealing layers of pain and complexity in my friends that I hadn't fully understood before.

As we settle Eva into the car, Liam's touch is gentle, his concern evident in every action. He then turns to me, his eyes meeting mine in a silent exchange full of empathy and warmth. "Are you okay?" he asks, his words clear enough for me to lip-read easily.

I nod and sit in the back seat, resting Eva's head on my lap. It broke my heart to see my caring and loving friend break the way she did.

After a few minutes, Eva's sobbing stops, but she keeps her head on my knees, and I stroke her hair silently until we reach the building.

Almost as soon as we stop, Eva is up and out of the car. I throw a confused look at Liam and follow her to the building.

She turns briskly as she reaches the door, and I startle.

"Are you okay?" I ask, frowning.

She looks behind me, and I turn to see Liam still sitting in his car, probably waiting for us to go inside.

I can see the hesitation in her eyes, a mix of embarrassment and the need for solitude. "I—Do you think I could have a moment alone? I just…" She trails off, shaking her head.

I get it, the craving for some personal space, but my concern for her is stronger. "You sure you'll be okay?" I ask, not wanting to leave her feeling down.

"I'm fine, really. Just embarrassed, that's all. I just need a little time… please?" Her voice is earnest, pleading almost.

"You've got nothing to be ashamed of, you know. Everyone needs a break sometimes," I reassure her.

She gives a small laugh. "Yeah, I just wish it had been with fewer people around."

I roll my eyes playfully. "Who cares about them? We're your friends. But I get it. And you know what? We could use some drinks."

Eva lets out a surprised chuckle, and I can't help but feel a bit victorious. That smile is so much better than tears. "You do remember you're not twenty-one yet, right?"

"I know, I know." I gesture toward Liam, waiting patiently in his car. "But he is."

Eva tilts her head, considering. "You think he'd actually do it?"

I nod, confident. "There's more to Mr. Perfect than meets the eye. I bet he's got a wild side."

Decision made, I stride toward the car, tapping on the window. Liam looks up, surprised but attentive. "Hey, could you drive me to the liquor store? We need alcohol."

He raises an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Alcohol? Really?"

I nod. "Yeah, it's been that kind of day."

Liam smirks, a playful glint in his eyes. "Alright then, let's break some rules." He jerks his head, inviting me in, and I'm eager to spend more time with him, even if I'm trying to hide it.

"Breaking the rules, Mr. Perfect?" I tease, trying to shake off the heaviness of the day.

He chuckles as he starts the car. "Well, technically, in Europe, you can drink at sixteen or eighteen."

The drive to the liquor store is short, and I'm grateful because I'm usually super talkative, but with him, I sometimes fear saying the wrong thing. It frustrates me. I keep thinking he's just a guy, but is he, though? I glance at him. No, that's the problem. I already know he's not just a guy.

At the store, we both head in. Liam picks out a six-pack of beer while I beeline for the tequila, grabbing two bottles. "Margarita time!" I announce with a grin.

He looks at me, a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You sure you can handle that much?"

I flash him a confident smile. "Trust me, I'm a professional."

He shakes his head, motioning for me to put the bottles on the counter, and he pays the clerk.

As we head back to the car, I can't help but feel a little buzz of excitement. Maybe today won't be so bad after all.

When we get back to the apartment, I see that Eva's car is back, and I feel a little less hurried to go inside.

"How much do I owe you?" I ask as I grab the bag with the tequila bottles.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Consider it an apology for crashing your girls' time. I knew it was a bad idea."

"Why did you do it then?"

He seems taken aback by my question but recovers quickly. He sighs. "Because I didn't like how it ended last night. I didn't like that you ran away from me, and I can't really explain why. I just wanted to…" He lets out a little humorless laugh. "I don't know."

A sense of warmth floods my chest, an unfamiliar sensation of being genuinely cared for, something I'm not used to. "I just wish you hadn't found out that way," I say with a shrug. "It's not a huge deal."

Liam faces me, his hands starting to form signs before he hesitates. "I'm sorry, I don't know much sign language. I know BSL because my cousin is deaf, but not ASL," he admits.

"You learned BSL for your cousin? That's really considerate," I comment, surprised by his effort.

"It's just basic human decency," he responds earnestly. "He didn't choose to be deaf. Why should he have to adapt to my world if I don't try to understand his? That's what family is for."

A pang hits me as I mumble, "Mine didn't." I bite my lip, not intending to share so much, and notice Liam's expression soften with understanding.

"What I meant to say is, it doesn't change anything about you," he continues. "You're still… a wild rose."

"A wild rose?" I ask, raising an eyebrow with a faint smile.

"I—" He winces slightly, and warmth spreads through my chest again. It's a nice feeling but intimidating. How can I feel this connected to someone I hardly know? Yet, how can he show more consideration than my own family?

Impulsively, I lean in and kiss him. He stiffens in surprise, but instead of pulling away, his hand cradles the back of my head, transforming our tentative contact into a deep kiss. His lips move against mine with an intensity that sends sparks through my entire body. My arms wrap around his neck, drawing him closer, and I melt as he groans into the kiss, the heat between us intensifying.

Our mouths move in a dance of raw desire, his tongue exploring mine with an intoxicating blend of tenderness and assertiveness. The world outside our embrace fades into oblivion, leaving only the racing of my heart and the heat of his body against mine.

His grip tightens, pulling me impossibly closer. Every point of contact is electric, sending waves of heat through my veins. I respond in kind, my fingers tracing the contours of his neck, drawing a low, primal groan from him. His breath is hot against my skin, each exhale a whisper of unspoken need.

The kiss escalates, teetering on the edge of control. His lips trail down my jawline, igniting a trail of fire with every touch. My heart pounds against my chest, each beat echoing my growing desire. The air around us is thick with passion, each breath laced with longing and unbridled need.

He's not just the controlled, stoic man I thought he was; there's a depth of passion waiting to be unleashed. And I know, if this kiss is any indication, he could give me a night I'd never forget.

As we reluctantly part, breathless and dazed, I realize the depth of what we've just shared. This is no ordinary kiss; it's a promise of something more, something wild and uncontainable. My heart races with the thrill of it, the possibility of what could be.

I place my hand on his chest, feeling his rapid heartbeat. "I think we should stop," he says, his knuckles gently tracing my cheek, sending shivers down my spine. "This isn't the right place for what might happen if we don't."

A thrill courses through me at his words. Part of me wants to throw caution to the wind, but I know it's irrational—here, in the afternoon, in the middle of a busy parking lot.

I lean back in my seat with a sigh, the tension and desire still hanging thickly in the air between us.

"I should head back," I say with reluctance. A quick glance at Liam reveals his own struggle; his arousal presses against the fabric of his jeans, evidence of the intensity of our encounter.

He nods, a taut line to his jaw, his eyes dark with lingering desire. "We'll talk… soon."

A part of me wants to dive into the depths of what we've started. To explore this magnetic pull between us. "Yeah, we need to," I agree, my voice steady despite the chaos of emotions I feel.

His hand reaches out, his knuckles brushing my cheek in a tender, almost reverent gesture. "You're trouble, Vanessa Caldwell." His gaze is so intense it makes my stomach flip.

A playful smile dances on my lips. "The best things often are."

He laughs, shaking his head. "True words of a wild rose," he says, echoing my thoughts. "I'll see you soon."

Stepping out of the car, I embrace a newfound confidence. I walk away without a backward glance, holding on to my pride, even as my face betrays the depth of my feelings.

As I make my way back to my apartment, a realization dawns on me, both exhilarating and terrifying. I'm already addicted to him.