Page 14

Chapter fourteen

Breaking Point

T here are exactly seventeen different ways to organize Victorian medical tools, but only one way to completely shatter trust: start believing the whispers you've been trying to ignore.

I was reorganizing the museum's dental collection for the third time that week (definitely not because it gave me a perfect view of hockey practice through the window) when Sarah Thompson walked in. She moved with the kind of grace that suggested she'd never accidentally assaulted anyone with historical artifacts, and her smile had edges sharp enough to cut.

The music building was just across the quad, and I'd seen her there often enough to know her reputation – brilliant pianist, guaranteed symphony spot after graduation, the kind of talent that made other musicians quit in despair. She wore confidence like designer perfume and carried herself like someone who'd never doubted her place in the world.

"Sophie Chen," she said, saying my name like a diagnosis. "Just the person I was looking for."

Don't panic. Just because she's Jack's ex doesn't mean anything. Just because she's gorgeous and poised and probably never color-codes dental tools—

"The museum's closed for cataloging," I said, clutching a Victorian-era tooth key like a shield. The metal felt cold against my palm, grounding me in reality even as my world started to tilt.

"Oh, this won't take long." She perched on the edge of a display case with casual disregard for museum protocol. Her perfectly manicured nails traced patterns on the glass, making my curatorial soul cringe. "I just thought you should see something. Before you get in too deep."

Through the window, I could see the hockey team finishing practice. Jack was leading cool-down drills, his captain's C visible even from this distance. He moved with the same grace Sarah had, but different – all power where she was precision, strength where she was delicacy.

Stop watching him. Stop noticing things. Stop pretending you belong in his world when girls like Sarah exist—

She pulled out her phone, scrolling through images with practiced efficiency. "Jack has a pattern, you see. He likes projects. Girls he can 'reform' for. Last year, it was me – the music major, who got him interested in classical compositions. He spent hours at my rehearsals, learned every piece I played, and even wrote poetry about Chopin."

My hands tightened on the tooth key.

"Before that, Emma, the artist who had him sketching between practices. He filled notebooks with drawings of her work and quoted art history like he'd studied it all his life. And Kendra taught him French." Her smile sharpened. "And now you, with your Victorian literature and medical history. Tell me, has he started writing poems about dental tools yet? Quoting medical texts like they're love songs?"

Don't listen. Don't think about how perfectly they probably fit into his world. Don't imagine him discussing music and art and French with girls who don't trip over their own feet. Don't remember how he quotes Victorian literature like poetry, how he handles rare books like treasures, how he makes medical history sound like romance—

"That's not—"

"Here." She held out her phone. "His texts from when we were together. Notice anything familiar?"

I shouldn't have looked. I should have cited museum policy about personal devices near artifacts. Should have remembered all the moments that proved Jack was more than his reputation. Should have thought about the way he looked at me in moonlight, how he defended me to Kendra, how he showed me parts of himself he claimed no one else had seen.

But I looked.

The texts were like echoes of our own conversations. The same thoughtful analysis. The same hidden intelligence revealed slowly. The same gradual transformation from bad boy to something more.

"'The way your fingers move over piano keys reminds me of poetry in motion,'" I read, the words burning my throat. "'Like Keats set to music.'"

"He's good, isn't he?" Sarah's voice was almost sympathetic. "Making each girl feel special. Like she's the only one who sees the real him, I bet he quotes poetry to you, too. Probably writes some. Very romantic."

Don't remember how he looks in the moonlight while quoting Keats. Don't think about the poems his grandmother mentioned. Don't recall how he writes about Victorian medical practices like they're sacred texts—

"You don't know him," I said, but my voice wavered.

"I knew him well enough to recognize the pattern." She stood, smoothing her perfectly cut skirt. "He'll play the misunderstood intellectual for a few months. Then the playoffs will end, scouts will make offers, and suddenly the whole reformed bad boy act won't be necessary anymore."

She headed for the door, each click of her heels against the floor like another crack in my carefully constructed world. At the threshold, she paused.

"Check his texts around midterms last semester. When he was supposedly too busy with hockey to see anyone? He was actually helping me practice for my senior recital. Old habits die hard, I guess." Her smile was perfect, practiced, poisonous. "But I'm sure it's different with you. I'm sure he really means it this time. I'm sure he's not just adding dental tools and medical history to his collection of conquered interests."

The door closed behind her with a soft click that sounded like breaking glass.

I stared at the dental tools in my hands, their familiar shapes suddenly strange. Everything felt off-kilter, like someone had rearranged my carefully organized world while I wasn't looking. The Victorian medical displays that usually brought me comfort now seemed to mock me – artifacts of another time, another life, another girl who thought she was special.

Practice must have ended because Jack appeared in the doorway, still in his workout clothes, hair damp from the shower. He looked exactly like the boy I'd fallen for – the one who made me believe in impossible things.

But now I couldn't help wondering how many other girls had seen this same version of him. Had he looked at Sarah this way while discussing Chopin? Had he smiled at Emma like that while analyzing art? Had he touched Kendra's hand the same way while practicing French?

"Hey," he said, moving closer. "You okay? You missed practice. Usually, you're pretending not to watch while reorganizing the same shelf fifteen times."

The teasing note in his voice, once endearing, now felt like sandpaper on raw skin. "Did I?" My voice sounded distant. "I thought you'd be busy. With Sarah's recital practice, maybe?"

He went still, that athlete's instinct for danger kicking in. "What?"

"Interesting conversation with her just now. Very enlightening. About patterns and projects and girls who think they're special." I set down the dental tools with exaggerated care. "Tell me, do you have a system? Pick a girl, learn about her interests, play the misunderstood intellectual until you get bored?"

"Sophie—"

"Or is it more organic than that? Do you actually convince yourself each time that it's real? That each girl is different? That you're not just trying on personalities like hockey jerseys?"

"That's not—"

"Did you write poetry about Chopin the same way you write about Victorian medicine? Did you sketch Emma's art with the same passion you show for medical history? Did you—"

"Stop." His voice was sharp. "Just stop. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" These texts seem pretty clear. 'Your music speaks to parts of me no one else sees.' Sound familiar? Or how about this one: 'You make me want to be more than my reputation.'"

My laugh was bitter. "At least you're consistent. Do you keep a file of romantic lines for each type of girl? Art quotes for the painters, music metaphors for the musicians, medical references for the—"

"That's enough!" He moved forward, but I stepped back, putting more distance between us. The hurt in his eyes looked real, but then, everything about him had seemed real until now.

"Why? Hitting too close to home? Or just not used to girls figuring out the pattern?"

"You think you've figured it out?" Now he was angry too, that dangerous quiet anger that was worse than shouting. "You think you understand everything based on some texts Sarah showed you? Did she mention she was the one who ended things? That she couldn't handle dating someone who might choose hockey over music?"

"Oh, so it's her fault? Like it was Emma's fault? And Kendra's? Always the girls' fault that poor misunderstood Jack Morrison can't maintain a relationship?"

"You know what?" He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture I once found endearing. Now, it just looked like another practiced move. "Maybe it is my fault. Maybe I do get too invested. Maybe I do try to understand what makes people passionate about things. But at least I'm not hiding behind rules and regulations because I'm too scared to admit I might actually feel something real."

The words hit like a physical blow. "Don't you dare—"

"Dare what? Point out that you've been looking for an excuse to run since this started? That it's easier for you to believe I'm playing some elaborate game than admit you might actually matter to me?"

"Like I mattered during midterms?" The words tasted like ashes. "When you were too busy with hockey to see me but had plenty of time for Sarah's recital?"

He flinched. "That was—"

"Let me guess. Not what it looks like?" My voice cracked. "You know what the worst part is? I actually believed you. All those late nights in the museum, all those conversations about literature and history, all those moments when you seemed so genuine. I really thought I was different."

"You ARE different!" The words exploded out of him. "You think I spend hours researching Victorian medical practices for fun? Do you think I write about dental tools because they're part of some master plan?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." I picked up a surgical catalog from 1856, running my fingers over its worn leather cover. "I used to think I knew you. The real you, not the campus bad boy or the hockey star. But now..."

"Now what? Would you rather believe Sarah's version? The one that makes me into some kind of calculating player, collecting girls' interests like hockey trophies?"

"Your texts—"

"Were real!" He strode forward, closing the distance between us. "Every damn one of them. Yes, I cared about Sarah's music. Yes, I appreciated Emma's art. Yes, I learned French with Kendra. Because that's who I am, Sophie. I get invested. I care. I try to understand what makes people passionate about things."

"And then you move on."

"Is that what you think this is? Some kind of, what, cultural tourism? Sampling different interests until I get bored?"

"Isn't it?" My voice was barely a whisper now. "The reformed bad boy act, the gradual revelation of hidden depths, the poetry that just happens to perfectly align with each girl's interests..."

"You want to talk about acts?" His laugh was harsh. "What about your perfect student act? Your 'everything must have rules' facade? Do you think I don't see how you use those rules to keep people at a distance? How you hide behind academic protocols because you're scared of letting anyone close enough to matter?"

The words hit home with devastating accuracy. "That's not—"

"Not what? Not true? You made a rulebook for us, Sophie. An actual laminated rulebook. Because God forbid something happen that you can't categorize and control."

"Better than pretending to be something I'm not!"

"You mean like pretending you don't care? Like you're doing right now?"

"I'm not the one with a history of playing roles!"

"No, you're just the one too scared to admit this might be real!"

The words echoed through the museum, bouncing off glass cases and Victorian implements. We stood there, breathing hard, surrounded by artifacts of medical history and our own breaking hearts.

"Real?" My laugh was sharp enough to cut. "Was it real with Sarah too? With Emma? With Kendra? How many girls have thought this was real, Jack?"

"At least they gave me a chance to explain!"

"Explain what? How you're different with me? How I'm not just another girl you're pretending for?" The tears were coming now, hot and angry. "Save it for your next project. I'm sure she'll find your reformed bad boy act very convincing."

He flinched like I'd struck him. "Is that really what you think of me?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." I turned away, unable to look at him. "Maybe Sarah's right. Maybe this is just what you do – find girls who are passionate about something, learn enough to make them feel understood, then move on when it stops being interesting."

"Sophie." His voice cracked on my name. "Look at me."

I didn't. Couldn't.

"Fine." The word was quiet, defeated. "Believe what you want. It's easier that way, isn't it? Safer to think I'm just playing a role than to admit this might actually mean something."

"Jack—"

"You want to know the real difference?" He moved to the door, his hand resting on the frame. "They saw parts of me. Pieces I thought they'd like. But you... you saw all of me. The hockey player who reads poetry. The bad boy who loves literature. The guy who's trying to figure out who he is beyond everyone's expectations." His laugh was hollow. "My mistake was thinking you'd be brave enough to let me see all of you too."

The door closed behind him with a finality that echoed through the empty museum.

I stood there for a long time, surrounded by Victorian medical tools that suddenly felt like artifacts of a different kind of history – the kind you couldn't put in display cases or catalogs with careful labels.

The kind that left scars.

Later that night, I found a book of poetry in my bag – the one his grandmother had slipped me at the game. Inside was a note in Jack's familiar handwriting:

"Some things are worth the risk. Some people are worth being real for. Some stories don't need roles or acts or pretense. Just truth. Just us."

Below it, I found a poem dated three days ago:

***

"In museum light, she catalogs history,

Each artifact carefully placed,

Like the pieces of herself, she shares

One careful measure at a time.

I want to tell her she doesn't need Rules to make her real,

That some things can't be categorized,

Like the way she looks at old books,

Or how she makes me forget every role I've ever tried to play."

***

I closed the book before I could read more and before I could let myself wonder if maybe I'd just destroyed something real in my rush to protect myself from something fake.

But the words followed me home, echoing like heartbeats:

Some things are worth the risk. Some people are worth being real for. Some stories don't need roles or acts or pretense.

Just truth. Just us. Just broken.

And maybe that was the real tragedy – not that he might have been pretending, but that he might have been real all along.

And I'd been too scared to believe it.