Page 16 of Muse (The Forbidden Hearts #1)

SOPHIE

S al shakes me awake, and I sit up with a jolt, rubbing at my bleary eyes. Sunlight slants through the sliding glass doors opposite her bed, stabbing into my pupils. It hurts.

“What the fuck?” My voice is thick with sleep, disoriented, until my gaze snags on the clock and I realize we are about to be late. Fantastic. Great start to a Monday.

“Come on! We gotta go!” Sal’s voice is frantic as she wrestles with a pair of jeans, yanking at the fabric like it’s personally wronged her. I almost laugh, seeing her fight for her life against the denim, but there’s no time for that.

I scramble out of bed and dive into her closet, rifling through the piles of clothes in search of something that’ll fit right.

We share clothes as much as we can, but not everything is flattering on both of our frames.

I settle on a pair of black, stretchy leggings and an off-white, fuzzy sweater, yanking them on as I hurry to her vanity.

My reflection isn’t kind. Dark circles smudge under my eyes, souvenirs from a night I’d rather forget.

I drag a brush through my hair, forcing it into submission, twisting it into a loose braid that falls down my back.

Rebel flyaways stick out in every direction, but there’s no time to be picky.

Whatever, it’ll have to do. A quick swipe of borrowed mascara, a dab of chapstick, and I’m done.

Sal is already grabbing her tote, cheeks flushed, her breath short from the whirlwind rush.

“Ready?”

I nod, snatching up my phone and keys, and follow her out. I realize my backpack is absent. I’d left it behind last night in my rush to escape. Oh well. I’ll have to do without today.

I wave to Sal as she hops in her car and I race to mine, throwing the car in reverse and backing out as quickly as I can, narrowly missing her mother’s rose bushes.

I drive like a bat out of hell, not eager to give my mother more reasons to punish me.

She has plenty after last night. Truthfully, I’m shocked she didn’t show up here like a lunatic, demanding I get my ass home.

A small mercy.

Sal and I arrive at just about the same time, only five minutes late for class. A win, all things considered. We race in together, flying through the halls and into Mr. Hayes’, Theo’s , classroom, collapsing into our seats.

He watches us from his desk, reclined in his chair with a coffee in hand, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world.

When our eyes finally meet, something flickers across his face…

regret? But it’s gone before I can pin it down.

I hadn’t even had time to dwell on our night together, but now the memory hits me like a train and anxiety sets in.

“Nice of you two to join us.” His voice is dry and dripping with sarcasm, and the class snickers like it’s the joke of the year. Ha-ha. Honestly, I expected better. Something more witty, a sharper quip. I let my disappointment show on my face. I hope he sees it .

“Thankfully, you haven’t missed anything—but don’t make a habit of being late to my class.”

Ah. Back to being a hard-ass. Got it.

“Yes, sir.” I say, syrup-sweet, biting my lip to stop myself from giggling when his jaw tenses. Sal stifles a laugh beside me.

Maybe that was a bit too bold. Oops.

He clears his throat and rises from his chair, sharp and controlled.

The fabric of his black trousers moves seamlessly as he moves to stand before us, tailored to perfection.

His dark blue dress shirt stretches taut around his biceps, the top button undone at his throat.

He looks handsome, too handsome, it’s just unfair.

But, honestly? I prefer him in sweatpants.

I picture him that way, daydreaming of seeing him so undone again.

If only.

He passes out papers to the class, circulating them through the rows of students, and I realize I’ve missed everything he’s said. When the stack reaches me, I take one and pass the rest to Sal. A poem. Great . I nudge Sal, seated next to me, texting furiously on her phone hidden under the desk.

I whisper, “What are we supposed to be doing?”

She doesn’t look up. “Read it. Underline anything that stands out.”

Oh, okay. Easy enough.

My eyes drop to the paper in front of me, reading the title— The Things We Dare Not Tell— by Henry Lawson. My breath hitches in my throat, the back of my neck prickling. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, but something about it…

I start to read.

The fields are fair in autumn yet, and the sun's still shining there,

But we bow our heads and we brood and fret, because of the masks we wear;

Or we nod and smile the social while, and we say we're doing well ,

But we break our hearts, oh, we break our hearts! for the things we must not tell.

I reread the lines, committing them to memory. The words sink their hooks into me. The masks we wear.

The lines feel personal, threading through the cracks of my carefully controlled world.

There's the old love wronged ere the new was won, there's the light of long ago;

There's the cruel lie that we suffer for, and the public must not know.

So we go through life with a ghastly mask, and we're doing fairly well,

While they break our hearts, oh, they kill our hearts! do the things we must not tell.

It’s beautiful, in a heart-wrenching way.

We see but pride in a selfish breast, while a heart is breaking there;

Oh, the world would be such a kindly world if all men's hearts lay bare!

We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well,

While they eat our hearts as the years go by, do the things we dare not tell.

We bow us down to a dusty shrine, or a temple in the East,

Or we stand and drink to the world-old creed, with the coffins at the feast;

We fight it down, and we live it down, or we bear it bravely well,

But the best men die of a broken heart for the things they cannot tell.

My skin prickles with goosebumps. For the first time ever, I find myself enjoying reading poetry.

The words on the page come alive, pulling out my innermost thoughts and feelings, laying them bare.

It’s powerful. I read through it again and again, underlining and starring the most relatable phrases, the ones that jump out at me most.

We live and share the living lie, we are doing very well…

This. It encompasses the way I feel, walking through life on a tight-rope, a false smile painted on my lips, playing the part I’m expected to play.

Forcing myself to comply with the expectations thrust upon my shoulders, too heavy for anyone to bear.

Some days, I think it’d be easier to just…

not. But then I do. I get up again, face the day, and keep pushing forward.

Because I know one day things will be brighter for me. One day, I will look forward to waking up in the morning. Or at least I hope that’s the truth.

The bell rings, snapping me back. I look up to find Sal still stuck with her phone in her hands. Not a single thing written on the page in front of her. She looks agitated, her leg bouncing restlessly under the desk, phone still clenched tight in her grip, fingers white.

“Hey—you okay?” I keep my voice low, not wanting to draw attention to us.

“I’m fine. Just Jace… being Jace.” She rolls her eyes nonchalantly, slipping her mask into place. I see right through it. I know her too well, but I leave it be. She’ll tell me more when she’s ready.

I pull her into a hug, giving her a tight squeeze. “Okay, well, I’m here if you need to vent.”

She gives me a small smile before heading off to her next class, leaving me alone.

Mr. Hayes clears his throat from the front of the room. When I turn in his direction, his dark, moody eyes lock onto mine. “What’d you think of the poem?”

“It was… heavy.” I say, exhaling long and slow. Not sure how much to give him, how honest to be about the way it made me feel.

“Mmm…” he nods thoughtfully, “I agree. I thought you mi ght find solace in the stanzas. Not everyone can relate, but those who do often carry the same self-awareness in their eyes.” His gaze lingers. “As you do.”

Something shifts in my chest.

“And you?” I ask timidly, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Yes,” he says, voice softer now. “I relate. It’s a favorite of mine for a reason.” A hint of a smile plays on his lips, that damn dimple appearing in his cheek again. He kills me.

We stand there in silence for what feels like minutes, but is likely much less.

“By the way, I showed your drawing to my friend Evelyn. The one who owns the gallery.”

My stomach flips.

“She was impressed, as I knew she’d be.”

My cheeks heat at the praise, and I just know I’m blushing wildly.

“She said she’d love to meet you. She has a gallery event this weekend. Saturday evening. It’s eighteen and up.” He pauses, watching me closely.

Is this a roundabout way of asking my age? I try not to read too much into it, but my mind loves to set itself up for failure.

“I’m eighteen. Almost nineteen.” My chin lifts automatically, and I internally cringe. I’m sure he doesn’t even care.

He chuckles, low and clearly amused. “Okay, then, almost-nineteen-year-old.” The smirk on his face makes me want to die. “It’s the Rosa Gallery in Decatur. Starts at seven. I’ll let her know you’re coming.”

Is… is he going to be there too? I want to ask, but my throat tightens and the words won’t come out. I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.

“That sounds amazing—I’ll be there.” I say, sounding far more confident than I feel.

This is huge. If I can get my foot in the door, maybe, just maybe, my parents will finally see the value in my art. Maybe they’ll finally believe in me. It’s foolish to hold onto that hope, but I do.

And even if they don’t, I think of how amazing it would be to be recognized by other artists.. To spend an evening playing make-believe, that I belong in a world of color and expression, not stifling expectations.

I realize I’m still standing here, staring at him. Heat creeps up my neck. I murmur a thank you and excuse myself from his classroom, pulse thrumming.

The excitement stays with me, buzzing under my skin, propelling me through the rest of the day.