"Rachel, please—" He reaches for me, but I shift away.
"No. I won’t stand here and watch you choose his version of you over the real thing. I can’t.” My voice catches. He stands in a pool of moonlight, gleaming like something ethereal, something just out of reach. "I love you enough to let you go, Grant. I just wish you loved yourself enough to stay."
For a long moment, he stands still, and then his face falls into the shadows. "I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you."
"I know," I whisper, the words tasting like ashes in my mouth. "But it does anyway."
"Just give me a few months. I'll appease my father, write the donation check, and?—"
"Stop." The word is barely audible, but he flinches at it. "I already told you I don't want your money. I don't want you to 'appease' your father until he lets you off your leash. You're lying to yourself if you think that plan will ever work. What I want is for you to fight. For you to believe you're worth fighting for. To know that there's a path where you can follow your dreams, and I'd walk with you on it." My voice falters. "But you don't, do you?"
He stands there, silent, and in his silence, I hear everything I need to know.
"Goodbye, Grant."
Our shoulders brush as I walk past him and leave the room. It's only when I've reached the outside air that I realize I'm not even tapping out my usual rhythm.
The warm night air hits my face, the scent of the ocean filling the space between us as distant waves crash against the shore. But for the first time in what feels like forever, there's no music in my head. No steady beat keeping me grounded. Just silence—the same kind of silence that fills the space in the music room, where Grant and I were supposed to be writing a different story.
I guess not all fairy tales have happy endings.
Rachel
There's something about bakeries at dawn that makes even heartbreak smell sweet. The Whimsical Whisk hums with early morning energy when I slip through the door. The bell's cheerful jingle feels like mockery against my mood. My fingers tap against my thigh, but even the familiar rhythm feels hollow.
Mia sits at a corner table, two steaming mugs already waiting. She takes one look at my face and opens her arms.
"Oh, honey," she whispers as I collapse into the hug. "That bad?"
I can only nod against her shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of old books and lavender that always clings to her cardigans. Behind the counter, Ethan and Zoe work in seamless tandem, sliding trays in and out of ovens.
The Whimsical Whisk is usually a place of comfort—a haven painted in hunter green, filled with the warm, heavenly scent of baked goods. But this morning, even the comforting aroma of cinnamon and brown sugar can't ease the ache in my chest. Each breath feels like inhaling glass.
Last night plays on repeat in my mind, like a song stuck on an endless loop—Grant standing in the music room, his eyespleading, even as his words shattered everything between us. The way his voice broke onI love youright before he chose his father's path anyway. How empty my cottage felt last night.
I hadn't slept more than a couple of hours. Instead, I spent the time packing his things into a box. I'll deliver it to him later—when I know he won't be home. Maybe it's the coward's way out, but my heart can't face him again. Can't face what we had, what he refused to fight for.
"I thought I could do it all," I finally manage, pulling back to wrap my hands around the mug Mia pushes toward me. "Save the program, fall in love, be everything to everyone." My voice catches. "Stupid, right?"
"Not stupid." Mia's eyes are gentle. "Human."
The coffee's steam swirls in patterns. I try to force myself to be present here, to smell the bread baking and breathe in the coffee's rich scent. To not think about Grant in the music room, moonlight in his hair. Grant at my cart, tasting rainbow ice for the first time. Grant saying he loves me, but realizing it wasn't enough.
"I need to show you something." I pull out the latest estimate from my bag and drop it on the table. "The board did another inspection of the band room. The ventilation system needs a complete overhaul—something about mold risks. And the electrical isn't up to code anymore."
Mia's eyes widen as she scans the numbers. "Seventy-five thousand? But that's?—"
"More than double what we originally thought we needed." I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob. "We've barely raised the first half, and summer's almost over."
"Rachel." Mia takes the papers, her fingers denting into the edges. "I so want to be optimistic right now, but this is bad."
My gaze slips to Ethan and Zoe. He's icing a cake, and she's spinning the turntable, teasing him about his 'piping baghandling skills.' A flush colors his cheeks as he laughs. The bakery is warm and cozy, their relationship easy—everything my life used to feel like before budget cuts and building codes and Grant Pierce walked onto my beach with his perfect ice cream spirals, long piano fingers, and dreams.
"I know." I wrap my hands tighter around the mug, willing the warmth to reach the cold place in my chest that's appeared overnight. "They say the ventilation system is shot. Because of the mold risk, they won't even let us use the room without the upgrades now. It hasn't spread to the rest of the building, but they're considering closing that wing of the school down for now."
"Have you slept at all?"
"A few hours." I take a sip of the coffee, letting the magic melt into my veins. It has a touch of pick-me-up, a bit of sparkle and sunshine. It barely reaches my fuzzy brain and broken heart. "Grant and I…" I shake my head and sniffle.
