Chapter 18 Watching me
Sunday is usually the only day I allow my brain to flatline, but today, sleep is a luxury I can’t afford.
I’ve put this off for two days. The headspace I was in....somewhere between homicidal and dangerously turned on....wasn't exactly "soothing Vivaldi" material. You can’t play for a room full of grandmothers when your mind is a wreck of whispered threats.
I push open the heavy oak doors of the Evergreen Manor, the scent of lavender and antiseptic immediately settling over me. I’m carrying my violin case with a protective, white-knuckled grip. I’ve had this thing for years. I like keeping it close. Not in a dramatic tortured-artist way or anything.
I've carried it across half the city. Back of buses. Tiny apartments. Loud clubs where it definitely doesn’t belong. Feels grounding....like home. Like the one thing in my life that actually makes sense.
I try to come here every week. Actually, a few places like this. It started kind of randomly years ago, one of those ‘I’ll try it once and see how it goes’ things, and somehow turned into a routine.
Not to brag or anything, but the old folks love me, I’m kind of a celebrity in this building. Apparently I’m a real hit with the eighty-plus demographic.
"Look what the cat dragged in!"
Meg, one of the head caregivers, looks up from her clipboard with a wide, maternal grin. "Two days late, Kaden Winters," she scolds, though she’s already ushering me toward the common room. "Mrs. Higgins was convinced you’d been kidnapped. They were about to form a search party."
"Just got caught up in some....stuff. You know how it is." I say, flashing her a tired but genuine smile
"I know you look like you haven't slept since the lunar eclipse," she whispers, patting my arm. "They’ve been restless all morning."
We walk down the hall together toward the main lounge. The room is already full. A bunch of the residents are sitting in their usual cluster of armchairs and wheelchairs, sunlight spilling through the tall windows and pooling across the carpet. Someone’s playing a low game show on the TV in the corner, but the moment a few of them notice me walking in....
“Oh!”
“Kaden’s here!" Mrs. Gable chirps, her eyes brightening behind thick spectacles. "I told you he wouldn't leave us for a younger crowd, Martha."
"I’d never," I say, walking into the center of the room with a playful bow. I start unlatching the case. "The 'younger crowd' doesn't have half the style this room does.”
More heads turn. Faces light up. It’s honestly a little ridiculous. I lift a hand in greeting.
“Ladies,” I say smoothly.
A couple of the older women practically beam. Mrs. Alvarez, who is ninety if she’s a day, pats the empty chair beside her like she’s inviting me to sit and spill tea. “Oh honey,” she says, eyes twinkling, “we thought you forgot about us.”
“Impossible,” I tell her. “Where else would I find such an appreciative audience?”
There’s a chorus of amused chuckles. One of the men scoffs good-naturedly. “Flattery,” he mutters. “He thinks we’re easy.”
I shrug.
“Well, you are.”
More laughter. I rest the violin case against my leg, already feeling some of the tension from the last couple of days ease out of my shoulders. Mrs. Alvarez squints up at me thoughtfully. “You look tired.”
“Rude,” I reply immediately and she just laughs. Meg leans against the doorway watching as I tuck the violin under my chin.
“You’re their favorite, you know,” she says casually.
I raise an eyebrow. “Please, I’m pretty sure that title belongs to the guy who brings the pudding cups.”
Mrs. Alvarez waves a dismissive hand. “You’re much prettier than the pudding man.”
The room erupts in amused chuckles.
I shake my head, smiling as I raise the bow. “Alright. What’re we in the mood for today?”
It’s easy here. There are no power plays, no hidden agendas, no hungry blue eyes tracking my every move like I’m something interesting enough to dissect.
The first note slips out gently, the bow gliding across the strings like it already knows the path better than I do. And just like that, the world narrows. The room fades into that warm hush I’ve grown used to here, the way people settle when they know something soft is about to fill the air.
My breathing slows.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, my brain stops sprinting. It’s strange realizing that. How long it’s been since I actually paused long enough to feel anything. The past couple of months have been a blur. Work. Auditions. Modeling calls that disappear as quickly as they appear. Nights behind the bar. Days pretending I’m not running on fumes.
Aaron....
The thought pushes in before I can stop it. Five months.
Five fucking months of dinners and conversations and that easy feeling of thinking maybe, just maybe, you’re not being completely stupid for trusting someone again. Then one day he’s just gone. Along with a little over five grand from my savings account.
Five thousand dollars.
I drag the bow across the strings a little harder than intended before easing the pressure again.
God. It still makes my jaw tighten when I think about it. The betrayal is bad enough. But the money? That one stings in a very practical, very annoying way. Especially when Josie’s already covering more than half the rent lately because her content’s doing a lot better.
I haven’t even told her. She thinks Aaron and I just ended things. One of those calm, adult, ‘we realized we weren’t right for each other’ situations. Which would almost be funny if it weren’t so pathetic.
The melody softens again under my hands. The violin has always been good at absorbing whatever I don’t feel like explaining out loud.
Frustration...Embarrassment. That quiet little humiliation of realizing you got played. The music holds it for me, stretches it out into something slower. Something less sharp. The room stays completely still while I play. It always does.
Eventually, the last note fades into the air, dissolving into the soft light spilling through the windows. For a moment, nothing happens. The room stays perfectly silent....then the clapping starts. Soft at first.
Then louder.
I open my eyes, lowering the violin with a crooked smile.
“Please, no flash photography,” I say, giving a small, theatrical bow. “Autographs will be available in the lobby.”
A few of them laugh. Mrs. Alvarez actually wipes at her eyes before joining the applause again. I grin and glance toward the doorway where Meg had been standing earlier. Still smiling. Still riding that easy warmth that always follows playing here.
Then I freeze.
Because today....
Today I was supposed to rest. Today I was supposed to forget about those blue eyes. But apparently the universe finds that idea hilarious.
Because there he is.
Leaning casually against the doorframe like he belongs there. Tailored suit. Perfect posture. That composed, infuriating stillness that makes it look like the rest of the world is moving too fast around him.
Bastian.
He’s clapping slowly, not loudly. Not mockingly either. Just watching me. His expression is unreadable, which somehow makes it worse. My stomach drops. And I can’t help wondering, not for the first time, what cosmic crime I committed for the universe to keep doing this to me.