Etching Our Way (Broken Tracks 1)

“Okay,” she says, her voice turning way to serious for a five-year-old.

She moves closer to the rails, pointing to a pair of dark blue jeans. “Those.” Then she crosses the room, opening up several drawers before pulling out a gray t-shirt. “And this.”

I pull the jeans down and take the t-shirt from her outstretched hand, watching her as she walks over to my shoe section and pulls down my dark brown, leather combat boots.

“Thanks, pumpkin.”

“That’s okay, Daddy. Boys aren’t good at choosing clothes.” She smiles wide and then skips out of the room, singing as she goes and leaving me standing here with my mouth open wide.

I shake my head and go into my adjoining bathroom, pulling off my sweatpants and white t-shirt and then pulling on the clothes that Izzie picked out for me.

Once I have my socks and boots on, I turn to face the mirror that covers the whole wall above the vanity and try to tame my hair into submission. I wet it and apply a little product and then wash my hands, spinning around and making my way to Clay and Izzie’s rooms, telling them goodnight and kissing them on top of their heads before I walk downstairs and into the kitchen.

“They’re both in bed,” I tell Amelia. “Clay will probably read for another hour but you’ll have to go in there and tell him to put his book down otherwise he’ll read all night. Make sure all of his lights are on and you need to leave his door halfway open. Izzie will be out like a light by the time you go up.”

I fidget on the spot. She has a smile spread across her face and a twinkle in her eyes as she watches me. “I know, Tris.”

“Sorry. Habit,” I huff and shake my head. “I’ll be back around ten thirty.”

“No rush,” she says before I turn my back and walk out of the kitchen, grabbing my keys off the table by the front door and heading to my car.

My stomach flutters with a thousand butterflies on the way to the studio, my palms sweating as I grip the steering wheel. Why am I so nervous? It’s only Harmony.

But that’s the thing, it’s Harmony. The woman who I loved with my entire body and soul; the woman who made me feel like the real me, not the version of me that has existed since. The same woman who only a week ago all of my anger was directed at.

What changed? What made all of the anger fizzle away into nothingness? I have no idea.

I pull up outside of the studio and put the car in park, counting to ten and trying to get my nerves under control before pushing the door open and sliding out.

I walk up the path that leads to the studio, taking a deep breath and then pushing the door open before stepping inside.

I frown at what’s in front of me: rolls of paper scattered everywhere and plastic sheeting all over the place. The studio is never like this when I bring the kids on a Saturday; it’s neatly set out with activities set up.

I wonder if this is how she normally does her adult classes?

I see her rush across the floor, her back straight and a smile on her face. Seeing her like that—in her element and enjoying everything she does—has a grin lifting my own lips.

I can’t wait to see her teach this class and be carefree; loving what she does.

I watch her for several seconds, the doubt starting to creep in. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here, maybe I shouldn’t be pushing myself into her life like this or letting her into mine.

My conscience gets the better of me and I take a step back, about to walk out of her studio, but she spins around, her honey eyes piercing mine.

“Tristan?” Her voice is hoarse and for a second I don’t know what to say or do.

“I’m here for the class,” I say, but it comes out more like a question.

“I don’t see your name down on the list,” I mumble, looking down at a sheet on one of the tables.

“I… erm…” His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows and I can’t help but watch as his throat moves. “I didn’t know I needed to be on a li

st.”

Of course he didn’t. We stare at each other for a beat longer before I relent, saying, “That’s okay, grab a stool. We’re waiting on two more people.” I point over to a few who are milling about, waiting for the session to begin.

“Right,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. Is he nervous?

I watch as he turns his back hesitantly, walking over and greeting the three people there. I can’t take my gaze off them as one of the women eyes him curiously; a weird sensation rolling through me at the sight of it. Jealousy? No, it’s more intense than that. More protective.