Page 20 of My Rockstar Ex's Broken Vows

My eyes catch on one photo. Emma, maybe ten years old, sitting on these same counter stools, doing homework. The same determined set to her jaw I remember from college.

"You see?" The old man nods toward the photo. "Time passes. People change."

The tea kettle whistles from the kitchen, shrill and insistent. The old man doesn’t move to get it.

"You seem restless," he says, sliding a steaming cup of tea across the counter toward me. "Would you like some green tea to calm you?"

Restless is an understatement. My fingers drum against the counter. The rhythm is uneven, attacking my nerves even more. The lucky cat mocks me, slow and steady, like it has all the time in the world. Unlike me.

"No, thank you. I was just looking for someone." I force the words out, keeping my voice casual, but I can feel the tension tightening my throat.

He hums softly as if that explains everything. His hands are steady as he wipes the counter, though it doesn’t need it.

The old man nods, his movements deliberate, unhurried. "Chinatown is full of people hoping to find something—or someone. A place to belong, a piece of the past, good food." His gaze flickers to me, sharp beneath bushy brows. "But you look like you’re chasing ghosts."

The words crash over me like an unexpected wave. My pulse kicks up, but I keep my face neutral. Suddenly it feels like he can see right through me.

I force a smile, "Oh, no, just hoping to run into an old friend."

"Friends come and go, like the seasons," he says with a shrug. "But the ones worth finding usually don’t hide for long."

The businessmen at the back of the room stand up, laughing as they gather their things. Their voices ricochet off the tiled walls. They are loud and cheerful, which feels like a personal affront to the nightmare I've gotten myself into…trying to chase down someone who doesn't want anything to do with me.

The old man doesn’t seem to notice. He pours himself a cup of tea, the liquid dark and steaming. "Tea can calm the mind," he offers, sliding the kettle my way. "But sometimes, it’s the waiting that does the trick."

The irony isn’t lost on me. Waiting isn’t exactly my strong suit.

I tap the screen of my phone, but there’s no new notification, no sudden lead. Just the same silence that’s been gnawing at me for days. "Thanks," I say, though I don’t touch the tea. "I have to get going, but I'll be back," I assure him.

He looks up then and looks at me. He appears to uncover the desperation I'm trying to hide.

"You know," he says finally, "in Chinese, we have a saying. 'The wind follows its own path.'" He pauses. "But sometimes, the wind disturbs more than just leaves."

The businessmen's laughter fades as the door chimes behind them. Only the old women remain now, whispering over coolingtea cups. I seem to be here in between the lunch and dinner rush. And there is no doubt that Emma is no longer here.

I throw a five on the counter as I pull my collar up and head toward the door.

My phone buzzes again. It’s a text from Luke.

We're all here. Including Max. Where are you?

I choose not to respond. He will see me when I get there. Just like Max.

The bell chimes one last time as I step back onto Mott Street. The March wind whips between buildings, carrying scents of old urine, spices, and secrets.

My phone shows that it’s six o’clock on the dot.

I should go straight to the studio.

Instead, I pull up the directions to PS 124. "Forty Division Street, please."

SEVEN

Sienna

I built my walls, I wore my crown

Sunday, March 9

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