Page 59 of Crossing Lines

Mom gasps. “She has no right.”

“She kind of does.”

“No, she doesn’t,” Mom says. “This is our chance.We’re not going to let her take that away from me. Come on, after everything I’ve sacrificed for you? After everything I’ve done for you? I need this jacket to happen. I need you to help make this happen.”

“Okay,” I say quietly. “Let me investigate some options.” Like how to take down a website with my name on it when I didn’t approve of it.

“While you do that, why don’t you send me a couple hundred extra this week? I had to pay for the website and all.”

“Yeah…sure.”

After she hangs up, a hollow pit opens in my stomach, widening the longer I stare at the website. She’s serious, and when Mom wants something, she’s never stopped until she’s gotten it. I just don’t know how to get off this runaway train without hurting someone I care about.

Sighing, I head to my new room and immediately stop. In the corner, with all my sewing stuff, is a shiny, new sewing serger with a note attached. I rip the note open, and it says,Just to clarify, I didn’t get this to buy your forgiveness. I saw how much you needed it, and I wanted to make your life a little easier. And yes, I hoped it would remind you of me while you work. XO, Evren.

Who does he think he is buying the best one on the market? He’s quickly becoming a menace in my life with his thoughtful apologies.

I find him in the gym that’s only halfdone with only the neon-pink lights installed and neon-green mats on the floor.

“You bought me a sewing serger?” I demand, trying to muster up my anger, but there’s none. All that’s left is hurt and sadness.

“Is that a problem?” he asks, stretching on the mat. “I saw you needed one, so I got it for you.”

“How do you even know what a serger is?”

“Google was very helpful.” His charming grin makes me want to hit him.

“Don’t be cute. It doesn’t suit you.”

“Really? Because I think it does.” He looks me up and down and takes in my overalls. “I see you’re still angry with me. Why don’t you work some of that out on some punching pads?”

“I’m not angry.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Fine,” I grit out. “Do you really think you can handle me?” There’s a sharpness to my voice I can’t hide. It matters, if he can really handle all the fears I keep buried and the parts of me no one ever sees. Liking him means I’m stepping into something I shouldn’t want. He’s older, wealthy, the opposite of me in every way, and has the potential to hurt me. And yet, here I am, waiting for an answer like everything hinges on it.

Somehow, annoyingly, he seems to understand my real question and replies with a confident, “With ease.”

I scoff and hold my hands out for him to putthe gloves on me. When he finishes, he steps back and places the punching pads on his own hands.

“What are you waiting for?” he taunts, holding his hands up.

The frustration,hurt,and fear from the past few days boils over, andI lunge at him,my fists flying as he takes the impact with ease. I throw another sequence of punches,faster this time, my pain too impatient to allow me to think clearly.

To the surprise of no one, he blocks every punch I throw—like I’m moving in slow motion and he’s already three steps ahead.

“Is that all you’ve got?” he asks, gaze full of amusement. “You need to train if you want to beat me.”

His amusement, like it’s cute how bad I am at this even though I’m actually trying so fucking hard to be good at this, makes me feel stupid.

“You hurt me,” I choke out, panting hard. “You took my choice away. I would’ve agreed. I get that it’s not safe. But you chose not to include me in that.”

My vision blurs. At first, I think it’s because I haven’t eaten much all day and that maybe I’m about to pass out, but then wetness trails down my cheek.

Oh no, no, no, no. This can’t be happening right now.

His eyes widen as he takes in my tears, and I’ve never been more embarrassed than I am right now. For him to see me like this? To witness the cracks forming in my shield against the world? It’s too much. It’s all just too fucking much.

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