The apartment was quiet when Brendon returned that evening. He had spent the day in a haze of macroeconomics and business law, his mind constantly drifting back to the girl in Unit 4B.
He found her in the living room, curled up on the far end of the sofa. The TV was on, a mindless Netflix reality show playing at a low volume. She was eating a salad out of a plastic container, her eyes fixed on the screen.
Brendon didn't say anything. He went to the kitchen, made himself a sandwich, and then sat down on the opposite end of the sofa.
For twenty minutes, the only sound was the chirpy voices of the people on the TV.
"You're still using my Netflix account," Brendon said suddenly.
Kiera didn't look at him. She jabbed a piece of kale with her fork. "I forgot to log out. I'll do it tonight."
"You don't have to," he said. "I noticed you're halfway through Bridgerton. You always liked the ones with the forced marriages."
Kiera finally looked at him. Her eyes were tired. "I like the ones where the guy actually shows up to the wedding, Brendon."
The jab hit home. Brendon put his sandwich down. "Kiera, talk to me. Really talk to me. How have you been? Why did you take a Gap Year?"
Kiera set her salad container on the coffee table. She pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around them.
"I couldn't play," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Brendon felt his heart stop. "What do you mean?"
"After you... after that night. I went to the stage for the concerto. I picked up my bow. And my hands wouldn't stop shaking. I couldn't even play a basic scale."
She looked at her hands now, as if they were treacherous objects.
"The judges thought I was ill. My teacher thought I was having a breakdown. I lost my spot at Juilliard. I lost everything, Brendon."
Brendon moved toward her, his hand reaching out instinctively. "Kiera, I'm so sorry. I didn't know."
"Don't," she said, pulling away. "Don't you dare be sorry now. You weren't there. You weren't there when I was sitting in my dorm room for three weeks, waiting for a text that never came. You weren't there when I had to tell my parents I'd failed."
"I was in a room with five lawyers and a federal agent," Brendon said, the truth finally bursting out. "They took my phone. They froze my accounts. My father had a heart attack that night, Kiera. I was at the hospital, and I couldn't tell anyone."
Kiera stared at him. For a second, he saw a flicker of the old Kiera-the one who would have held him while he cried.
Then, her expression hardened again.
"And the Hamptons? Three days later? Was your father still having a heart attack while you were sipping champagne with Gloria Talley?"
Brendon felt the weight of the lie he couldn't explain. He couldn't tell her that the "champagne" was a staged photo op to keep the stock price from plummeting. He couldn't tell her that Gloria was the daughter of the lead investigator, and his father had practically sold him to her to get the charges dropped.
"It was complicated," Brendon said, his voice weak.
"No," Kiera said, standing up. "It was simple. You chose your family's reputation over me. You chose your money over the girl who loved you when you were just a boy with a dream."
She walked toward her room, her footsteps echoing in the large space.
"I'm not that girl anymore, Brendon. And you aren't that boy. So stop trying to find us."
She shut the door, and this time, he heard the lock click.
