Grooving to Life's Beat

Sweets, Secrets, and Swirly Curls

The silence in my apartment was deafening, interrupted only by the occasional shaky breath I took between sobs. I sat curled on the floor, knees tucked to my chest, a mess of crumpled tissues scattered around me. My mascara had long surrendered to gravity, and my eyes burned from crying, raw and puffy.

Everything felt too much. Alexander, Madison, the city, my choices. I had run to New York looking for clarity, but all I'd found was heartbreak and the uncomfortable realization that maybe I didn't know myself as well as I thought I did.

Knock, knock.

I flinched.

The sound cut through the stillness, sharp and unexpected. I glanced toward the door, confused. It was late, and I didn't know anyone here well enough for surprise visits. Maybe Logan had come back, worried. Or maybe Alexander, though the idea made my stomach twist.

Knock, knock.

Again. A little firmer this time. Persistent.

I wiped my nose on the sleeve of my sweater, dragging myself up from the floor. My legs ached from sitting so long, my body heavy from crying. I shuffled across the room, glancing at myself in the mirror near the door. I looked like hell.

Still, I opened the door, half expecting disaster.
And instead... sunshine.

A beautiful girl who looked like she'd just walked out of a sunshine factory. Her brown skin practically glowed, and her wild curls framed her face in the best way possible. She was wearing loose jeans and a black tank top, all laid-back and effortless, like cool was her gig.

"Hey," she said casually, holding up a plate of freshly baked cookies.

"Hi..." I replied, wiping the remnants of tears from my eyes, feeling slightly embarrassed.

"I'm Angela!" she announced, her tone bright and easygoing, but the smile faltered slightly as she noticed my tear-streaked face. "Is this a bad time?"

I sniffled and managed a weak smile. "No, it's just... it's been a rough night," I admitted, my voice barely steady, the weight of everything still pressing down on me.

"Emma, right?" she asked, her tone light but curious as she handed me the plate. I blinked, confused and took it from her. How did she know my name? How does everybody know my name?

"Yeah! Emma Spencer, nice to meet you!" I replied and she glanced at me as if she didn't know whether to hug me or crack a joke. Instead, she stepped right in, shutting the door behind her with a soft click.

"Mind if I come in?" she asked, already halfway across my living room, scanning the space.

I blinked. "Um... sure?"

"This rough night," she said, dropping onto the edge of my couch. "It wouldn't have anything to do with Marshall, would it?"

My head whipped around. "Marshall?"

"I saw you two talking earlier in the yard. He can be a real jerk sometimes," she added with concern, watching as I set the plate of cookies on the table between us.

"Huh... Marshall!" My mind flashed back to Mr. Blue Eyes and Bad Attitude. "Not really; it's just been a crazy night in general. But I'll admit, this Marshall guy didn't exactly add any charm to it," I said, a shy smile tugging at my lips.

"Yeah, that definitely sounds like him!" Angela laughed, her voice full of amusement.

"But I have to say, I kind of deserved it. I somehow managed to bump into him twice in the last 24 hours... and spill coffee all over him."

Angela threw her head back, laughing. "Oh my God, that was you? He came home bumbling! Said, and I quote, 'Some crazy chick fucking assaulted me with coffee.'" She snorted. "He was so mad... like the coffee had burned his soul."

I laughed, covering my face. "Oh my Gosh! I'm officially a mess!"

"You made a first impression, though. That's what counts." Angela cracked up again, shaking her head. "And trust me, that's not easy when it comes to Marshall. Nothing impresses that dude. Like, ever." She grinned, pulling her legs up onto the couch.

I gave her a look, trying not to smile. "That's not something to be proud of." I laughed, the weight in my chest loosening just a little. "Do you guys live together?" I asked, still grinning, but suddenly curious.

Angela nodded, still giggling. "Yup. Me, Marshall, and Proof. Proof is my boyfriend. We all share the downstairs unit. It's kind of a mad house, but it works. Most of the time." she continued, her playful brown eyes following me as I grabbed two bottles of water from the kitchen.

"Wow, that sounds... intense," I said, handing her a bottle, still trying to process it all.

"Oh, you have no idea. Livin' with those two idiots? It's like bein' in a nonstop reality show," Angela smirked, taking the water from me. "They makin' music. Rap, to be exact," she said, grinning like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "Got a little setup in the basement. They down there all the time cookin' beats, bars, the whole thing. So basically, everyday it's rap battles, pizza boxes, beer and socks that don't match."

I laughed, already picturing it.

"But when it comes to music, it's like watchin' two geniuses at work in their own little lab down in the basement. Always together, always throwin' ideas back and forth." Her grin widened, her eyes sparkling with amusement.

"So... are you in the music industry too?" I asked, taking a cookie from the plate.

Angela grinned. "Me? Nah. I leave the beats to the boys. I'm a dancer." She reached for a cookie, popped it into her mouth and chewed. "I teach at Rhythm & Pulse, down on Flatbush. I do choreography gigs too when they come up. Music videos, showcases, sometimes even weddings. If it's got rhythm, I'm there."

"Wait, that's amazing," I said, genuinely impressed. "That explains the energy."

"Guilty. I was practically born doing eight counts." She winked. "And what about you, Miss Spencer?" she asked, her tone softer now. "What do you do when you're not spilling hot beverages on moody men?"

I smiled, even as something in my chest tightened. "I'm... a writer. Or trying to be. I signed up for a writing class recently. That's what brought me here."

Angela nodded thoughtfully, then tilted her head, studying me. "And the sad eyes? That come with the writer package, or is there a specific heartbreak we're working through?"

My smile faltered, and I looked down at the cookie in my hand, suddenly not so hungry. "It's... complicated," I said.

Angela leaned back on the couch, nodding slowly. "Mmhmm. Isn't it always?" Her tone wasn't prying. Just open. Safe. And I felt the lump rise in my throat again."Wanna talk about it?" she asked, voice easy, no pressure.

I hesitated... then everything came pouring out.

The breakup. The pressure. The guilt. The confusion. Washington, New York. My parents. Alexander. The expectations I'd never asked for but kept trying to meet anyway.