A Silence Born of Fireworks

"Miss, why are you crying?" The voice by my ear grew faint again.

So, my prayers had been answered.

While the earth was shaking, Blake was celebrating the return of his long-lost love.

Of course, he was safe.

The diagnosis came back.

Acoustic trauma-induced deafness. Permanent damage.

The doctor fitted me with a hearing aid.

Finally, the sounds of the world returned, however tinny and strange.

Then one day, Blake showed up.

I was hobbling on crutches, every movement a monumental effort.

His brow furrowed the moment he saw my pathetic, broken state.

He placed an insulated container on the table, then strode over and swept me up into his arms.

My body went rigid.

He smelled of a perfume I didn't recognize.

He set me gently on the bed, his blue eyes brimming with guilt.

"Isadora, does your leg still hurt?"

“It’s all my fault. I should have protected you,” he said, his voice hoarse with self-reproach.

Those eyes, so sincere they were like honey-laced poison.

Bile rose in my throat.

"If I had been by your side during the earthquake, you wouldn't have had to endure this alone." He caressed my face, his fingertips cold.

He leaned down, intending to kiss me, just like he always had.

I turned my head away.

He froze.

"Really?" I asked quietly, meeting his gaze.

My throat was painfully dry.

"Then what were you doing when I was buried under the rubble?"

Blake’s gaze faltered, and he looked away, hiding a flicker of something unnatural in his eyes.

“Isadora, I know you're hurting,” he murmured, taking my hand. “I'm so, so sorry.”

“If you were truly sorry,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, “you would have been here the day I was admitted.”

He fell silent.

The suffocating feeling in my chest grew heavier.

"When did Dahlia Greystone get back?"

At her name, Blake's expression shuttered.

“Why are you asking about her?” he shot back instinctively.

That defensive posture was a knife to my heart.

As if I were some kind of threat to his precious Dahlia.

Realizing his mistake, he immediately softened his tone.

"I'm sorry, Isadora, I shouldn't have used that tone."

He kissed the back of my hand. “You need to rest. Don't let someone who doesn't matter get to you.”

He picked up the insulated container and opened it.

The rich aroma of clam chowder wafted out.

Seeing him like this, my heart felt like it had been thrown into a meat grinder.

My voice was steady, but my hands were trembling.

“So, when you were setting off fireworks for her, ignoring dozens of my calls, was I just someone who ‘doesn't matter’ then, too?”

Blake's body stiffened.

His voice grew taut. "You know?"

“All of Los Angeles knows,” I replied evenly. “Everyone's wishing you two the best.”

Blake frowned and rushed to explain, "Isadora, it's not what you think! My friends asked me to go, and I didn't know it was her welcome party until I got there! The fireworks were a forfeit because I lost a game!"

He gesticulated wildly, like a terrible actor forgetting his lines.

“We’ve been in love for five years—we’re engaged! Please, Isadora, believe me. I love you!”

I stared silently at the bowl of clam chowder.

His voice, distorted and jarring through the hearing aid.

I let out a soft, shaky sigh, fighting back tears.

"Blake, it's been five years. You know perfectly well I'm allergic to shellfish."

The soup he brought me was made with clams.

Blake looked as if he'd been struck by lightning.

He slammed the lid back on, his movements frantic.

“I'm so sorry, Isadora. I've been so busy… my head's a mess.”

“I'll go make you something else. Okay?”

He squeezed my hand, his expression pleading.

I didn't answer.

My head was splitting.

He leaned over and kissed my forehead as if nothing was wrong.

“I know I messed up, darling,” his voice was a low, earnest murmur. “Just give me a little more time.”