Chapter 4: Second Chances and Old Scars

I started over.

After years of physical and emotional hell from Marcus Evans, I needed to get my act together, find a job, and take care of myself. That meant more than buying new shoes or splurging on takeout; it meant finally choosing myself.

When I went back to the station, the round-faced female officer grinned, “Ms. Carter, you look like a whole new woman—so beautiful!” She handed me a pink-frosted donut, the kind with rainbow sprinkles—pure Midwest comfort—and winked. Small-town kindness, the kind that almost made you believe in second chances.

I beamed, full of energy. I’d cut my hair, swapped my wardrobe, even started running in the mornings—just me, the sunrise, and my dog-eared Spotify playlist.

When I saw Derek, I sincerely begged him to catch that bastard, lock him up, and throw away the key. “He doesn’t deserve another chance,” I said, meaning every word.

In the stale Marlboro haze that always clung to his uniform, Derek slowly lowered his hand, looking at me with a complicated expression. The old habit—lighting up when he was stressed—never quite left him.

“Natalie Carter, you haven’t changed a bit.”

“Selfish and cold,” his tone turned icy, “incapable of loving anyone.” His words landed like slaps, but he didn’t flinch.

Well, he really knew me. At least, he thought he did.

I smiled. “I hope you and Aubrey have a long, happy life together.” It sounded like a toast, but my voice was bitter.

He said nothing. Under his long lashes, his gaze was cold enough to freeze blood. The silence pressed between us, heavy as a snowstorm.

I stepped closer. “What? Still got feelings for me?” My words were reckless, half-daring, half-pleading. Old habits die hard.

For a second, my nails dug into my palm, and I almost snapped back. But I swallowed it down, biting my tongue until it hurt.

He let out a short laugh and stubbed out his cigarette. The ashtray overflowed with burnt-out hopes.

...

Half a year flew by. Autumn leaves drifted down, then the first frost glazed the windows. In the time it takes to blink, life turned a new page.

During that time, Aubrey came to see me once. She showed up on my doorstep, hair windblown, cheeks flushed with worry.

She asked, “Were there any girls in your class whose names started with F?”

I said I couldn’t remember. The question seemed strange, but her eyes were so earnest, I wanted to help.

She handed me a notebook—Derek’s diary. I held it gently, the leather soft and worn, full of years I’d never get back.

I glanced at the dates: from eighth grade all the way through senior year, written in neat, gold-ink handwriting. Even his penmanship was disciplined. I let my fingers linger on the cover, feeling the weight of all those secrets.

I told Aubrey I’d take it home and let her know if I remembered anything. But a storm brewed in my chest.

But before I could read it, that night, Derek showed up at my door. Like a debt collector, he was fierce and intimidating: “Give it back.”

Aubrey stood behind him, shaking like a leaf. She clung to her purse, eyes darting between us, desperate for this to just be over.

What could I do? I handed it over. My fingers trembled as I let go.

He tossed it straight into a bucket of water. No hesitation, no second thought. The pages soaked up the water, curling and bleeding ink—memories dissolving right before my eyes.

I instinctively tried to grab it. But he stopped me, his grip firm but not cruel.

Aubrey quietly asked him, “Who’s classmate F?”

She meant "F" as in February—my birthday month, not some secret girl. Her misunderstanding was almost sweet.

“But you liked her for so long...” Her words cut off. Derek’s gaze was sharp as a knife.

After a few seconds of silence, he softened his tone: “Just a silly crush. Don’t overthink it.”

He spoke to her, but looked at me: “Didn’t know any better when I was young. Just fooling around.”

Aubrey burst into tears and hugged him. Her sobs were soft, muffled in his shirt. The sound made my throat ache.

“You scared me! I thought you had some secret first love in your past.”

Derek seemed to find that funny, the corner of his mouth twisting in sarcasm. He patted her back, but his eyes never left mine.

I forced a smile to smooth things over: “Yeah, it’s nothing between you two.”

As I spoke, I glanced at the notebook floating in the water, abandoned by its owner. A piece of the past, fading away.

Tears fell, and I turned away, wiping them as I muttered,

“Everyone should look forward... Who hasn’t been young and stupid? You two should cherish each other...”