Sixty hearts blue 3

Stephen left his room as the doorbell rang again, its sharp chime cutting through the quiet hallway. He ran a hand through his hair, still feeling the warmth of Roselle's voice lingering in his mind. Their late-night call had stretched into the morning, her cheerful laughter the first thing he heard upon waking. Groggily, he had answered, but the moment he saw her name, exhaustion faded. She had sounded happy—too happy, as if just hearing him completed her morning.

"You're the first person I always want to talk to," she had murmured, her voice like honey.

Stephen had smiled, taking the call with him into the shower, letting her chatter fill the space. He hadn't minded. Not with her.

Now, as the bell rang once more, he buttoned his shirt without urgency. The soft goodbye he whispered to Roselle had been interrupted by her mother's call, and he had lingered a moment, listening to her voice slip away into another life before he finally moved toward the door.

"Probably Michael," he thought, a half-smile tugging at his lips. But when he opened it, it wasn't Michael.

Lisa stood there, smiling too brightly, her eyes searching his face.

Stephen tensed. She hadn't told him she was coming. If she had, he would've found a way to avoid it.

Lisa stepped inside without waiting, inhaling the air as if trying to take in his scent. "Hi, Stephen." Her voice was light, but her gaze was restless, lingering on him too long.

He shut the door behind her, the air suddenly heavier. "You didn't call." A quiet accusation.

She shrugged. "My phone died." A lie. She had dressed carefully this morning, choosing a gown that showed just enough skin, pairing it with white boots, spinning in front of the mirror until she felt good enough. Pretty enough. She had called Danielle to keep her company on the drive over, her hands tightening on the wheel as she navigated the quiet streets, hoping the small talk would drown out the nerves.

Now, standing in front of Stephen, all that confidence slipped away.

"Where's Granny?" Lisa asked, her fingers itching to reach for his face, to close the space between them.

"In her room." The answer was clipped. Stephen was already moving away, putting distance between them, not even glancing back.

Lisa swallowed against the tightness in her chest and forced herself toward the hallway leading to Mrs. Jones' room.

Inside, the space was warm, sunlight casting a soft glow over the neatly arranged pillows and the armchairs by the window. Lisa's gaze swept the room until it landed on a framed photograph.

Stephen. His mother. And a girl in a green dress.

The girl was laughing, her hair cascading down her back as she clung to Stephen. His arms were wrapped around her, his expression soft, protective.

Lisa's stomach twisted.

Michael had taken that photo. Stephen had framed it. Mrs. Jones had placed it here, a permanent fixture of the past and present. A silent declaration.

The weight of it hit Lisa like a punch to the gut. She stumbled, knees weak, nearly collapsing onto the floor. That girl wasn't just a memory. She was still woven into Stephen's life. Her presence was here, framed on these walls, etched in his heart.

"How are you, dear?"

Mrs. Jones' voice cut through Lisa's haze. She turned, struggling to steady her breathing as the older woman watched her from the bed with eyes that held too much knowing.

Lisa forced a smile. "Grandma, it's me, Lisabeth." She moved closer, hugging the older woman tightly—too tightly—as if wishing she were in Stephen's arms instead.

Mrs. Jones murmured her name, warmth in her voice. "You've grown so much."

Lisa remained standing, her gaze flickering back to the photo. "I missed you," she said, though her thoughts remained clouded by the girl in the picture.

The older woman's smile deepened. "London was good to you. You're a graduate now, I believe?"

Lisa nodded, but the excitement she once felt over her accomplishments felt hollow here. "I'm managing Hillary and Springsteen Enterprises."

Mrs. Jones' eyes shone behind her glasses. "Quite the young woman now. How old are you?"

"Twenty-three."

Lisa shifted, fingers massaging the back of her neck. She could feel the weight of Mrs. Jones' gaze, peeling back the emotions she was desperately trying to hide.

The older woman smiled thoughtfully. "Stephen told me he's thinking of buying a house soon. One for us. And another for him and Roselle."

Lisa stiffened.

Her fingers curled into fists.

"I wish I had stayed instead," she whispered. Regret seeped into every word. Her eyes flickered back to the photo, her heart constricting. "Who is she, Mrs. Jones?" Her voice was quiet, trembling slightly.

Mrs. Jones followed her gaze. "That's Roselle," she said simply, smiling. "Stephen's girlfriend."

Lisa felt the ground shift beneath her.

She had known. Of course, she had known. But hearing it spoken aloud—hearing it from Mrs. Jones—felt like a knife carving through her last thread of hope.

Her head throbbed.

She stood abruptly, masking the pain with a strained smile. Hugging Mrs. Jones one last time, she stepped out of the room, her mind a storm of emotions.

She wandered into the sitting room, her heart heavy, yet she couldn't leave. Not without seeing Stephen again.

She knew he was in his room.

For a moment, she let herself imagine what it looked like inside. A simple space—maybe a soft bed, a neat closet, a row of polished shoes. Nothing extraordinary. But it was Stephen's. That made it something.

She sank onto the couch, trying to steady herself, but impatience gnawed at her.

After what felt like hours, she stood.

Her feet moved before her mind could catch up, carrying her down the hall toward his room.

What would she say when he opened the door?

Tell him she'd been waiting in the living room too long? That she'd come to check on him?

Or maybe… she could go further.

The thought flickered through her mind.

Her pulse quickened.

Could she make him forget about Roselle?

Even if just for a moment?

Halfway down the hall, Lisa stopped, guilt and desire colliding like a storm inside her. Her pulse pounded, breath hitching as she hesitated. Just call his name. He'll hear you. He has to.

But she didn't.

Instead, her knuckles hovered over the door, fingers trembling as she leaned in, listening. Silence. Then, a calm voice from inside. Stephen.

"Let's go out for dinner," he said. A pause. Then, softer, "Oh, okay. Tomorrow then. I love you."

Lisa's heart plummeted. She knew exactly who he was talking to. Roselle. The words stung, yet a bitter part of her felt relieved that their plans had been canceled. If it were her, she would never cancel. She would drop everything for him.

And maybe, just maybe, tonight was her chance.

Silently, she turned away, slipping back into the sitting room, hope flickering despite the ache in her chest.

She waited, tracing the couch seams with restless fingers. Minutes bled into what felt like hours. Still, he didn't come.

"Stephen?"

Her voice echoed in the quiet house.

Upstairs, Stephen sighed, eyes still closed. He'd assumed she left after visiting his grandmother. The bed was warm, and getting up felt like a chore. But her voice came again, firmer this time.

"Stephen."

He exhaled, reluctantly rolling out of bed. Pulling on a shirt, he headed downstairs.

Lisa was waiting, her gaze unreadable as he passed by, moving straight to the fridge.

"Thought you'd left," he said, grabbing a soda.

She shrugged. "There's no one at home. I'm always alone… it gets boring."

Stephen popped open the can. "Want one?"

"Of course."

Their fingers brushed as he handed it to her. Lisa swallowed, forcing herself to sound casual. "Since you're free today, maybe we could—"

"I'm not free." His tone cut through the air, flat, final. "I don't take days off. I manage the company's accounts remotely."

Lisa bit her lip, disappointment curling inside her. He had all this flexibility, yet never for her. "Oh."

She hesitated, then tried again. "What about ice cream? It's such a nice day, and—"

"I have work." His fingers moved across his phone screen, already half-checked out of the conversation.

Lisa inhaled sharply. He wasn't even looking at her. "What about tonight?" she asked, voice softer, laced with quiet desperation.

A pause. His brow furrowed slightly before he finally glanced up.

"I can't go out to dinner with you, Lisa."

"But why?"

His gaze cooled. "I like to be in bed early."

She gripped the soda can tighter. He wasn't even trying to spare her feelings.

Still, she wasn't ready to give up. "Just five minutes. I don't want to go alone. We could—"

"I'll call Michael. He can take you."

The rejection was a slap. Lisa swallowed the lump in her throat. "No, it's fine," she muttered. "I'll just stay a little longer, then head home."

Stephen was already walking away. "I'll be in my room."

He had barely settled back into his chair when his phone buzzed. One glance at the screen, and a slow smile curved his lips. No hesitation. There never was with her.

"Hey, honey," Roselle's voice chimed through the speaker, soft and sweet. "My mom just told me we're visiting my grandparents tomorrow, so if you're free, we can go out now."

His smile widened. "What about tonight?"

Roselle sighed, warm and apologetic. "I wish I could, but my mom's strict. If she knew how amazing you are, she'd let me stay over for days."

Stephen chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "As long as I get to see you today."

"I love you," she whispered.

"I love you too. Just wait for me."

He ended the call, pulling on a fresh shirt, anticipation thrumming through his veins. Roselle was all that mattered.

But when he stepped into the living room, he found Lisa still sitting there.

Her face lit up when their eyes met, hope sparking in her expression as she took in his fresh clothes, his ready-to-leave stance.

"Thank you," she breathed. "I'm so happy you decided to go out with me."

Stephen's lips parted, confusion flickering before realization dawned. He shook his head.

"I'm not going out with you."

Lisa's smile froze. "But… you're dressed." Her voice was small, fragile. "Are you going to work?"

He slipped on his sunglasses. "I'm going out with my girlfriend."

The word shattered her.

She barely heard the rest. "I can drop you off if you want."

"No, don't bother." She rose stiffly. "I came with my car."

Stephen nodded, already thinking about Roselle.

Lisa walked toward the door, every step heavier than the last.

Once inside her car, she gripped the steering wheel, fingers trembling.

Why not me?

Tears blurred her vision. She slammed a fist against the wheel—once, twice—anger and heartbreak tangling in her chest.

Why can't you love me the way I love you?

But there was no answer. There never was.