Chapter 3
FIRST PUSH
NATE
Dad found me in the kitchen over breakfast, steam rising from his coffee mug as he scrolled through emails on his laptop.
Mom had already left for her early morning prep—something about reorganizing the supply closet before classes started—leaving the two of us to navigate the careful dance of morning conversation.
“How are you settling in?” he asked, closing the laptop and giving me his full attention in that deliberate way that meant this wasn't just casual small talk. “I know this move hasn't been easy.”
I pushed cereal around in my bowl, watching the milk turn gray with dissolved sugar. “It's fine.”
“Nate.” His voice was gentle but persistent. “I can see you thinking too hard about everything. Talk to me.”
The invitation hung between us, genuine and patient. Dad wasn't always great with emotional conversations, but he tried, and I could see the worry in his eyes that he was probably trying to hide.
“It's just weird, you know?” I finally said, setting down my spoon. “Being the new kid again. Everyone already has their friend groups, their inside jokes, their whole established thing. And I'm just... there. Taking pictures of stuff they've seen a million times.”
“Have you tried joining anything? Clubs, sports, activities?”
“Dad, I'm not exactly team sports material.” I gestured at my general everything. “And most of the clubs here are pretty small. Like, five-people-who've-known-each-other-since-kindergarten small.”
He chuckled, and some of the tension in my shoulders eased. “Fair point. What about that photography hobby of yours? Maybe there's a yearbook committee or school newspaper that could use some help?”
“Maybe.” I hadn't actually checked, too caught up in exploring the town and its weird collection of abandoned buildings and folklore. “The school's pretty old-fashioned though. I'm not sure they're looking for artistic interpretations of rusty mill equipment.”
“You never know until you ask.” Dad reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder. “I'm proud of you, you know. The way you've been handling all this change. Your mom and I know it's not easy to start over, especially your junior year.”
The unexpected praise made my throat tight. “I don't feel like I'm handling it very well.”
“Are you kidding? You've been exploring, meeting people, finding things to photograph that interest you.
That's exactly what I'd expect from my son—someone who looks for the story behind the surface.” He smiled, and it transformed his whole face from tired businessman to proud dad.
“Just maybe try not to wander too far into those woods alone, okay?
These mountain towns can be tricky to navigate if you don't know the area.”
“I'm careful.”
“I know you are. But humor your old man and maybe find a local guide if you want to do any serious hiking? I'm sure some of the kids at school know all the best spots.”
The suggestion was practical, but underneath it was genuine care for my safety. Not control or disappointment, just a father wanting to make sure his son didn't get lost in unfamiliar territory.
“I'll think about it,” I promised, and meant it.
“That's all I ask.” He reopened his laptop but paused before diving back into work. “And Nate? Don't be afraid to be yourself here. The right people will appreciate what you have to offer. The wrong ones... well, their loss.”
The simple acceptance in his voice made something warm settle in my chest. Because maybe Dad was right. Maybe instead of trying to fit in, I just needed to find the people who were looking for someone exactly like me.
Even if I wasn't entirely sure who that was yet.
The library smelled like old books and teenage desperation, with undertones of the industrial-strength air freshener that someone had apparently thought would mask the scent of unwashed gym clothes and hormonal anxiety.
I'd claimed a table near the poetry section because it was usually deserted—nobody in Hollow Pines seemed particularly interested in Sylvia Plath or Robert Frost—and spread my homework out like I was actually planning to accomplish something productive.
I wasn't. I was hunting.
The guy from the other night sat alone in the far corner, bent over a notebook that suggested whatever he was working on mattered more than algebra or American history.
Everyone else gave him space, an invisible circle of avoidance that stretched at least three feet in every direction. Like he was radioactive. Or contagious.
Perfect.
I gathered my books and moved across the library with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, dumping my stuff on the table across from him with enough noise to wake the dead.
Books slammed, papers scattered, and my mechanical pencil rolled off the edge and clattered onto the floor like a tiny earthquake.
His head snapped up, hazel eyes wide with what looked like genuine alarm before narrowing into a glare that could strip paint at fifty yards.
“Hi,” I said, settling into my chair like I belonged there. “Hope you don't mind the company. Everywhere else was taken.”
This was a bald-faced lie. Half the library was empty, and we both knew it.
He stared at me for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, closed his notebook and placed both hands flat on the table. His fingers were long, I noticed, with calluses that suggested he did more than just sketch in his free time. Working hands. Strong hands.
Hands I probably shouldn't be thinking about in quite so much detail.
“You know,” I continued when it became clear he wasn't going to respond, “you've really perfected the art of glaring people into submission. It's impressive, actually. Very intimidating.”
Nothing. Not even a blink.
“Must be useful in awkward social situations. Someone tries to sit with you at lunch, boom.” I mimed an explosion with my hands. “Spontaneous combustion from the sheer force of your disapproval.”
Was that the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth? Hard to tell with someone who treated facial expressions like state secrets.
I pulled out my camera, mostly because I couldn't sit still when I was nervous, and started adjusting settings I didn't need to adjust. The library had decent natural light, afternoon sun slanting through tall windows and casting everything in warm, golden tones that made even the ugliest furniture look almost beautiful.
Including the boy sitting across from me, who was definitely not ugly by any stretch of the imagination.
I lifted the camera and snapped a shot of the light hitting his notebook, not him—I wasn't completely suicidal—but close enough that he'd know what I was doing.
His hand slammed down on the notebook so fast I jumped, hazel eyes flashing with something that looked suspiciously like panic.
“Whoa.” I lowered the camera immediately, hands up in the universal gesture of surrender. “Sorry. Should have asked first.”
His jaw worked like he was chewing glass, and for a moment I thought he might actually say something. Instead, he grabbed a pen and scrawled something across a piece of paper, sliding it toward me with enough force that it nearly sailed off the edge of the table.
Stop.
I studied the word, written in neat, careful handwriting that somehow managed to look angry despite being perfectly legible. Then I looked back at him, noting the tension in his shoulders, the way his free hand had curled into a fist.
“Stop,” I repeated slowly. “Not 'no.' Not 'go away.' Just 'stop.'”
He frowned, like I was speaking a foreign language.
“There's a difference,” I explained, grinning despite the fact that he still looked like he wanted to murder me with his bare hands. “Stop implies a pause, a break in action. No is a complete rejection. Big difference.”
For a split second, something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or confusion. Like no one had ever bothered to dissect his carefully chosen words before.
Then the mask slammed back down, and he was glaring at me again.
“So,” I said, settling back in my chair and making it clear I wasn't going anywhere. “What are we not talking about today?”
Before he could write another monosyllabic response, footsteps approached our table. I looked up to find a lanky kid with sandy hair and an easy grin.
“What do we have here? Evan making friends?” He said, sliding into the chair next to Evan like he belonged there.
Evan. I finally got a name and it suited him.
Evan's glare shifted to the newcomer, but it lacked the sharp edge he'd been directing at me. This was familiar irritation, not genuine anger.
“I'm Jonah,” the kid said, extending a hand that I shook automatically. “Jonah Ryder. And you're the infamous city boy who's got everyone's panties in a twist.”
“Nate,” I said, because someone in this conversation should probably use actual words. “Nate Harrington. And I prefer to think of myself as charmingly disruptive rather than twist-inducing.”
Jonah's grin widened. “I like him already. Careful though, city boy—you're trying to make friends with a statue. Might want to bring offerings. Maybe some flowers. Dead rabbits. Whatever it is that statues eat.”
“Then I'll be the first one to get him to blink,” I shot back without thinking.
Jonah threw back his head and laughed, the sound loud enough to earn us several annoyed shushes from the librarian. Evan's scowl deepened, but there was something in his eyes now that hadn't been there before. Amusement, maybe. Or at least interest.
Progress.
“Oh, I really like him,” Jonah said, wiping his eyes. “Evan, you should keep this one. He's got excellent comedic timing.”
Evan wrote something in his notebook and shoved it toward Jonah, who read it and laughed again.
“He says you talk too much,” Jonah translated helpfully.
“Finally!” I threw my hands up in mock celebration. “Actual feedback. See? We're bonding already.”