6
Dylan
Then
Slipping into a desk at the back of the room, I try to stay out of sight in my first-period visual arts class. But it doesn’t take long for a petite blonde near the front to notice me. While she’s chatting with her friends, their eyes repeatedly flicker in my direction, and I hear soft giggles ripple through their group.
Great. Here we go again. Being the new kid feels like a broken record—same anxiety, different school, and the same snarky smiles from the same kind of girls.
Much to my irritation, she walks over, her tone laced with a curious edge. “What’s your name?”
“Dylan,” I reply, keeping my voice even. “Yours?”
“Chloe.” She tilts her head, studying me. “Where are you from?”
“Wyoming.”
She lets out a small laugh, swaying slightly as she glances back at her friends. “A mountain girl, huh? I should’ve guessed.”
“Sure. Whatever.”
“Well,” she says, her grin growing a little too stiff, “welcome to Rockport.”
“Thanks.” I force a smile in response, but it feels just as fake as hers.
Brooks steps into the room, and like a magnet, my focus snaps to him. It’s been days since the bonfire, and despite my best efforts, I can’t stop replaying that night in my mind. He strides in like he owns the place, and it’s ridiculous how his presence unconsciously commands everyone’s attention.
He’s even more striking in the daylight—maybe because the morning sun filters in just right, casting shadows along his jawline, making him look like he stepped out of a movie.
His medium-length hair, touched with auburn hues and effortlessly wavy, catches the light as he moves. A fitted navy-blue T-shirt peeks out from beneath a crisp flannel, the fine stitching and tailored fit making it clear it’s expensive—without trying too hard. The deep blue intensifies the sharp green of his eyes, making them stand out more.
Dimples flash when he glances around, and I fight the urge to smile as he heads straight for the empty seat beside me, my heart picking up pace.
“Damn, look who it is!” The natural ease in Brooks’ voice sparks a flutter of self-consciousness in me, like maybe I’m the only one who didn’t get the memo on how to act normal in this situation.
Chloe’s gaze bounces between the two of us, her surprise written all over her face. “Brooks, you know Dylan?” she asks, her voice slightly higher, like she’s trying to figure out if this is just some weird coincidence or something more.
The look he gives her is telling—like he wasn’t expecting the question, or didn’t think she’d be bold enough to ask it. “Yeah,” he says, with a small shrug, like it’s nothing big. “We met at the bonfire.”
Chloe’s eyes darken with irritation, suspicion clouding her expression. “That’s funny—I don’t remember seeing you there,” she says, her tone clipped as she zeroes in on me.
“I wasn’t there long,” I admit, a little defensive, suddenly feeling like I’m breaking some kind of unspoken social code.
Chloe’s expression doesn’t shift much, but there’s something strangled in her voice. “Oh. Bummer. Well, next time, I’ll make sure you meet everyone. We’re a pretty tight group.” The smile she gives me is like the edge of a blade wrapped in silk.
I force a polite one back. “Looking forward to it.”
Just then, the teacher steps into the room, calling for everyone’s attention, and I can’t help but silently thank fate for putting an end to that painfully awkward moment. Brooks nudges my foot, a slight press against the side of my sneaker, but it’s enough to send a jolt of awareness through me.
“She’s a real sweetheart, huh?” he whispers.
I bite my lip, looking over at the girl who just left. “She’s…something. Not the worst I’ve met, though.”
There’s a beat of silence before he presses further. “Oh yeah? Then who takes that honor?”
It’s a knee-jerk reaction, spat out like I can separate myself from it. “My mother.”
Brooks’ gaze is intense, full of questions, but before he can say anything more, the teacher begins the lesson, effectively ending the moment.
Eventually, Mr. Lyons directs us to pair up for a photography assignment centered on the play of light and shadow, and as various desks slide together, metal legs scuffing against tile, students instinctively form pairs. A familiar sense of isolation settles over me. Everyone gravitates toward their chosen partners, while I remain an afterthought—left behind in the shuffle.
I hear the soft drag of a chair beside me and glance up just as Brooks scoots over, his movement unhurried, measured. He stretches his arms overhead before letting them drop with a finality that feels almost reassuring.
“Guess that settles it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Did I miss the part where I actually agreed?”
“Hmm. No,” he teases. I figured I’d save you the trouble.”
“How considerate of you.”
“Always,” he quips, tilting his head toward the front of the room. “Come on, let’s go pretend we know what we’re doing.”
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, half-serious. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
Brooks feigns offense. “And here I thought we had something special—you said so yourself at the bonfire.”
My brows shoot up, and I blink several times. “I said I must be special, not that we have something special.”
“Semantics, Rivers.”
With a smirk, he guides me toward a quieter corner, his fingers moving over the camera with expertise. There’s no doubt, just fluid motions as he tweaks the settings, tests the angles and adjusts the focus like it’s second nature. I should be paying attention to what he’s doing, but instead, I’m caught up in the way he makes something technical look so effortless.
“Have you done this before?” I ask. “You don’t really seem like the artsy type.”
He exhales a short, amused breath. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well,” I say, fumbling for the right words, “you play football with my brother, so…”
“So you think I’m just a dumb hot jock?” he teases, giving me a quizzical smile as he looks down at me. Then, as if to drive to the point home, he winks.
“No! That’s not what I meant.”
“Hey, I’ll take what I can get, Rivers,” he says, smirking, and I swear my ears burn red.
Back home, I’d barely tolerated my brother’s teammates. They were loud, obnoxious, and mostly interested in showing off. The idea that one of them could be genuinely talented with a camera is surprising, to say the least.
“Relax, Dylan.” He leans in just enough to bump me, making sure I don’t take it too seriously. “I’m just messing with you. I took a photography class last year. Turns out, I’m decent at it.”
“Well, I’m impressed,” I say, acutely aware of the brief brush of his shoulder against mine.
“Good. So, you’ll be my subject today?”
“Your—” I narrow my eyes and wonder if this is some sort of test. “Subject?”
“Unless you have better plans?” he challenges, gesturing toward the room as if it holds endless possibilities.
“Nope, this was my dream,” I deadpan, crossing my arms.
“You’ll survive.” His words land with perfect timing, and I bite back a smile, but it’s a losing battle.
While we work, he’s unexpectedly attentive, offering small but clear directions, guiding me with a natural fluidity that makes it easy to follow along. We start laughing at random little things—the shadow my hand casts when I try to cover the sun, the ridiculous angle he contorts into while lying on the floor to capture it just right.
The minutes slip by, and for a while, I almost forget we’re in a classroom. It’s rare, this kind of focus, the kind that makes time stretch and compress all at once. But then the bell cuts through it, snapping everything back into place.
I blink, momentarily disoriented, like I’ve surfaced too fast from deep water. The room rushes back in, and I reach for my bag just as my stomach twists in on itself—an uncomfortable reminder that I skipped breakfast this morning. I press a hand to my stomach, willing it to stay quiet, but Brooks glances over anyway.
I brace for a comment, for some teasing remark, but he just tilts his head, considering me.
“What class do you have next?”
“Uh…chemistry.” I pull my schedule from my binder, falling into step next to him and double-checking the room number as if it might’ve changed in the last hour.
“Oh. Really? Me too.” He tilts his head slightly, sneaking a glance at the paper. “Hey, maybe we’ll be partners again.”
“Or…maybe they’ll split us up and make us meet new people,” I counter.
“Who needs new people when you’ve got me?” he quips, one brow arching in a playful challenge.
I huff a laugh, sliding my schedule back into place. “Touché.”
We walk in sync, and Brooks lifts a hand, exchanging a few waves with other students as we make our way to the other side of the building. Then he looks over, the humor slipping from his voice.
“So, you and your mom don’t get along, huh?”
I feel myself retreat, instinct kicking in before I can stop it. That brief crack in my defenses seals itself shut. “It’s complicated.”
Brooks seems to catch on, and his expression grows regretful. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“No, it’s fine. We just don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things.”
His face relaxes, his features gentler now. “Parents are so out of touch sometimes.”
“Yeah. No kidding.”
Just before we reach the classroom, Brooks angles toward me. “So, what’s your plan for lunch?”
“Uh, I hadn’t really thought about it. The cafeteria?”
“I’ve got a better idea.”
“Oh yeah?” I counter. “And what’s that?”
“You’ll see,” he flicks the edge of my notebook with his fingers, a casual que for me to follow. “I’ll take you somewhere after class.”