7
Brooks
Then
Chemistry drags. I should be paying attention, but the words on the board blur together, my mind stuck replaying last period. I don’t know why, but taking pictures of Dylan was the most fun I’ve had in that class all year. It wasn’t just the project—it was her. The way she moved without thinking, how the light caught in her hair, the way her eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, she made the whole thing easy. Natural. And the pictures? They turned out incredible. I don’t say that lightly. I’ve taken plenty of portraits before, but there was something mesmerizing about these—about her.
I have to physically stop myself from glancing her way. It’s impossible not to notice her. She sits a few rows over, scribbling notes, her black curls spilling past her shoulders—several strands slipping forward as she leans in, completely absorbed. Like she doesn’t realize half the room is only pretending to pay attention, counting down the minutes until lunch. I wonder if she’s always like that—lost in her own world.
Before I can stop myself, I shift in my seat, resting my elbow on the desk angling just enough to steal another glance.
A silver butterfly necklace rests against her collarbone, shifting subtly with each of her movements. Her maroon cardigan drapes off one shoulder, like it’s in the middle of a dance with gravity. She tugs it up absentmindedly, but it finds its way back down a few minutes later—like it’s meant to be there.
I force my eyes back to the front of the room, tapping my pen against my notebook, trying to ignore…whatever this is I’m feeling. She’s just a girl. It’s not that deep.
Once the bell finally rings, the room erupts into motion—book closing, chairs scraping, the usual chaos of everyone eager to leave. I tap the edge of Dylan’s desk, catching her by surprise. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” I say, nodding toward the door. “We’re going to walk.”
She perks up, slinging her backpack over one shoulder with an adorable sort of eagerness. “We’re walking?” she repeats, narrowing her eyes. “How far are we going?”
“Not far.” I grin, raising my hands as if to show I’m harmless. “It’s just a couple of blocks from the school. Promise.”
She laughs, probably assuming I’m winging it, but every move I make is intentional. I fire off a quick text to Beckett, letting him know where we’re headed—a formality more than anything. He’ll be fine with it. Or maybe he won’t, but honestly, I don’t care.
It’s only a few minutes before my place comes into view. It’s nothing fancy. A modest house, a bit rough around the edges, but Mom’s touch is evident, turning it into something warm and lived in rather than just another generic house. She’s poured herself into making it look like a home, and even though I’ve spent my whole life here, I don’t feel trapped—not always, anyway.
“This is your place?”
“Yup. Home sweet home.”
She takes in the details: the yard, the porch, the charm Mom has worked so hard on. I see a flash of envy in her eyes, and an offhand comment from Becks at practice about moving around comes back to me. It stings a bit, knowing I have something she doesn’t.
“Make yourself comfortable,” I gesture for her to enter. “You’re about to experience the best sandwich of your life.”
The kitchen smells like Mom’s vanilla candles and the pancakes she whipped up this morning. It’s a little embarrassing, but I feel comfortable here, even with Dylan sitting at the table, watching as I pull out everything we need. Making sandwiches isn’t a huge deal, but it feels like a piece of normalcy I get to share with her.
“Your house has a lot of personality,” she comments, her smile playful.
“Yeah, that’s all my mom,” I admit with a chuckle. “She’s got this thing for ‘telling a story’ with the stuff she collects.” For a moment, Dylan seems engaged, but then her expression tightens, and she pulls back as if she’s catching a mask slip.
I finish assembling the sandwiches, cutting them in half like I always do. The first bite hits me immediately—the crisp crunch of the bread, the creamy richness of the avocado, the slight zing of the mustard. It’s perfect. I glance at Dylan as she takes her first bite, and the look on her face is priceless.
She stops for a second, eyes wide. “Okay, this is good,” she admits, her voice muffled as she chews.
I grin, leaning back against the counter. “Told you. It’s a game-changer. Way better than that week-old pizza they would have served you at school.”
Dylan takes another bite, clearly impressed. “This might be the best sandwich I’ve ever had,” she says, laughing with a hand covering her mouth.
The atmosphere feels lighter now, the tension from earlier slipping away. I push my empty plate aside and ease back, watching her for a beat before wiping my hands on a napkin. “There’s something I want to show you.”
She raises an eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. “Ominous,” she teases, pushing her chair back with a squeak.
“Don’t worry, nothing weird,” I assure her. “It’s not like I’m taking you to some creepy church.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “I wouldn’t put it past you.”
I chuckle, the casual banter helping to break the last traces of awkwardness. Leading her down the hall, I barely glance at the framed pieces of my childhood—the birthdays, the holidays, the memories my parents have tried to hold onto. We reach my room, a makeshift studio of sorts. Blackout curtains, a cluttered table, and the usual chaos. It’s nothing special, but I’ve started keeping my photography equipment here—out of Dad’s line of sight, where it won’t set him off.
“This is where the magic happens,” I say, offering a small smile. Her face lights up with interest, and for some reason, my movements feel more noticeable now, like I’m suddenly too aware of my own body.
“Not wasting any time, I see,” she muses.
I fake a gasp. “So suspicious. And here I was, just trying to enrich your life with my talent.”
The two of us stop by the wall where I’ve pinned a series of photographs—mostly old, abandoned buildings around town, places that no one has noticed but me. The photos capture them in their last breath, giving life to something broken. Dylan’s eyes trace over each frame, and I can tell she gets it.
“These are stunning. What inspired you to take them?”
“It was kind of an escape. Walking around town, finding these forgotten places…it felt like an act of rebellion against my dad. He thinks it’s a waste, you know? Says I should be fixing them up, not photographing them.”
She frowns, but there’s an openness in the way she listens, like she genuinely cares.
“It sounds like you have different plans than he does,” she says, casting a sideways glance my way.
“Yeah.” I pause, gathering my thoughts. “My dad’s whole world is construction. Always has been. He wants me to take over, keep the business going. I get it. I want to make him proud. But sometimes I feel like there’s more out there. More than just fixing roofs and building walls in Rockport.”
Holland Construction—Dad’s pride and joy—is waiting for me. Everyone assumes it’s set in stone, like I was born to lay bricks and manage crews. It’s not what I want, but then again, it doesn’t seem like anyone’s paying attention.
“If expectation wasn’t a factor, what would you do?” she asks, and her lashes flutter as she looks back at the photos, fingers grazing her necklace, like she’s contemplating her own answer.
“I’d leave,” I admit. “See what’s out there beyond this little town. Take my camera and fill it with places most people here will never step foot in. Paris, maybe—I’ve always thought about photographing the light spilling over the Seine. Or somewhere like the Scottish Highlands, where the mist cloaks the hills.”
I laugh a little, feeling awkward. “It’s probably stupid.”
She lights up, her entire demeanor shifting. “It’s not. I’ve always wanted to see Paris,” she says, her voice humming with excitement. “I mean, I’d love to wander through all the galleries, just let myself get lost in the art. Maybe even try painting something while I’m there—let the city’s colors flow onto my own canvas. I don’t know, it feels like everything I’ve ever wanted is just waiting for me there.”
It’s easy to get caught up in the way her words flow so freely, like she’s already halfway there. I feel this sudden pang of something I can’t quite name. Maybe it’s envy, or maybe it’s the realization that I’ve never really had a dream like that. Not in the same way. Not one that feels so solid, so sure.
“It sounds amazing,” I say before I can overthink it. “Why don’t you just go for it?”
She tucks her bottom lip between her teeth, thinking. “My mom doesn’t think it’s practical. To her, it’s just a hobby, not something worth chasing across the world.”
It’s a sentiment I understand too well, but I don’t let it settle. “Maybe our parents are right. Maybe it isn’t practical. But I’d rather fail chasing something real than stay stuck in a life that isn’t mine.” I pause, not sure if I’m saying too much. “I mean, it’s kind of brave, really, to have that kind of vision of yourself.”
She tilts her head, studying me for a beat, as if she’s reading something between the lines of what I said. Then she shrugs, offering an innocent smile. “I think we all have our own way of figuring out where we’re supposed to be. It just takes time to figure out how to get there.”
Neither of us rush to fill the silence that falls after. We’re comfortable being two people balancing between obligation and ambition, trying to find something real in the middle. And suddenly, that makes all the tension and teasing feel like smoke over a fire neither of us wants to name.
Her fingers graze the opening of my flannel, tugging just slightly before she releases it. “We should head back,” she says, biting down lightly on her bottom lip. “I don’t want to be late for my next class.”
Then, without another word, she turns and walks away.
For once, Rockport doesn’t just feel like a place I’m trapped in—it feels like somewhere that might actually hold something worth staying for. Exhaling, I give a tight half-smile before shaking my head and following after her.
The bell rings as we return, signaling the end of our free time together. I catch the faintest flicker of disappointment in Dylan’s eyes—a shade of blue so soft it reminds me of morning frost—the subtle crinkle at the corners giving her away. But then she blinks, smoothing her expression just as quickly.
“Thanks for the escape,” she says, shifting her books from one arm to the other. “I can’t remember the last time I felt that normal, to be honest.”
“Glad I could help,” I reply, stuffing my hands into my pockets, unsure what else to say. Funny how something as simple as lunch—as sandwiches—could feel like the start of a bigger story.
A subtle lift of her fingers, a barely-there goodbye, and then she’s gone—pulled into the tide of bodies moving in every direction.
I square my shoulders, pressing my lips together as I refocus and head to AP History. Just outside the classroom, I spot my best friend, Miles Davenport, leaning against the lockers. His eyes flick between me and the hallway Dylan disappeared down. With a quick push of his glasses—something I almost never see since he refuses to wear them at practice—he tilts his head, a smirk creeping in.
Miles has a way of always being two steps ahead, and judging by the look on his face, I can tell he’s already piecing something together.
“You gonna fill me in, or do I have to guess?” he asks, matching my pace.
“It was just lunch. The way I see it, she had two options, she could either trust my sandwich or whatever’s been sitting under the cafeteria heat lamps all morning.”
“Uh-huh,” he says slowly, dragging out the sound. “Totally not because you wanted to spend more time with her?”
“Miles you’re reading into this,” I say, taking my seat. “She’s new. I was just being friendly.”
He grins like he’s already got the end of this story figured out. “So you’re just out here making friends now? With our new teammate’s twin sister? Can’t imagine how that might backfire.”
I give him a pointed stare, daring him to keep going, but he holds his hands up in mock surrender. “I’m not judging—just surprised, is all. I can’t remember the last time you put in this much effort for someone—actually, never mind.”
I shake my head and flip open my binder as the teacher launches into a lecture about historical figures we’re supposed to know for the exam. Something about Alexander Hamilton and his never-ending string of bad decisions. Fitting. I try to focus, but Miles isn’t done yet. He leans in, dropping his voice to a whisper. “One more time and then I’ll drop it. You’re telling me there’s nothing there?”
I don’t take the bait, keeping my tone even. “Dude, I don’t know. Okay? It’s not like it means anything. Just drop it.”
“Alright, B, keep pretending. If that helps you sleep at night. But I’m not blind.”
I grip my pen, trying to keep up with the notes, but all I can think about is the way Dylan spoke about painting in Paris—the ache in her words, the way her aspirations reached far beyond one place. The girls I know are all about appearances, the latest gossip, and making sure everyone’s watching. She’s a world away from that. She doesn’t let others’ judgements define her, and her ambitions are a whole lot grander than the tiny, shallow goals most people chase.
The clock ticks on, but the rest of the day blurs together, until it all feels like one long stretch of time. I go through the motions; nodding when I need to, answering just enough to keep the teachers off my back. Each period signaling a countdown, moving me closer to the one place where I can block everything out.
The last bell vibrates through the air, and finally, I can breathe again. I head to the locker room, already peeling off the day as I pull on my practice gear. Football will be a good distraction, a way to let everything go, if only for a little while.
As soon as I step out on the field, I feel like I can finally reset. Coach has us running drills—simple stuff, but the kind that demands every ounce of focus. My feet move on autopilot, my mind shutting off. I don’t need to think. I just need to move.
The pace is relentless. My muscles burn, and my lungs protest, but I don’t stop. When we finally break into a scrimmage, Beckett’ energy shifts. He throws himself into into the game with this intensity I haven’t seen yet, like he’s trying to burn through something too. I can feel it in the air, the way he’s pushing himself harder.
By the time Coach blows the whistle to call it, we’re both drenched in swear, barely standing. I’m not sure if it’s the physical exhaustion or the fact that for a few minutes, I could forget everything, but I’m grateful for the release. It’s not the answer to whatever I’m feeling, but it’s enough for now.
The team filters into the locker room, the buzz of conversation filling the space as everyone sheds their sweaty gear. The steam hangs thick in the air, making it feel like it’s holding onto every ounce of the day’s tension. I pull off my pads, feeling the weight of practice slip off with each layer. After a quick rinse, I slip into a fresh T-shirt, the fabric feeling like a small comfort against the exhaustion that’s setting in. The kind that makes your limbs feel like lead and your mind just wants to switch off.
But before I can really settle, Beckett’s voice cuts through the haze.
“Brooks!” He’s got that lopsided grin of his that somehow looks both frustrated and amused at the same time. “Need a favor, man.”
I glance over at him, raising an eyebrow. “What’s up?”
He rubs the bridge of his nose, squinting like he’s trying to push the frustration out of his system. “My truck won’t start—again.” He lets out a long exasperated sigh. “You mind giving me a ride home?”
I nod, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and we make our way to the parking lot. Becks is already deep into a post-practice analysis, tearing apart his own performance and spiraling over whether Coach is about to knock him down a peg.
“Coach’s whole personality is making us work twice as hard.” I say, unlocking the truck and tossing my bag into the bed. “You’re holding your own—better than a lot of the guys, to be honest.”
“Thanks, man. I just feel like I’m slipping. Got a lot on my mind lately,” he admits, slumping into the passenger seat.
“Yeah, I get it,” I say, glancing over at him before starting my truck and pulling onto the road. “I don’t know all the pressure you’re dealing with, but I’m here if you need to talk. We’re all just trying to figure it out, right?”
“You’re not wrong,” Beckett says, suddenly straightening up. “Turn left here, and follow it straight down until you hit that old gas station on the corner. You’ll know it by the sign—half fallen down, like it’s been through a war. After that, it’s the third left, but don’t blink or you’ll miss it.”
I follow the directions, feeling the age of the neighborhood press in as we drive past rows of houses with peeling paint, cracked windows, and fences barely holding it together.
His gaze drifts to the window for a split second, his muscles tense, jaw set behind his closed lips, like he’s bracing for me to say something—maybe judge him. But I don’t. I stay quiet, focusing on the route he gave me, letting the music take over the silence in the cab.
The calm we’d settled into doesn’t make it past the driveway. As soon as I cut the engine, Dylan explodes through the front door, followed by her mom. Her fists flex at her sides, her stare piercing, and whatever just happened inside—it wasn’t good. Beckett tenses, curses softly, then throws me a quick look before climbing out of the truck. “I swear, this never ends,” he grumbles, striding toward the group.
I follow, a surge of protectiveness rising in me. Dylan freezes when she sees us, her expression morphing from anger to embarrassment, like she’s been caught mid-escape. Their mom stops too, noticing us for the first time. She smooths her expression into something more composed, but her eyes remain steely. The switch is unsettling, and I want to jump in—to somehow break this weird friction radiating off everyone—but I know better.
Whatever’s unfolding behind those walls isn’t just an argument. The storm in her eyes tells me this isn’t new, and I get the sense that she’s used to fighting a battle no one else sees. And maybe it’s time someone did.