Chapter 14
JULES
“It’s barely eight, Cara. Why are we already ghost hunting?”
“Don’t ask silly questions, dear,” she says, tugging me toward Calvin’s old bedroom with a grin that’s all chaos and charm. “It’s not breaking and entering if it’s technically for the wedding, right?”
The house smells like reminiscence. Dust, faded aftershave, and a trace of wood polish clinging to the banister. It feels like the setup to a prank.
Or the edge of a moment where secrets wait to be found.
We stop in front of his old door. My stomach tightens. Cara throws me a look, wide-eyed, like What? You afraid of ghosts?
I knock softly, like I’m paying respects at a tomb.
Then I ease the door open… and Cara barrels through like it’s a clearance sale at Sephora.
She’s already halfway across the room, flinging open closet doors like a woman on a deadline.
The walls are still plastered with Calvin’s old heroes: James Bond in a tux, a faded Linkin Park tour print curled at the corners like it’s been holding its breath for years.
The rest of the room is stripped bare. A bed, desk, dresser, boxes stacked along the wall. It gives me chills just being here.
“We’re searching for what again?” I ask, floorboards groaning under my shoes.
“Riot’s lucky jacket. Technically Calvin’s, but Riot used to steal it all the time,” Cara says, rifling through a drawer. “Cal saved it from a bonfire senior year. Total legend moment. That’s when he retired it.”
I blink. “You seriously think it’s still around?”
“Who knows. Probably radioactive by now.” Cara smirks. “But Faith swears it’s here somewhere. And if we don’t find it, Riot’s gonna have a meltdown and serenade everyone.” Her grin widens. “And trust me, nobody’s ready for It’s Raining Men.”
I arch a brow, but before I can reply, her phone buzzes. She glances down at the screen and groans.
“Ugh. My mom. Gimme a sec.”
She lifts the phone to her ear, mouthing, Quick, I promise.
Then, out loud: “Hey, Mom—hold on a sec.” She points toward the bed. “Check the bins underneath. And don’t get lost in a memory hole.”
She slips into the hall, voice already softening into daughter mode. The door clicks shut behind her.
And just like that, I’m alone.
The air shifts, like the walls remember too.
I crouch by the bed and drag out a bin. Blankets, folded sheets, patterns I remember from those movie nights, teenage sacred, with the TV flashing on his dresser. The door was always cracked open so his mom could keep watch.
“Not in here.” I shove the bin back.
My fingers trail over Calvin’s old desk, the nicks from ballpoint pens, the faint smiley face we carved into the wood. Nostalgia knots in my chest. The room looks the same, but the memories feel like another life.
My eyes drift to the stack of shoeboxes along the wall. Keepsakes. Scraps of who he used to be. Boxes that can sit untouched for years… until someone dares to open them.
Maybe the jacket’s in there? Cut into bite-sized pieces for easy storage?
I’d better check… just in case.
I glance at the door.
Cara’s voice drifts up from the kitchen.
Five minutes, maybe. That’s all I’ve got.
If there’s ever a time to walk memory lane, it’s now. The town is one thing, but this? His bedroom? This is sacred ground. The kind of place you only get invited to once.
A box sits cracked open. Daring me.
My pulse thrumbs.
I tell myself I’m not here to snoop. But my hand betrays me.
In my search for jacket clues, something suspicious catches my eye.
A duct-taped shoebox, worn soft at the edges, labeled in bold Sharpie.
STRATEGY LAB.
All caps. Too much pride.
My heart stutters. Not fear, recognition.
I drag it out and sink to the floor.
For a second, I just stare.
I remember the night I realized I was just a strategy.
A trick to prove he could get the girl, and worse, keep her hooked.
A moment so sharp it left a scar.
Back then, it was half myth, half inside joke. Calvin’s so-called dating genius guide.
The duct tape’s worn soft, like it’s been handled hundreds of times.
Something he must have reached for again and again, like muscle memory.
A chill climbs my arms as I lift the lid.
I brace myself for the worst: cringe one-liners, calculated charm, sleazy strategies, maybe even diagrams on how to fake intimacy.
The kind of garbage pick-up artists use to dazzle and deceive.
I half-expect a flowchart titled Wear Her Down Until She Says Yes.
But instead of cheap tricks, I find something stranger.
Earnest. Awkward. Almost hopeful.
Sheets folded with care.
Diagrams. Bullet lists. Formulas in tight, careful script.
At the top, in bold pencil:
Confidence > Chemistry
I blink, scanning.
Body-language cues. Notes on timing, tone, energy.
In the margins, scribbles:
– authenticity isn’t boring
– listen to hear, not to answer
Cruel, almost.
The formula that built a brand, a podcast, a stage, a cult following… doesn’t look like performance.
Not here. Not on these pages.
Here, stripped of the spotlight, it reads like someone fumbling to make sense of his own heart.
I flip through more.
Doodles of football plays rebranded as prom proposals.
Lists of “perfect lines” and “triggers” scribbled like incantations.
A few Polaroids tucked between folders—Calvin and Riot on the bleachers, arms slung around each other, grinning like the world hadn’t yet taught them about consequences.
At the top of another page, scrawled in bold black ink:
What Makes Her Say Yes?
I roll my eyes. Of course he framed it like a heist. Typical Calvin.
Half of it’s laughable. The other half… sounds too much like things he actually said to me.
I turn another page and freeze.
June 23, 2016 — Jules
The week before everything fell apart.
My breath catches. My whole body stills.
I turn one more page. The so-called formula.
K.I.S.S.I.N.G.
The thing I swore was too humiliating to exist outside my recognition.
Turns out he kept it pressed between pages.
My hands shake as I peel back more layers.
His swagger starts to crumble.
Notes frantic, crossed out, scratched over like someone trying to reverse-engineer regret into redemption.
Two versions of him fight on the page: the cocky showman and the boy who didn’t know what to do with his own heart.
Then I find it.
A yellowed page, smudged at the corners.
In faded ink, the heading reads:
K.I.S.S.I.N.G.
The Only Way I Won’t Lose Her
Arrows. Scribbled hearts. Question marks.
Words rewritten again and again, like he couldn’t decide or couldn’t admit what he really meant.
And beside a bullet:
? Know Why You’re Here
A small, lopsided star sits next to my name.
This isn’t polish.
This isn’t branding.
It’s a first draft. Raw. Personal Unmarketable.
A pit opens in my chest.
The acronym unfolds:
K – Kissing — Not just a peck.
I – Intention — Want her. Mean it.
S – Sincerity — No more games. Say the truth.
S – Safety — Be the one she can lean on.
I – Investment — Time. Heart. Don’t quit.
N – Notice — The quiet things. The things no one else sees.
G – Gratitude — Remember what it felt like, holding her.
This isn’t stage work.
It reads like a man talking himself off a cliff.
Like he was writing to her.
Like he was writing to me.
What started as a cocky formula to “get the girl” had quietly turned into something else entirely. A man fumbling his way toward a love he didn’t know how to hold.
This is what he turned into a multimillion-dollar brand?
A world-touring empire?
So where’s my royalty check?
Because this… this was mine.
It’s what I needed from him.
What I hoped for.
He already knew… years ago.
But even with all his “formulas” and “theories,” he couldn’t do what he needed to do.
I flip through more pages.
Drafts, written perfectly. No hesitation. Clean script.
Then the polish unravels.
The next page is chaos, handwriting uneven:
If I ever get this right, maybe Jules will trust me again. Or at least… maybe I’ll forgive myself for letting her slip through my fingers.
My jaw goes slack. My mouth goes dry.
This place doesn’t feel haunted anymore.
It feels like the place he left his old, scared heart.
I flip further. Nearly every page is marked, revised, rewritten.
If he knew this much… if he wrote it down over and over… why didn’t he fight for it?
Why didn’t he fight for me?
And then, tucked into the back flap, something catches my eye.
Folded crisp, neater than the chaos before.
Not hidden, not flaunted.
Waiting.
I unfold it.
Across the top, clear as day:
K.I.S.S.I.N.G. — Final Copy
My stomach twists.
This isn’t midnight regret.
It looks prepared. Preserved.
Like he wanted it to last.
I press it flat across my lap, brushing phantom dust from the page.
The handwriting is sharper now. Deliberate.
Spaced wide, like he wanted every word to stand on its own.
Like he rewrote it until it was perfect.
Like he was trying to convince not just himself, but the world.
From downstairs: “Okay, Mom, thanks,” Cara calls. Her voice carries closer than I want.
Time’s almost gone.
My eyes land on the first line.
K – Kindness
The first currency of trust…
I – Intention
Mean it. Don’t drag her along…
My throat dries. He did drag me. And I believed him.
S – Safety
She has to feel safe. Lose that once…
I flip faster, barely breathing.
His words blur into apologies, lessons written in the ink of failure.
N – Notice
You’ll lose her… and never even know why.
Cara’s footsteps creak on the stairs.
Panic spikes.
The last page nearly slips from my hands.
G – Growth
Show her more is possible…
Tears threaten.
This is him, broken, trying. Too late.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
My phone catches what my eyes can’t.
I shove the pages back into the box.
I can’t take this in now.
Not here.
The door flies open.
“Victory!” Cara crows, kicking it wide like she just conquered Rome.
I jolt back from the box, breath snagging, pulse stuttering. My eyes blur before I can stop them.
Cara freezes mid-stride. Her grin falters.
“Hey.” She tosses the jacket onto the bed and crosses the room in three quick steps. “Jules…”
The tears spill, hot and humiliating.
“I was just… looking for the jacket.” My voice splinters. “The stupid jacket.”
She wraps her arms around me, holding tight. “Hey. It’s okay.”
A broken laugh slips out against her shoulder. I shake my head and straighten, brushing at my face like I can erase the evidence.
“Really, I’m fine. You just barged in and…” I gesture weakly at the shoebox. “You caught me, that’s all.”
I try to smile, but it feels paper-thin.
Cara eases back, brows lifted like she’s not buying it.
“Just breathe with me for a sec,” I say, exaggerating a slow inhale, then a long exhale.
She humors me, matching the breath. Our eyes catch, and the sheer ridiculousness of it pulls out a laugh.
“You good?” she asks.
I deadpan. “Trust me, I can handle being in Cal’s old room. Nothing but old ghosts in here anyway.”
That earns her grin again. She hoists the jacket like a trophy.
“Good. Because behold… the sacred garment. Straight from the hall closet. Don’t ask why it smells like mothballs and despair.”
Scuffed sleeves, duct-taped collar. Looks like regret stitched into leather.
Relief floods in, messy but welcome. “The thing’s hideous. Does it even fit?”
“He said something about a trophy wall?” Cara says, turning it over. “Legend says he slept in this for a month straight.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Tragically, it was summer.”
A laugh snorts out of me before I can stop it, though my chest still aches.
Her eyes flick to the box I basically threw back into place.
“So… what’s in the mystery stash?”
“Oh, nothing. Just Cal’s old… business plan.”
Cara narrows her eyes. “Your face says you just found something you weren’t supposed to.”
“Shut up,” I mutter, cheeks burning.
“Uh-huh.” She slings the jacket over her arm, satisfied. “Anyway, quest complete. Time to return this relic to its rightful bro.”
She moves to the door, then glances back. “You good, Jules?”
I nod. “Yeah, don’t worry. I’ll live.”
My voice is easier. The sting in my chest eases, though a knot still sits in my throat.
Cara gives me a look that says been there, survived that, then bumps my arm. “Well, you’ve had your moment. Now come on. We’ve got a wedding to save and a bouquet to pretend we don’t care about catching.”
I follow Cara but take one last glance at the box before clicking the door shut behind me.
Letters, pages, and heartbreak in 12-point font.
But the weight doesn’t stay in that room.
It follows, quiet and heavy.
Sitting in my camera roll, glowing from my pocket.
Impossible to ignore.