Page 55 of Fractured Faceoff

“Why am I flashing back to my eighth-grade summer and that watering hole?” I shot back, trying to mask the rush of nostalgia washing over me.

He chuckled as he closed the door behind me. “Because we both know I was the coolest kid in town. Everyone wanted to be near me, even you.” His laughter echoed in my ears as he walked toward his own car.

I shook my head with a smile, starting up my engine and pulling out of the parking spot. The road stretched ahead of us like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.

Jared’s truck rumbled ahead of me, his movements effortless as he navigated through traffic like he owned the place. The sun hung low in the sky, painting everything in hues of orange and pink, reflecting off his rearview mirror.

Without warning, my phone rang. I glanced down, surprised to see Jared's name. Had he changed his mind about me coming over?

"Hello?" I said.

“Ever think about that summer? The one where we nearly drowned?” he asked suddenly.

“I’d rather not,” I replied with mock seriousness. “That was traumatic.”

He laughed again, carefree. “Oh, come on! You screamed like a banshee when I pushed you off that rock!”

“It was an accident!” I protested but couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

He glanced back at me through his window and grinned wide enough that I could see it even from here. “Yeah right! You were flailing like a fish outta water.”

The laughter faded into a comfortable silence as we continued our drive towards his place, both lost in our thoughts but somehow tethered together by shared history and newfound possibilities.

“Just so you know,” I called into the phone, trying to keep my tone light despite the weight in my chest, “the only thing worse than your cooking is your singing.”

He laughed, a deep rumble that reverberated throughmy speakers. “And yet, here you are, willingly coming over for both.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. It’s just for the sake of professional development.”

His chuckle lingered as we turned onto his street.

Pulling my car to the curb outside his townhouse, I took a moment to appreciate its charm. The two-story structure stood out with its dark blue siding and white trim, nestled among a row of similar homes. A small porch stretched across the front, adorned with potted plants that Jared likely neglected more often than not, despite only being here for a few weeks. The faint scent of pine wafted from the trees lining the street, mixing with a hint of evening air.

I stepped out of my car and glanced around. A couple strolled past with their dog, exchanging friendly waves as they walked by. Jared climbed out of his truck and ambled over to me, his demeanor relaxed but purposeful.

“This place is cozy,” I said as I took in the well-kept front yard. “I half expected a wrestling ring in the living room or something.”

“Maybe that’ll be next on my renovation list,” he shot back, crossing his arms and leaning against my car with a casual grin.

“Let’s not ruin all your good decorum just yet.”

He chuckled again, but there was something deeper beneath it—a sense of pride about his home that tugged at me.

As we approached the door, he paused for a moment and looked at me sideways. “You’re gonna want to take off your shoes when you come inside. No muddy tracks on my hardwoods.”

“Wouldn’t dream of ruining yourpristine floors,” I replied dryly, rolling my eyes as I reached for the door handle.

The tension hung in the air between us—an undercurrent that was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking as I stepped inside Jared's world for what felt like the first time since our childhood. A wave of warmth enveloped me. The living room sprawled out before me, still bare but somehow inviting. A large window let in the late afternoon light, casting golden rays across the polished hardwood floor. The walls, painted a soft gray, waited patiently for artwork and decor that would eventually make this place feel like home.

A couple of mismatched couches sat against one wall, with a coffee table littered with magazines and a half-drunk cup of coffee. The kitchen gleamed at the far end, a clean and modern space that felt surprisingly open despite its compactness.

“I’m thinking pasta?” Jared called from the kitchen, already moving toward the cabinets.

I smiled at his back as he rummaged through shelves. “I’m thinking yes; that’s my favorite?—”

He turned to face me, a teasing glint in his eyes. “I remember. Besides Chinese, right?”

Our gazes locked for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Something electric sparked between us, lingering like an unspoken promise before he broke the moment by turning back to the counter.

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