Page 16 of Until Forever Falls

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, thisisgood,” 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.”

---