Chapter 11 Juniper and Ink

Chapter 11 Juniper and Ink
(Samarra p.o.v)

By the time the pep rally ends, I feel like my brain has been microwaved.
The music finally cuts, the crowd explodes into movement, and the gym turns into a thousand overlapping conversations, sneakers squeaking, bodies shoving past each other like this is a competitive sport. My skin feels too tight. My head throbs. Every sound arrives at the same volume, which is to say aggressively loud.
I stand up too fast and immediately regret it.
"Okay," I mutter. "That was… a lot."
Derrick rises beside me, smooth as always, already angling his body so I don't get swallowed by the crowd. He places a hand lightly at my back, steering without touching too much.
"You survived," he says. "Impressive."
"I deserve a medal. Or noise-canceling headphones. Or a nap that lasts three to five business days."
He almost smiles.
We make it out into the hallway, which is somehow only marginally less chaotic. I lean against a locker for a second, pressing my palms to the cool metal and breathing through the residual buzz.
"Hey," Derrick says quietly. "I brought you a change of clothes."
I look up. "You what."
He lifts a small bag. "For the art thing. In case you wanted something more… you."
My chest tightens a little.
"You are disturbingly prepared," I tell him. "And also thank you."
"Dark jeans," he adds. "Black shirt. I wasn't sure if it would be cold but I brought you a coat"
I snort. "a coat?"
He holds the caramel coloured monstrosity Casey picked out up.
"oh my god, that..." I chuckle "Thank you."
"I brought you a hoodie too, you little shit. Just in case you didn't like the coat." He says throwing the hoodie playfully at my face. I peel it away, laughing under my breath and glance at him, but the humor falters.

He looks… off.
Paler than usual. A sheen of sweat beads at his temple, catching the fluorescent light. His jaw is tight like he's clenching through something.
"Derrick," I say carefully. "Are you okay? You don't look great."
"I'm fine," he replies immediately.
That does not reassure me.
"We don't have to go," I say. "Really. We can bail. I'll tell Warren my soul needed a rain check."
"I'm fine, Mouse," he says, softer now. "This is your night."
I hesitate, searching his face.
He straightens slightly, like he's bracing himself, and I hate that I know that look so well.
Before I can argue further, a familiar voice cuts in.

"There you are!" Casey appears like a human exclamation point, still glowing from the rally. "Wasn't that amazing?"
"It was… loud," I say diplomatically.
She laughs. "I know, right?"
Derrick nods at her. "You did well out there."
Her smile goes nuclear.
"Thank you! So—what's next?"
"We're heading to Juniper and Ink," Derrick says without thinking. "Open mic night. Sam's friend invited her."
I freeze.
Casey freezes.
Then her eyes light up with terrifying speed.
"Oh my god," she says. "That sounds so fun. I love artsy coffee places."
I slowly turn to Derrick.
"You should come." Derrick says easily, as if that's not the worst idea ever.
I shoot him a look that promises consequences.
He blinks. Once.
 He says, realizing it in real time and gives me an apologetic look.
Casey claps her hands. "I'll come with! I can change super fast."
I stare at the ceiling, considering my life choices.
Derrick clears his throat. "Yeah, Sam. Also wanted to change," he adds, careful now.
I look between them.
This was supposed to be quiet. Low lights. Poetry. Safe corners and Warren and art people who don't scream.
Now it is… this.
I sigh. "Sure. The more the merrier. Or louder. We'll be right back."
Casey squeals and hugs me before I can dodge.
"Tonight is going to be amazing. What's wrong with the outfit you're wearing? It's cute." she declares.
I shrug. We head to the locker rooms to change. Casey taking an unnecessary amount of time fixing her already perfect face.
                                       

Juniper and Ink looks exactly like Warren described.
Exposed brick. Warm light. Plants that look like they might be surviving on vibes alone. The kind of place where everyone whispers like they're afraid to scare the art off the walls. My shoulders drop a notch the second we step inside.
"This is nice," I mutter. "I feel like I should already be cooler."
Warren is waiting by the door, sleeves rolled up, apron tied around his waist.
"Oh good," he says when he sees me. "You made it."
"You work here?" I ask.
He grins sheepishly. "Yeah. Saving up for art school. My mom can't really afford tuition, so… coffee."
"That's really admirable," Derrick says evenly. "Your mother must be very proud."
Warren straightens a little at that. "Thanks."
He leads us to a small table near the back, tucked away from the little stage. Strategic. I approve.
"I'll grab your drinks," Warren says. "What do you want?"
Casey doesn't hesitate. "Pink iced latte with whipped cream and vanilla drizzle."
Warren nods like this is normal and not a dessert masquerading as a beverage.
"Black coffee," Derrick says.
Of course.
I glance at the menu and sigh contentedly. "Tea please. Lemon and honey."
Warren smiles. "Coming right up."

When the drinks arrive, Casey's looks like it costs more than my weekly allowance. Pink. Iced. Topped with whipped cream and a straw that feels aggressively unnecessary.
Derrick's black coffee looks like it could double as a personality trait.
I cradle my tea pot like a little old lady who has opinions about weather patterns.
"This is peak contrast," I say.
Casey laughs. "It's cute."
The open mic starts soon after. Warren goes up early, hands a little shaky but voice steady once he begins. He reads a poem about a girl. It's soft. Observant. Filled with admiration and kindness without expectation.
It makes my chest ache in a good way.
I clap a little too hard when he finishes.
Other people read after him. Short stories. Poems. One guy sings something that feels deeply personal and slightly illegal to witness. I sip my tea and let the warmth settle me.
Halfway through, I feel it.
The need to move. To breathe. To give the love birds some space.
"I'm going to look at the art," I murmur, standing.
Derrick nods immediately. "I'll be here."
Casey smiles. "Take your time."

I wander toward the wall displays, letting the noise soften into background texture. Charcoal sketches. Abstract watercolors. Little plaques with names and prices I definitely cannot afford.
For the first time all day, my head quiets.
Behind me, Casey laughs at something Derrick says. It's easy. Light.
I don't turn around.
For a moment I let myself just exist among the art.

\-------------
Derrick p.o.v 

I am not at my best.
That is the measured way to put it. The honest way is that everything feels slightly out of sync, like my body is running on borrowed time and forgetting to ask permission. My chest aches dully, not pain exactly, but strain. The kind that comes from pulling too hard on something already thinned.

Casey is talking.
She has been talking for a while.
I nod when it seems appropriate. Smile when her voice lifts at the end of a sentence. I even laugh once, a short sound that surprises me with how convincing it is. I catch fragments. Something about practice. Something about music. Something about how cute this place is.
It is cute.

Juniper and Ink feels like a place Sam would fit without trying. Soft light. Corners that invite quiet. Walls that hold other people's feelings without demanding anything back. I can almost see her already, tucked into the corner booth, sketchbook open, pencil smudging her fingers as she disappears into herself.
The image settles deep.
She would belong here.

My gaze drifts to the wall where she stands now, studying the art with that careful intensity she gets when she forgets she is being watched. She keeps glancing back toward the table, checking. Making sure I am still upright. Still here.
I give her a small nod when our eyes meet.
She relaxes a fraction.

The coffee shop hums softly around us. Cups clink. Someone laughs quietly. The stage lights dim between readers. It reminds me of places long buried in memory. Stone halls warmed by candlelight. Quiet corners where soldiers pretended they were not soldiers for a few hours.

I used to write poetry.
No one ever knows that. Not even Catherine. Not even Sam.
Words were easier on paper than they ever were aloud. Back then, I wrote about mercy. About hands that healed instead of harmed. About a girl who smelled like herbs and rain and believed the world could be kinder if you were brave enough to insist on it.
I wonder, briefly, what I would write now.
If I could write something for Sam that did not weigh her down. Something that did not ask for anything in return. Something that simply existed because she does.

Casey's voice cuts through my thoughts.
"—and then she said it was totally fine, but you know how people say that when it's not—"
I blink and look at her properly.
"I am sorry," I say honestly. "I was in thought. I did not hear you."
She laughs it off easily. "It's okay. You do that sometimes."
"Yes," I agree. "Sometimes."
My eyes drift back to Sam again without conscious decision. She shifts her weight, hair falling forward as she leans closer to a painting, fingers twitching like she wants to draw it instead of look at it.

Despite the weakness. Despite the strain. Despite the cost pressing heavier by the hour.
This is worth it.
Being here. Watching her find spaces where she can breathe. Letting her night be about art and quiet and choice.
I straighten slightly, forcing my body to behave.
For now, I will endure.
I always do.