Chapter 8: Trying Something New

(Samarra – Pov)

I stand in front of the mirror longer than usual.

Not in a wow, look at me way. More in a who are you today and why are you making eye contact with yourself way.

The necklace Derrick gave me last night rests just below my collarbone, the silver chain cool against my skin, the sapphire teardrop catching the weak morning light. When I touch it, there's a faint vibration.

Not buzzing. Not humming.

More like… warmth.

Like someone wrapped a blanket around my shoulders without asking and somehow got it exactly right.

I still.

Because—

I’ve felt this before. Not exactly the same.

But close enough that something in my chest tightens before I can stop it.

For a second, I’m not in my room anymore.

I’m younger. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, dirt pressed into my knees, the world smaller and easier to understand. Derrick’s voice is low and steady as he reads from a book I barely remember now. Something about stars and gods and things that sounded important even if I didn’t fully get it.

We’re under the big oak tree. The one we left behind a million moves ago.

The air smelled like summer and dust and sun-warmed leaves.

“Hold still,” he’d said, distracted, the book momentarily forgotten on his lap as he reacher for my hand.

I remember frowning. “Why?”

“Because I said so.”

Which, apparently, was a complete argument when I was ten.

He tied something around my wrist. Careful. Focused in that quiet way he gets when he’s doing something that matters.

A thin piece of cord with a small stone woven into it.

Nothing special.

But when it presses against my skin the same warmth seeped into me.

A strange sort of comfort fell over me. Like I was safe, warm and held.

Like being anchored to something I couldn’t name yet.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said, already turning the page. “Just don’t lose it.”

I did.

Later that year, somewhere between boxes and tape and a house that didn’t feel like ours yet, it disappeared.

I remember looking for it.

Not because it was valuable.

Because I missed the way it felt.

The memory slips away.

I’m back in front of the mirror.

The necklace rests against my skin, quiet and unassuming.

But the steady, familiar warmth is still there.

I let my hand fall slowly.

"Okay," I tell my reflection softly. "I can do this."

Today feels like a day that needs a slight adjustment.

So I compromise.

Dark jeans stay. I'm not a monster. But instead of my usual aggressively unapproachable hoodie, I dig out a loose, soft shirt that's… friendlier. A muted forest green. Something that says I might be spoken to without biting.

I still put on my black zip-up jacket because I have standards.

Then I pause in front of my boots.

Stare at them.

Sigh.

"Fine," I mutter, and shove my feet into trainers instead.

This is growth. Probably.

Catherine is already in the kitchen when I come out, coffee in hand, tablet propped up against the counter. She looks up immediately, eyes narrowing just a fraction.

"Nice shirt," she observes, brows knitting together as she looks me over.

"Don't make it weird."

She smiles that stiff half smile. "Too late."

I grab a mug and lean against the counter. "So… hypothetical question."

Her brow lifts. "From you those are never hypothetical."

"Okay, realistic question. Would you maybe be willing to take me shopping after school? For clothes that don't look like I'm constantly attending a funeral for my social life."

Catherine blinks.

Once.

Twice.

"…Shopping," she repeats.

"Yes. With money. And stores. Possibly joy."

She studies me for a moment, then sets her coffee down. "What prompted this?"

I shrug. "Trying something new. Thought I'd shock the universe."

"I'm not really a style expert. Maybe your friend would like to join?" she asks casually, like this isn't significant.

"Definitely," I say quickly. "She has opinions. Loud ones. I think she'd enjoy it."

Catherine considers this.

Then nods. "All right. After school. I'll pick you up."

I grin. "Thank you."

"And Sam?" she adds.

"Yeah?"

"We are buying at least one item that is not black."

I grimace. "You drive a hard bargain."

\--

School drop-off feels… strange.

It's not raining for once.

I don't trust it.

The air is misty, cool, everything soft-edged like the world hasn't fully rendered yet. Derrick pulls up and parks, engine idling.

He gets out to open my door, like always.

And then—

Casey appears out of nowhere.

"Good morning!" she chirps, throwing herself at Derrick with zero hesitation.

She hugs him.

Fully. Arms around his shoulders. Pressed close.

And Derrick doesn't flinch but I can see him stiffen for a moment. Weirdly enough he doesn't try to gently extract himself like he usually does when someone violates his personal space.

He just… lets it happen.

My brain blue-screens.

What.

Casey pulls back, beaming. "I'm still riding the high from last night."

Derrick smiles, a half-smile. Some uncertainty hidden behind it. "I can tell."

I climb out of the truck slowly, staring at them like I've wandered into an alternate universe.

Since when does Derrick hug people?

Publicly?

Voluntarily?

I clear my throat. "Should I be concerned?"

Casey loops her arm through mine immediately. "Nope! Just excited! Also—" she lowers her voice conspiratorially, "your brother is officially pep rally approved."

"I don't know what that means," I say.

"Neither does he," she grins. "That's the fun part."

Derrick glances at me, something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say.

As we start toward the doors, I add casually, "Hey, so after school Catherine's taking us shopping."

Casey stops dead.

"What."

"Clothes. Me. You. Possibly color."

Her face lights up like I just handed her a winning lottery ticket. "Oh my god. This is huge."

"I know," I say dryly. "Try to stay calm."

She squeals anyway.

Behind us, Derrick watches us go, hands in his jacket pockets, that familiar guarded posture settling back into place.

And for reasons I don't fully understand yet—

The warmth at my collarbone deepens.

Not stronger.

Just… more present.

Like it's paying attention.

It hits me three steps into the building.

Last night?

I slow just enough that Casey bumps into me.

"Whoa—sorry!" she laughs. "You good?"

I blink at her. "You said you were 'still riding the high from last night.'"

She grins. Big. Unapologetic. Glowing.

"Oh my god, yeah."

"…Care to elaborate?" I ask.

"We were just texting. You know. About the dance."

My stomach drops.

It's nothing.

It doesn't mean anything.

People text.

Derrick texts.

This is normal.

I wait.

"That's it?"

"Well," she says, drawing it out, "I sent him pictures."

I stop walking, nausea rising up as my stomach tightens into a ball.

"Pictures of what."

"My dress options. Shoes too. And then he asked questions."

My throat tightens. "Derrick asked questions?"

"Yeah!" she beams. "Like what color works better with my skin tone and whether gold jewelry is 'too much.' Which, first of all, rude, because it's never too much."

The necklace gives a brief sharp pulse.

"Oh," I say.

"And then we talked for like… an hour?"

An hour. My head is swimming and my vision blurs around the edges.

I laugh but it sounds wrong. "Wow. Sounds… intense."

"Relax. We didn't do anything. He's very respectful."

That word shouldn’t hurt. Because of course Derrick is respectful.

"But he's funny," she adds. "Like dry, old-man funny. I feel like he's lived like twelve lives."

I don't respond.

Because suddenly—

The smile.

The hug.

The way he leaned in. It makes sense. Casey is exactly the type of girl Derrick would go for. She's literally sunshine on legs, just like him. With her cute mini skirt and weirdly tanned legs and her tight white sweater that fits her just so. Her golden hair always bouncing along as she walks.

How is she even this tanned? I haven't seen the sun out in days, aside from today. But still.

I walk faster.

It doesn't mean anything, I tell myself quietly.

"Anyway," she says, looping her arm through mine again, "shopping tonight is perfect timing because I want a second opinion. From someone who actually knows him."

I nod. "Lucky me."

She laughs, missing the edge in my voice entirely.

But as we pass through the doors and the noise of school rushes in, one thought keeps repeating, unwelcome and insistent:

Derrick doesn't give his time away lightly.

And whatever happened last night—

It mattered enough to change something.

By the time Casey peels off toward her first-period class, I'm already exhausted. And boiling. I take off my zip jacket and tie it around my waist.

Casey blows me a kiss like she's heading into battle and I'm the lover she's leaving behind. I give her a salute. Emotional casualties: pending.

I am deeply, profoundly grateful that my first class of the day is art.

The room feels like a pocket dimension, muted light, paint-stained tables, the faint smell of coffee someone definitely snuck in. My shoulders loosen the second I step inside.

Warren waves at me from our usual corner, charcoal already smudged on his fingers like a permanent tattoo.

"Morning," he says. "You look… different."

I raise a brow. "Different good or different I've joined a cult?"

"Different approachable," he grins. "Like someone might ask you for directions and not immediately regret it."

"I hate that you're right."

We settle into our seats, pencils moving almost automatically.

"So," he says, lowering his voice like he's sharing state secrets, "there's this coffee shop in Ashwick."

"Is that a real place or one of those towns that exists purely to sell antiques and jam?"

"Both," he says proudly. "It's called Juniper & Ink. Very artsy. Exposed brick. Questionable poetry. They do open mic night on Fridays."

I glance up. "You read?"

"Poetry," he says. "Badly. But with confidence."

"Respect."

"A bunch of us are going," he adds casually. "Poems, short stories, spoken word. You should come."

I consider it.

Low lights. Predictable noise. Art people who overshare emotionally but leave you alone otherwise.

"That actually sounds… tolerable," I admit.

"Amazeballs, I will text you all the details," he says.

The bell rings too soon.

The hallway is chaos.

Lockers slam. Voices overlap. The world ramps up from manageable to aggressively present in about two seconds. Warren gives me a nod when I put in my earphones and inhale a shaky breath.

We walk together in silence. Warren's arm brushing my shoulder every few steps. A steady reminder that he's there.

I smile up at him, grateful to have a friend who allows me to just exist. I'm looking up at Warren, noticing for the first time a scar just below his jaw when I collide with a wall of leather and bad intentions.

Jesse Carter.

I don't even stop.

I sidestep him like he's furniture and keep walking. Warren glancing back at him as we pass.

"Not your usual look," I faintly hear Jesse say behind me.

I don't turn. I don't have the energy to entertain his crazy today.

"Did you hear me?" he snaps. The sound coming out louder and much closer. Pushing through the soft music playing through my earphones.

I ignore him and keep walking. I have a class to get to.

Suddenly Jesse grabs my shoulder and yanks me back.

My balance goes first, then the impact—

Metal slams into my back hard enough to knock the air out of my lungs. The lockers rattle, the sound sharp and hollow, echoing straight through my skull.

My vision flickers and static pulses over my skin.

For half a second, everything is just noise and pressure and the absence of breath.

Then his hand closes around my jaw. The contact sends a shiver right through me and the noise disappears. The music in my ears fade to background noise and the pressure in my head evaporates.

His hand forces my chin up to look at him. He's eyes are exceptionally dark today. His brows furrowed and pure unadulterated rage is etched into every line of his face. He's too close.

I can smell smoke and rain and something sharp underneath that makes my skin crawl.

"You will look at me when I'm speaking to you, little rat," he growls.

The hallway goes very, very quiet.

Warren steps forward. "She's got her earphones in asshole! She couldn't hear you."

Jesse shoots him a look that freezes him mid-step.

My heart hammers against my ribs but my voice stays steady.

"Get your hand off my face," I say calmly.

For a second his grip tightens.

The necklace heats against my throat

A pulse of warmth spreading outward, steadying something in me that refuses to break under his grip.

Jesse's other hand pushes the hair away from left ear and goosebumps raise on my arms. He's really checking to see if I've got my earphones in.

"Back off Jesse" Warren says again. But he doesn't step any closer.

Jesse leans down until we're eye level, his face so close I can feel his breath on my cheek.

\---------------

Jesse – Pov

She's in my head like an infestation.

I dream about her. I see her everywhere. I catch traces of her scent in hallways she hasn't walked through in hours. Coconut and something floral. Sweet and warm and far too good for this world. I hear her laugh cutting through the noise and lights and the endless stream of stupid people I can't escape.

It's driving me more insane than usual.

I skip first period on purpose.

I tell myself I'm just stretching my legs. That I needed air. That it's not because I positioned myself near the art wing like some pathetic guard dog waiting for her to come out. Although it absolutely is and I feel incredibly pathetic for doing it. I'm about to leave when she finally comes out of her class. She looks different today. She's wearing her usual dark jeans that fit her body perfectly, a dark green t-shirt I've never seen on her before. Her jacket is tied around her waist. She's not wearing her boots either. She's looks almost relaxed today. Her black her frames her soft pixie-like face and her mouth is curved into a small smile. The sight of her nearly knocks the breath out of me and I can feel my pulse spiking and my hands start to shake.

She's walking beside some shaggy-haired prick who looks like he belongs in a coffee shop instead of a school hallway. He's too close to her, their arms brushing every few steps. She smiles up at him and I hate him instantly.

I step into her path deliberately, casual enough to look accidental.

She bumps into me—and then sidesteps like I'm nothing.

Like I'm not even worth reacting to. The rejection stings worse than a cigarette burn.

"Not your usual look today," I say as she passes.

She doesn't slow down.

"Did you hear me?" I snap, already following.

She's ignoring me. Something old and ugly crawls up from my stomach, hot and violent. I see my father's face in my mind, his voice sharp, instructive, telling me how easy it is to break things if you don't hesitate.

I don't hesitate.

I grab her shoulder and slam her back into the lockers.

The sound rings out.

Her breath leaves her in an audible huff.

My hand is on her face instantly, lifting her chin to look at me.

Her skin is warm under my fingers and surprisingly softer than I had imagined.

She doesn't scream or cry.

She just looks at me.

Those impossible green eyes sharp with something that isn't fear.

"Get your hand off my face," she says calmly.

Like she's the one in control. I should slam her head against the locker, that would get a reaction out of her, but then without warning the noise in my head—

Stops.

Just stops.

My father's voice cuts out mid-thought.

The pressure disappears. I inhale deeply through my nose.

Everything narrows until there's only her.

The warmth of her skin beneath my fingers.

The way her breath catches.

The way she holds my gaze like she's not afraid to take me on.

I hear the art-douch say something about earphones behind me. My brain refuses to even process it. I just look at him, and he shuts up.

I look back at Sam, she's not even squirming or trying to get away from me. I relax my grip on her slightly. Would my fingers leave bruises on her skin. I look down towards her jaw.

There's a faint mark where my thumb pressed too hard.

Something twists low in my chest. I'm hurting her.

I push the hair away from her left ear with my right hand and sure as hell she's got her earphones in. And I'm a fucking idiot. Attacking a girl for what I thought was defiance. My eyes land on her lips, slightly parted, her hot breath coming out in short pants.

I shouldn't—

I know I shouldn't, but I can't help myself.

I lean in anyway, slowly. I just need to be a little bit closer.

What would she taste like?

The thought lands and doesn't feel wrong.

That’s the worst part.

For a second I forget why I’m angry.

Forget who I’m supposed to be.

Then I see it.

Not fear or submission.

Confusion.

Like she doesn't understand why I'm this close.

Like I'm overstepping some boundary she has that I should know about.

The realisation hits me all at once.

What I'm doing.

What I almost did.

Shame crashes in.

Hard and ugly.

I drag my thumb across her lower lip, slower now, deliberate—but the moment is already broken.

I meet her eyes.

Cold.

Controlled.

"Don't flatter yourself."

I let her go and step back. I look at the art-douch once more, challenging him with my eyes. He just looks between me and Sam but doesn't say a word.

I turn and walk away.

The noise slams back into me the second there's space between us.

Voices. Footsteps. The lights buzzing overhead. Too loud. Too much. And yet not enough. Not enough to drown out her lingering voice in my head.

I storm outside and light a cigarette, hands not quite steady as smoke fills my lungs.

What the fuck just happened.

What did I just do?

I almost kissed her.

Worse.

I wanted to. I wanted to bury my face in her hair and inhale that sweet intoxicating scent until my head if filled with it.

What the hell is wrong with me?

I think about leaving school for the day. Getting in my car and going home.

I don't.

Because if I leave i won't see her.

And that feels worse.

I exhale slowly, staring at the gray sky.

This thing inside me—

Whatever it is—

It's not getting better.

It's getting worse and it wants her.