Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 5

----JAMES ANDREW GRAY----

I’m not sure why I’m smiling.

The living room’s quiet. Too quiet, actually. Just the low hum of the old ceiling fan above me, wobbling slightly like it might fall one day but never does. I sink into the far end of the couch, the leather cracked from years of use, the same spot I always end up in after practice, after parties, after anything. My palm brushes over the basketball resting on my lap, worn, smudged with dirt, the rubber almost smooth in spots from how much I’ve held it.

And yeah, I’m smiling.

I close my eyes and let the weight of the ball settle in my hands like it’s some kind of anchor. But it isn’t the ball I’m thinking about. It’s her.

Betty.

God, I can still feel the way she looked at me like she wasn’t sure if I’d kiss her or kill her. Not fear, exactly. Just... hesitation. Her breath hitched a little when I moved in too close, and when I pressed her back against the locker room wall, the air between us tightened. And her scent, fuck!, it wasn’t like perfume or flowers or whatever girls usually drown themselves in. It was... soft. Clean. Like warm linen and something faintly citrus, maybe shampoo. I didn’t expect it to linger this long in my head, but here I am, sitting in my living room, thinking about how the tips of her hair brushed my cheek when she turned away.

She couldn’t look me in the eye. Not really. Her gaze darted everywhere, over my shoulder, to the floor, to the lockers behind me, anywhere but straight at me. It made me feel like I had control. Like I mattered. And when she finally did meet my eyes, it wasn’t defiance I saw.

It was understanding.

Her voice was gentle, like she was trying not to spook me. Like I was some stray animal she was trying to coax out of hiding. “I’ll help you,” she’d said. Not just words. A promise. And it pissed me off, the way it softened me.

The way she softened me.

I shift on the couch, dragging a hand down my face. What the hell’s wrong with me? I don’t do this. I don’t sit around thinking about the way a girl tilts her head or fidgets with the sleeves of her cardigan like she’s got static electricity running through her. I don’t remember their tones, their trembling fingers, the shape of their mouths when they say my name like they’re afraid it’ll bite back.

But Betty, she’s... different. Not because she’s hot. She is, but it’s more than that. It's the way she doesn't try too hard. The way she walks like she’s carrying something heavy but refuses to let anyone see it. The way she told me I wasn’t a bad person, even when I tried to make her think I was.

I glance up toward the hallway. I can already hear the sharp footsteps. My dad. He’s home. That means this peace, this fragile moment where I can just sit and pretend things are simple, it’s about to shatter. Like always.

But for now...
I hold onto the silence.
I hold onto her voice.
I hold onto the way I pinned her to the wall and she didn’t run.

And for some stupid reason, I wish I could go back and do it again, slower this time.

The door creaks open.

And just like that, the stillness is gone.

My dad’s footsteps are heavy, deliberate, like he wants each one to land with a message. I don’t even look up yet, I can already feel the heat rolling off him, like anger doesn’t need words anymore. It just lives in the room with us.

Behind him, I hear my mom’s lighter steps. Always behind. Always quiet.

“James,” my dad barks, his voice sharp like it was honed on disappointment. “What the hell is this?”