Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 10

I thump my hand against the dashboard on “sick beat” and throw James a ridiculous over-the-top wink.

He laughs, not his usual cocky snort, but a real one. Deep and unguarded.

“God, you’re such a weirdo,” he says.

“You played the song,” I point out. “I’m just giving the people what they want.”

We’re both smiling now. Not in that tight, polite way. But the kind that makes your chest loosen and your face ache a little.

I turn my head back toward the window, still smiling. The town slips by in streaks of color, red taillights, flashing neon signs from 24-hour diners, flickering motel signs half-lit with vacancy. There's something cinematic about it, like we're suspended between two realities. Not quite here, not quite gone.

“Thanks,” I say quietly, the word barely more than a breath.

James glances at me. “For what?”

“For pulling me out of whatever spiral I was about to drown in.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just drums his fingers on the wheel.

Finally: “You don’t always have to be okay, you know.”

I look at him, and for a second I forget we’re just two seniors in a beat-up car heading toward the edge of town. Because there’s something in his voice that makes me believe him, like he’s offering something he’s never said out loud before. Like he’s saying he sees me.

The song fades into the next one, Something About You by The 1975, it's quieter. We don’t speak. We don’t need to.

The wind whistles through a cracked window. My hair whips gently around my face. Salt starts to creep into the air, the kind you can’t quite place unless you’ve lived near the ocean.

We’re getting close.

And maybe I’m still a little lost. Still scared. But right now, in this car, with this boy and that ridiculous pop song echoing in my head...

We pull up to a secluded stretch of the beach, the kind only locals know. There are no lights here, just the low hum of waves rolling in and the occasional glint of moonlight bouncing off the sea. James kills the engine. For a moment, the world settles into a quiet hush, like the earth itself is exhaling.

Then, without a word, he steps out.

I follow.

The breeze is colder here, brushing past my skin like a whisper. I wrap my arms tighter around myself and trail behind him as he opens the trunk.

From it, he pulls out a small woven picnic basket.

I blink. “You packed?”

He shrugs one shoulder, eyes on the basket like it’s nothing. “Figured you’d need a break from reality.”

Then he shuts the trunk, and the dome light flickers off. And just like that, I see him.

Not just the outline I usually ignore in the hallways. Not the boy with sarcastic quips and too much bravado. But him.

The moon hits him at an angle that feels unfair, like nature itself is conspiring to paint him in gold. His hair falls just above his eyes, soft and slightly windswept, like someone sculpted it to land perfectly there. His thick brows frame those deep-set eyes, the kind you don’t notice until you do, and then they won’t let you look away. Long lashes. A strong jaw that looks too chiseled for a teenager. His skin smooth and clear like there’s some kind of natural filter the rest of us didn’t get access to.