Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 14

And then, from the kitchen, I heard clinking glasses and an awkward shuffle. My dad.

He came out balancing a tray of “snacks” like he was serving royalty, Royal Tru Orange in old mugs, store-bought cookies, a few packs of cheap biscuits arranged like hors d’oeuvres.

“Snack time,” he said, voice rough but steady.

Matt quickly stood and took the tray from him, careful like he was handling crystal. “Thanks, Mr. Finn.”

James raised his brow and lifted a cookie like it was a champagne toast. “To the chef.”

My dad gave a half-smile before turning back toward the kitchen. It wasn’t a grand moment. But it mattered. Because I saw it, the way he was trying. Not perfect. Not fixed. Just trying.

He hadn’t spent the evening on the porch, beer in hand, or locked in his room with swollen eyes. He was here. With us. Doing the best he could, even if that meant soda in coffee mugs and cookies that crumbled too fast.

And my heart didn’t ache.

It swelled.

For once, I didn’t feel like I had to brace myself for the next emotional blow. I was just Betty. Not healed. But held, in the simplicity of these "junk food" guised as snacks and an almost study sessions and boys who constantly bet on habits.

This, this strange little night, felt almost like something worth remembering.

After a while, the cookies were mostly crumbs, and the soda had gone flat in our mugs. The light from the living room lamp cast a soft yellow glow over our papers, books, and the crumbs we never bothered to wipe away. Matt stretched and stood up, muttering something about needing to use the bathroom. I pointed down the hallway, and he disappeared around the corner, leaving me and James in the stillness.

I shifted in my seat, trying to refocus on my notes, but then I felt it.

That gaze.

When I glanced up, James wasn’t even pretending to look away. His elbow rested on the edge of the table, fingers curled near his chin, eyes fixed on me like I was a constellation he was trying to memorize.

“What?” I asked, letting out a breathy laugh, suddenly aware of how I tucked one leg under the other, how I twisted the end of my hoodie sleeve.

I reached up and tucked my hair behind my ear, already feeling the warmth creep up my neck.

James blinked. Slowly. Almost like a cat. There was no mischief in it. No smirk.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

Just that. Bare. Honest. Not like a compliment someone throws out to fish for a reaction, but like a truth he just realized and had to say aloud. It wasn’t just the word. It was how he said it. How it settled into the room like dust in sunlight. He wasn’t talking about lip gloss or eyeliner or anything I could see in the mirror. It felt like he was speaking to something under my skin.

Something deeper.

And it hit me, there’s a different kind of liking. One where someone doesn’t just talk to you, but to your soul. Like they’ve known you longer than you've known yourself. Like your soul loved them before your heart even caught up, and your brain is just now trying to put a label on it.

It made me dizzy.

Because part of me, maybe the loudest part, still believed I was a broken thing. A girl held together by stubbornness and silence. Someone stitched back after losing too much. What could a boy like him, this handsome mess with eyes full of softness and fire, possibly see in someone like me?