Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 42

Betty walked a few steps ahead, her flats tapping rhythmically against the pavement. She didn’t seem to mind the heat. Or maybe she did, but she was better at pretending. Her ponytail bounced with each step. A butterfly clip held the stray hairs back, the same one she wore on the first week of school. I remember noticing it then, too. I notice everything about her. That's the problem.

She glanced back. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I said. Which meant: No, not really. I’m dehydrated, hungover, emotionally unstable, and I might still be in love with you.

We reached the corner store. The AC blasted against my face like absolution. Betty let out a soft, content sigh, the kind that made my chest tighten. She reached for a cart while I kept my hands in my pockets, trailing behind.

“We need crepe paper, fairy lights, and extra wire for the backdrop,” she said, scanning a crumpled list pulled from her back pocket. “Also, white mesh if they have it.”

“You mean the one that looks like wedding veil?” I asked, just to be difficult.

She tilted her head at me. “Yes, because apparently, under fluorescent lights and teenage delusion, we can make this gym feel like a fantasy.”

“Delusion’s the school’s strongest resource.”

She laughed. The sound made my stomach twist.

As we walked through the aisles, she picked up a roll of light pink ribbon and held it to her wrist like a makeshift corsage. “Would this look good with Inez’s dress?”

I gave it a once-over. “That depends. Is her dress loud or just visually offensive?”

Betty chuckled, nudging me with her shoulder. “Matt. You’re funnier when you’re tired.”

I shrugged. “Maybe I’m just too tired to filter.”

She turned to look at me then, really looked. I held her gaze for a second too long. Her eyes were lined with something that wasn’t eyeliner. Fatigue maybe. Or sadness.

“You okay?” she asked, lowering the ribbon.

“Yeah,” I lied again. “Just didn’t sleep much.”

“Because of prom stress or something else?”

I didn’t answer. Just pushed the cart forward, quietly watching her toss in wire, tape, light bulbs, and distractions. We reached the register. As she paid, I leaned against the door, watching the cars pass outside, watching the world spin obliviously while mine sat still.

She came to stand next to me, plastic bags in hand. “Do you think we’ll remember this?” she asked suddenly.

“What?”

“This... chaos. This store run. This whole week.”

I looked at her.

“I’ll remember,” I said. Because I always remember you.

But I didn’t say that part out loud.

We stepped outside. The light hit her like a spotlight. She squinted and smiled at me without knowing she did. I carried half the bags. She was walking next to me but she felt a world away. And I still couldn’t tell her.

So I said, “Next time, I’m choosing the playlist.”

She rolled her eyes. “As long as it’s not sad-boy music.”

“I make no promises.”

We walked back in silence, her hand occasionally brushing mine when the bags swung too far. It was accidental. Unintentional.