Hey everyone, it's me Alex. It's been a while since I've
popped in. I kind of just raw dropped
episodes honestly. I just really hate talking and
hearing my voice, which is surprising since I used to work
on the radio, but it just gives me flashbacks when I used to
just drive around and just randomly hear my voice.
Anyway, I hope you are all enjoying this story so far.
I've had a lot of people reach out to me and it's kind of
surreal that people are meeting these characters that have been
living in my head for the past few years.
Anyway, if you've been listening since the first episode, I went
back and edited the intro so you all don't know that I
begrudgingly made a Instagram and TikTok.
All right, hard stop. Forgot to drop the handle for
the Insta and TikTok Tony's novel.
All right, back to it. So please follow and comment
letting me know what your thoughts are so far because I
really want to know what people think.
But yeah, that's all I got, so enjoy.
Thursday, July 20th, 2:23 PM. Bergan sits on the wall alone,
the rough stone cool beneath her fingertips as she traces the
uneven surface absent mindedly. She's alone, which feels normal,
maybe even necessary, her isolation punctuated by the
occasional burst of laughter from the group gathered a little
farther down the wall. She doesn't know them, doesn't
want to know them. Their voices are just noise,
background chatter that fails to breakthrough her haze of
disconnection. She lights another cigarette,
the lighters flame barely visible in the bright light.
She's been chain smoking since she got here. 4th cigarette in
20 minutes or so, her phone says.
She doesn't bother flipping it open to check for messages.
There won't be any, just the cold impersonal numbers on the
screen ticking away the minutes. She's been sitting there 20
minutes since her mom dropped her off, feels longer, like time
is stretching, warping into some endless loop.
She inhales deeply, watching the smoke swirl around her like
something out of a bad noir film.
She notices a young mother pushing a stroller down the
sidewalk in front of her. Burgon feels a momentary flicker
of guilt. Should she really be smoking in
front of a kid? She dismisses the thought almost
immediately, her lips tightening around the cigarette as if
daring herself to care. The woman passes by, oblivious,
and Bergen's attention drifts back to the quiet, empty St.
Movement catches her eye, a figure stepping onto market from
South Lutheran St. Her heart skips, but as she
squints into the sunlight, she realizes it's not Owen.
Just some guy unremarkable, dissolving back into the town's
anonymous flow. Relief and disappointment twist
together inside her, indistinguishable from one
another. She's not nervous, she tells
herself. Just on edge, excited maybe.
Dad always said people confuse excitement with nerves.
She takes another drag, the ember glowing brighter, searing
that thought away. She's just excited, that's all.
It's why she's here, isn't it? Excited to finally hang out with
Owen, just the two of them. When she saw his message, hey,
want to hang out, she'd felt something like a thrill.
He'd chosen her. Not a group hang, not a casual
meet up, but something one-on-one.
It was enough to make her smile. A smile that lingers now as she
glances down the empty St. again, willing him to appear to
fill this void. She likes him a lot more than
she's ready to admit. He's not like the last guy, the
one she still tries not to think about.
A mistake, A stupid mistake she wishes she could erase barely a
year ago, but it feels like a lifetime.
Another version of herself who made dumb choices in loud,
crowded places. She met him at some show where
the music was loud and the lights were dim and everything
felt unreal. He seemed cool back then, with a
Myspace profile that screamed relevance, 10,000 friends, a
digital clout that seemed important at the time.
But things got weird fast, his text becoming a constant,
suffocating presence. And then there was the age gap.
He was 24, she was barely 16, and what felt edgy and thrilling
quickly turned wrong. It wasn't until later that she
fully grasped how messed up it was.
But Owen's different. He's well, He's just Owen.
He's normal, not some creep with too much free time and a warped
sense of boundaries. He's her age, someone she can
actually talk to without feeling like she's drowning.
She flicks the cigarette to the ground, watches the ember
burnout, telling herself that this, whatever this is, is
different. It has to be.
When Owen finally rounds the corner from North Lutheran, his
sandy blonde hair tousled just so, like he doesn't care, she
feels something inside her click into place.
He's here. She watches him approach,
noticing the slight hesitation in his stride, like he's not
sure about this either. It's not a date, she reminds
herself, even if it feels like one.
It's just hanging out, that's all.
She waves him over, her earlier anxiety dissolving as he gets
closer. Hey.
She says, forcing an easy smile. Hey.
He returns the smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, like he's trying to
anchor himself to something. How's it going?
She asks, hopping down from the wall, her movements fluid,
almost graceful as she steps towards him.
The lingering scent of cigarette smoke clings to the air between
them, but she doesn't care, doesn't think he does either.
Owen shrugged, his voice coming out softer than he intended.
I'm good you, I'm doing OK. She says, though the words feel
heavier than they should. Figured we could grab a drink at
the cat. Owen nodded, relieved she had
taken the lead. Sounds good.
They start walking side by side down the sidewalk, their steps
In Sync, wrapped in a kind of comfortable silence.
The town hums around them, but it feels distant, like they're
moving through it without really being part of it.
As they pass town and Treasure, something catches Bergan's eye
in the display window. She slows down, her gaze drawn
to a delicate silver necklace with an Angel wing pendant.
It glimmers softly in the bright light, the kind of thing that
seems almost out of place in a shop filled with old trinkets
and vintage junk. For a moment, everything else
fades. The street, Owen, the sun, until
all that exists is the necklace and the memories it stirs within
her. Owen notices her paws and
follows her gaze to the pendant. He doesn't say anything, just
watches her with a subtle crease of concern between his brows.
He knows better than to ask. Instead, he waits, giving her
the space to linger in her thoughts.
Bergan blinks, snapping back to the present.
She realizes he's been standing there, staring, lost in some
distant place. A faint blush creeps into her
cheeks as she glances at Owen. Sorry.
She Mumbles, embarrassed at having drifted off like that.
It's fine. Owen says, offering a small,
understanding smile, the kind that says he gets it even if she
doesn't explain. She takes a deep breath, tearing
her eyes away from the window, from the necklace, and they
resume their walk. Their pace quickens as they
reach the edge of the sidewalk, a silent, mutual decision to
keep moving across the street. When they reach the cat, it's
exactly as it always is, quirky, a fixture in a town that clings
stubbornly to the past. The yellow facade with its green
trim that seems too bright against the brick buildings, the
ferns swaying gently in the breeze.
The cartoon cat on the sign. All of it feels like an inside
joke you're not meant to understand.
They grab one of the rickety tables outside, under the oak
tree that shaded the sidewalk. Bergen ordered an iced Chai.
Owen sticks with black coffee like the caffeine might keep him
grounded, so she says after a sip, the Chai too sweet, too
cold. Sorry it took so long to hang
out grounded, you know? Yeah, no worries, Owen says,
shaking his head. I'm just glad we're here now.
She nods, let's the words hang between them.
Yeah, me too. They talk, or at least try to,
about the small, inconsequential details of their lives, how they
dread school, how they're both tired of the same routines, the
same people. It's easier to keep the
conversation light, to skirt around anything too real.
Just as the conversation lulls, Bergan's canvas bag buzzes
softly at her feet. She sighs, reaching down to fish
out her phone, the small screen lighting up with a call from her
mom. She hesitates for a second
before standing up. I'll be right back.
She says, flipping the phone open and holding it to her ear
as she walks a few steps away. Owen watches her walk away,
hears her murmuring into the phone, her tone shifting between
frustration and forced patience. He doesn't try to listen too
closely, just sits there, sipping his coffee, waiting.
The sunlight filters through the leaves above, casting dancing
shadows on the table as he drums his fingers lightly on the edge
of his cup. After a couple of minutes,
Bergen returns, snapping the phone shut with a sigh as she
drops it back into her bag and sits down heavily.
Her expression is a mix of irritation and exhaustion, the
kind that comes from dealing with the same problem over and
over. Sorry, my mom.
She's just. Bergen paused, searching for the
right word. She's been all over the place,
hot and cold, you know? One minute she's checking in on
me every 5 minutes, and the next she's acting like I don't even
exist. Owen nodded, listening closely.
He knew a little about her mom from Dakota, but not much beyond
the surface. That sounds tough.
Bergen let out a sigh, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
Yeah, I mean, I know she's been through it, especially after my
dad died, but sometimes I just don't get it.
She's been sober for a while now, but it's like she's always
on edge and I, I don't know. Owen frowned, feeling a pang of
empathy. I'm sorry, Bergen, that's a lot
to deal with. She nodded, though the tightness
around her eyes betrayed her. It's been a while since my dad
died, but it still feels like he's just on another work trip.
I keep thinking he'll walk through the door with his
suitcase like nothing's changed. Owen looked at her, his chest
tightening with a deep, empathetic ache.
He knew that feeling all too well.
The hope that someone might just walk back into your life, even
though you know deep down that they won't.
I'm really sorry, Bergen. He said, his voice low, sincere.
That's, that's tough. Bergen shrugged, but her attempt
to be nonchalant didn't quite mask the hurt in her voice.
Yeah, well, it's been a while now.
I'm getting used to it, I guess. But some days, some days I catch
myself thinking he's just late, like he's going to show up and
everything will go back to the way it was.
Owen swallowed, the words catching in his throat.
I wish. He began, his voice barely above
a whisper. I wish you could have that.
I wish. I don't know.
My dad left, and I keep telling myself that maybe he'll come
back, but I know he won't, not really.
She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees something in
his eyes that's too familiar, too close to her own thoughts.
She reaches across the table, touches his hand lightly, like
she needs to make sure he's real.
I'm sorry, she says, meaning it. He shakes his head, managing a
sad smile. It's fine, we've all got our
stuff, right? Yeah, she agrees, her fingers
lingering on his as if the connection might keep them both
from drifting away. But at least we're not alone.
They fall into another silence, this one different, like maybe
it's OK not to say anything for a while.
Tuesday, August 1st, 8:37 PM. Chloe lay nested in her bed, the
covers a disheveled mess around her as if they'd given up on
offering comfort. Laguna Beach flickered on the TV
screen for what felt like the thousandth time, a numbing
backdrop to the relentless static in her head.
She'd been here so long, in this exact position, that she was
beginning to feel as if she might fuse with the mattress.
Boredom pressed down on her like a weight, dull and suffocating,
and the stark clarity of her own inertia only made it worse.
She wanted to smoke, needed to, but she was bankrupt and it
seemed like everyone she knew was dry.
Owen had been her final hope, but he wouldn't be able to make
it into town until Thursday, leaving Chloe stranded, her only
companion, the white noise of her thoughts and the distant two
familiar voices from the TV. As the minutes dragged on, a
desperate idea flickered in the back of her mind, a tiny ember
in the vast expanse of her on we.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, wasn't that
the saying? With a sigh, heavy and resigned,
she peeled herself from the cocoon of her bed and shuffled
to the desk. The drawer creaked as she pulled
it open, retrieving her pipe from the depths of her stash
bag. Her pink BC lighter flared to
life with a flick, the flame casting soft shadowed light on
her face. She heated the bowl
methodically, almost mechanically, before grabbing a
Bobby pin and starting the tedious process of scraping
resin. It was slow, frustrating work,
yielding just a few sticky black flecks that she carefully
collected on a scrap of paper. Her fingers stuck together with
resin, tacky and unpleasant, like they've been coated in
something meant to bind. She paused, staring down at the
pathetic little ball of resin between her fingers.
Was this really it? The thought churned inside her,
bitter and cold. Her fingers felt grimy.
The smell was acrid, and the whole thing reeked of
desperation. With a sigh, she stood up and
trudged to the sink, scrubbing at her hands like she could wash
away more than just the sticky residue.
Like maybe she could cleanse herself of this feeling, this
sense of defeat that clung to her like a second skin.
But the craving was still there, gnawing at her insides.
Chloe decided she needed something, anything, to take the
edge off, so she grabbed her pack of cigarettes and lighter
and headed outside. The evening air was cool against
her skin as she lit up, taking a long drag and letting the
nicotine seep into her bloodstream.
As she exhaled, her eyes drifted to the window of the apartment
next door, where she'd been hearing sounds all day.
New tenants, probably. She took another drag, and
that's when she smelled it, Faint but unmistakable weed
drifting from that window. Her mind clicked into gear,
thoughts racing. Could she really hold out for
two more days? Hell, even one more day felt
unbearable. Suddenly, the idea of
introducing herself to the new neighbors didn't seem awkward at
all. Chloe hesitated, just for a
moment, weighing the options. But what was there to consider,
really? She was out of choices.
And besides, wasn't being neighborly the right thing to
do? With a flick of her wrist, she
stubbed out the cigarette, squared her shoulders, and
walked over to the neighbor's door.
Her knock echoed in the quiet of the night, the sound
reverberating off the walls as she stood there.
She could only hope that on the other side of the door was the
solution to her current predicament, something to dull
the edges of this relentless, gnawing boredom.
Before Chloe had time to second guess her decision, the door
swung open and she was met with a girl who couldn't have been
more than 22, her hair a cascade of baby locks that framed her
face with effortless cool. The large tunnels in her gauged
ears gave her this rebellious edge, exactly the kind of vibe
Chloe had hoped to find. A faint smile tugged at the
corners of her lips. These were her people.
The girl caught off guard by the unexpected visitor began to
apologize, her words stumbling over each other in a flurry of
flustered explanations. Chloe cut her off with a wave
and a warm, practiced smile. Don't apologize, I just wanted
to introduce myself. I live next door with my mom.
She said, trying to keep her tone as casual as possible,
hoping it hid the real reason she was knocking on a stranger's
door after dark. The girl, Meg, as she quickly
introduced herself, seemed to relax, her shoulders easing out
of their initial tension. It didn't take long for Chloe to
notice the signs, the glazed eyes, the easy smile that
stretched a little too wide, a little too comfortably.
Meg was stoned, and the realization hit Chloe with a mix
of relief and excitement. Just moved in today with my
friend Kim. Meg added, her voice tinged with
the residual buzz of a day spent unpacking and getting high.
As Meg spoke, Chloe's eyes wandered past her, surveying the
scene inside the apartment. The living room was a chaotic
explosion of half unpacked U-Haul boxes, their contents
spilling out in a haphazard display of new beginnings.
But what really caught her attention was the four foot bong
standing proudly next to the couch, an unmistakable
centerpiece amid the clutter. Chloe's gaze lingered on it, a
knowing smile tugging at her lips.
Meg caught the glance and grinned back, the kind of grin
that said she knew exactly what was on Chloe's mind.
Do you smoke? She asked, her tone playful,
teasing. Chloe's smile was her answer.
Moments later, she found herself sinking into the couch, the
giant bong being passed her way. Meg and Kim, her new neighbors,
were just as cool as she'd hoped.
They were both juniors at Mecklen, knee deep in the art
program, and the conversation flowed effortlessly, carried by
the shared high. Chloe listened, laughed, and let
herself be pulled into their world, a world where everything
seemed to revolve around creativity and freedom.
As she took another hit, the thick, smooth smoke filling her
lungs and clouding her mind, she couldn't help but wonder about
their rent situation. This town was notorious for
landlords squeezing every last cent out of the college
students, jacking up prices just because they could.
Chloe figured Meg and Kim had to be getting help from their
parents. There was no way they could
afford a place like this on their own, not on an art
student's budget. The thought flickered through
her mind, then drifted away like the smoke she exhaled, replaced
by something warmer, more immediate.
This time next year, she'd be done with school, back in
California, living on her own terms.
The thought filled her with a quiet, glowing anticipation.
Soon she'd have her own place, her own freedom, her own life.
But for now, this was enough. This little escape, this night
spent in a haze of smoke and easy conversation, was exactly
what she needed. Saturday, August 5th, 4:27 PM.
The late summer sun hangs low, casting a warm golden light over
the Potomac like someone's turned up, the saturation just a
notch. It's the kind of light that
makes everything look slightly better, more flattering, like a
filter on a photo that smooths out the rough edges.
Chloe, Bergen, Dakota, Bobby, Lottie, and Corey are scattered
along the riverbank. The air is thick with the smell
of oak and the faint metallic scent of the river, a reminder
that the end of summer is creeping closer, and with it,
the vague dread of what comes next.
Bobby stands apart from the group, his camera a familiar
weight in his hands. He's scanning the scene, the
lens moving over the landscape like it's searching for
something specific, something worth capturing.
The stone Piers jutting out into the river draw his attention
first, solid, weathered. But in the golden light they
seem almost timeless, like they've always been there and
always will be. He snaps a photo, the soft click
of the shutter A satisfying sound that cuts through the
quiet of the evening. Behind them, the old train
bridge loomed, its massive steel structure stretching across the
water. From down here, the bridge
seemed even more imposing. Bobby's mind drifts to that
story his dad used to tell, the one about Robert Weaver, local
legend, daredevil idiot who thought it would be a good idea
to walk across that very bridge. Didn't end well.
Misstep. Plunge dead in the water.
His dad always used it as a warning, a cautionary tale about
the dangers of recklessness. Behind him, the others were
sprawled out on the rocky bank. Chloe, Bergen and Dakota sat
together in a loose circle, the three of them passing around a
joint, the smoke curling into the air in lazy spirals, their
conversation dipping in and out of focus, the words blurring
together into background noise. Lottie and Corey were down by
the water, where the river shallows into a series of small,
clear pools. They're splashing around, their
voices carrying back to the group, bright and carefree.
Bobby's eyes land on Corey, and the familiar knot of anger
tightens in his chest. He watches Corey laugh, watches
him move like he doesn't have a care in the world, and the
bitterness bubbles up, sharp and unbidden.
He can't help but think about that summer, about Luke, and
about how Corey just disappeared afterward like nothing happened.
No apology, no acknowledgement, just a clean break, a quick
exit. And that's what Bobby can't
forgive. The way Corey pretended Luke
never existed, like none of it mattered.
He lifts the camera, fingers hovering over the shutter, the
anger simmering just beneath the surface.
He could take the shot, capture Corey in this moment of faux
happiness, freeze it in time as a reminder of everything that
went wrong. But before he can press the
button, something catches his eye.
A flicker of movement on the trail, Owens walking toward
them, stepping out from the shaded path with that easy,
careless stride that makes it look like he belongs everywhere
and nowhere all at once. There's a bottle of Jägermeister
in his hand, the dark green glass catching the light in a
way that's almost hypnotic. Dakota sees him first, and her
hand shoots up in a lazy wave, a cheer of sorts escaping her
lips. Hey, look who finally showed.
Chloe calls out, her voice teasing, but there's an edge of
warmth that she can't quite hide.
Bergen's focus locks on to Owen, everything else fading into the
background. She smiles, wide and genuine,
the jitters that have been gnawing at her all day suddenly
melting away. Owen's here, and somehow that
makes everything OK. Owen grins back, his stride
never faltering as he approaches.
Wouldn't miss it. He says, the words rolling off
his tongue with the kind of practice charm that could be
genuine but probably isn't. He drops down beside Bergan, the
bottle clinking softly as he sets it on the rocks.
There's a moment, just a beat, where their shoulders brush and
Bergan feels a warmth spread through her that has nothing to
do with the sun. She wants to say something, but
the words stick in her throat, so she just smiles, hoping it's
enough. Bobby lowers the camera, the
tension in his chest easing but not completely gone.
He walks over to the group, drawn by the pull of their
shared inertia, the need to belong to something, even if
it's just this. Dakota takes another drag from
the joint, her gaze shifting to Owen, a spark of curiosity in
her eyes. So, Owen.
She draws, her tone teasing but with a hard edge.
What's going on tonight? Owen leans back on his elbows,
his casual grin slipping. For just a second, I thought
this was the party. He replies, a hint of confusion
in his voice, like he missed a memo or something.
Dakota rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed.
Seriously. She says, her voice tinged with
annoyance. She gestures at the riverbank,
at the trees, at the nothingness around them.
Owen shrugs, A sheepish smile tugging at his lips.
Guess I didn't get the memo. He says, trying to play it off,
but it's clear Dakota's words have taken the wind out of his
sails. Before the awkwardness can
settle in, Corey comes barreling over from the river, his wet
feet slapping against the rocks, his eyes lighting up when he
sees the Jaeger between Owen and Bergen.
Yo, is that Jaeger? He asks, already reaching for it
like it's his. Owen shifts slightly, guarding
the bottle with a smirk. Hold up, man.
He says, hand up in a mock stop. This hasn't even been cracked
yet. At least let me get the first
shot. Bobby watches the exchange,
feeling a small, quiet satisfaction bloom in his chest.
There's something gratifying about seeing Corey put in his
place, even if it's just over a bottle of liquor.
Owen, still holding the bottle, raises an eyebrow at Corey, his
smirk widening. Patience.
He says lightly. Corey lets out an exaggerated
sigh but steps back, a grin on his face that doesn't quite
reach his eyes. All right, all right.
He relents, but he's still watching the bottle like it's
the last drink he'll ever have. Owen twists off the cap, the
smell of licorice wafting through the air, mixing with the
earthy scent of the river. The bottle glints in the light,
the liquid inside dark and menacing, like something you
shouldn't be drinking but can't resist.
He hands the bottle to Bergen first, their fingers brushing
again, sending that familiar thrill through her.
She grins at him, her earlier excitement bubbling back to the
surface as she takes a swig, the burn sharp and grounding.
She hands it back to Owen, who takes his turn, his eyes meeting
hers for a brief, charged moment.
Corey, watching the exchange with barely concealed
anticipation, lunges for the bottle as soon as it's back in
Owen's hands, but Owen, enjoying the little power play, passes it
to Dakota instead. She takes it with a smirk,
savoring the moment before taking a long drink and passing
it on to Chloe. Chloe took a quick sip, her nose
wrinkling slightly at the strong taste, before handing the bottle
on. When the bottle reaches Bobby,
he hesitates. He's never had Jager before,
never had much experience with hard liquor at all, but with
everyone's eyes subtly on him, it feels like a challenge he
can't back down from. He glances at Owen, who gives
him a nod like he's saying go for it, so Bobby does.
The cold glass feels foreign against his lips, the smell
overwhelming. He takes a swig, the liquid
burning its way down his throat, the taste bitter and medicinal.
It's not pleasant, but there's a thrill in it, something that
makes the burn almost bearable, almost welcome.
The edges of the world blur slightly, the boundaries
softening as the alcohol kicks in.
As Bobby lowers the bottle, he realizes everyone's watching,
waiting for his reaction. He forces a grin, trying to look
like he enjoyed it more than he did.
Not bad, he croaks, the burn still rough in his throat, but
there's a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes.
He did it. He's part of the moment, part of
the group in a way he hasn't been before.
With a shaky hand, he passes the bottle to Corey, who grabs it
eagerly, like it's the last piece of something he's been
chasing for too long. Corey hadn't missed Bobby's
cough, but he doesn't say anything.
He just takes his turn, the bottle moving in a lazy circle,
the tension dissolving into the warm, shared buzz of alcohol.
Bergen feels the warmth spread through her chest, her earlier
nerves completely gone. Owen's here, right next to her,
and for the first time in a while, she feels like maybe,
just maybe, things are falling into place.
As the conversation picks up again, Chloe in Dakota teasing
Owen about his lack of plans, Bergen can't help but smile, the
future stretching out before her, full of possibilities she
hadn't thought of before. Tuesday, August 15th, 1:59 PM.
Dakota sat at the top of the steps leading to the grounds of
Forstner Hall, her sketch pad balanced on her knees as she
captured the Victorian eclectic row of buildings across the
street. The afternoon sun bathed the
scene in a warm, dappled hue, casting shadows that danced
across the ornate facades. Her pencil moved across the
page, tracing the intricate details of the architecture, the
Gables, the tall windows, the weathered brick.
Behind her, the clock tower rang twice, the chime slicing through
the hum of the day, sharp and cold, but she didn't even
notice. Bergen and Owen were posted up
on the wall next to her, close enough that their shoulders keep
brushing. They've been doing this a lot
lately, hanging out just a little too much, their jokes
carrying that edge that comes when you know something's
happening but no one's saying it out loud.
Dakota watches them out of the corner of her eye.
And yeah, they're cute together. She approved.
They brought out something in each other.
Owen usually closed off, let his guard down around Bergen like he
didn't have to pretend all the time, and Bergen seem more at
ease, less anxious. She glances over at Bobby, who's
sitting off to the side, eyes somewhere else.
He's been quiet, too quiet. Dakota knows something's up, but
she's not about to ask. Bobby's always been good at
fading into the background, even in a group.
It's his thing. But now, with Bergen all wrapped
up in Owen, it's like Bobby's fading even more, slipping away
into this place where no one can reach him.
Dakota thinks about saying something, a joke or whatever,
but she doesn't. The moment passes, and Bobby
stays where he is, locked in his own head.
Bobby, for his part, felt like he was underwater, everything
muffled, distant. The town was alive, buzzing with
the energy of college move in day, streets packed with parents
and students, a steady hum of activity that he could see but
not feel. It was all happening around him,
but it was like he was on the other side of a glass wall,
watching but not participating. Bergen and Owens easy chemistry
only highlighted the growing chasm between him and everyone
else. He'd always felt like an
outsider. His eyes drifted over to Chloe
and Gage, who were playing hacky sack a few feet away.
There's a rhythm to it, the way they pass the sack between them,
and Bobby can't help but notice the way they move around each
other. There's something there,
something that makes Bobby think maybe he's not the only one
seeing it, but he doesn't say anything, just watches, the
thought already slipping away. Out of the corner of his eye,
Bobby spots Bethan and Sadie coming down the street.
Sadie's arm swung casually at her side, a plastic take out bag
in hand, the red thank you stamped on it bright against the
translucent plastic. He had a crush on her back when
he was 12, and she was this cool, unattainable thing.
He thought she had a thing for Luke, and maybe she did.
But now she's with Bethan, and Bobby feels that same pang he's
been feeling all day, like everything's moving on without
him. He looks back at Dakota, sitting
on the steps with her sketch pad, her hair falling in messy
waves around her face. For a second, just a second, he
thinks maybe there's something there, something he could reach
out and grab, but just as quick, he shuts it down.
Dakota's always been too much for him, too loud, too quick.
She's not for him, not really. Eric sprawled out in the grass,
shirtless and carefree, and Bobby thinks, yeah, Eric
probably has a better shot with her than he ever would.
Denise drifts into his mind, but it's not a pleasant thought.
They've been texting a lot lately, and for a moment it felt
like something might happen. But then he heard she hooked up
with Eric on the 4th of July and that thoughts been gnawing at
him, making him feel small and insignificant.
Bathan and Sadie finally reached the group, their presence
breaking through Bobby's spiral of thoughts.
Owen called out, his tone teasing.
What took you guys so long? Bathan shrugged, grinning in
that easy way of his. It was packed in there, you
wouldn't believe it. He gestured around them, taking
in the crowded streets, the chaotic energy of move in day.
Everywhere's packed. Dakota made a face, her voice
dripping with disdain. I can't stand all these people.
It's like the town's been invaded.
She sounded detached above it all, like the influx of college
students was something distasteful beneath her.
Bethan and Sadie find their spot on the wall beside Owen and
Bergen, pulling out a California roll from the bag.
They're in their own world, quiet, just sharing food and
talking like no one else is around.
Chloe, bored with hacky sack, drops down next to Dakota and
nudges her with an elbow. There's this sly grin on her
face, the kind that says she's got something Dakota will want
to hear. Hey, so my new neighbors invited
me to a party tonight. Chloe says, and Dakota's face
lights up, the prospect of a party cutting through her
earlier boredom like a shot of adrenaline.
Oh fuck yeah. Dakota replies, her voice full
of that reckless anticipation that always seems to bubble up
at the thought of doing something, anything different.
Bobby watched the exchange, a mix of emotions swirling inside
him. He couldn't shake the feeling
that once again, he was on the outside looking in.
He forced a smile, trying to convince himself that it was
enough just to be here, just to be part of the moment.
But deep down, he couldn't ignore the growing sense of
disconnect, the feeling that everyone else was moving forward
while he was stuck in place.