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According to the rumor mill, Colton had recently been fostered by the Danforths. That tidbit brought an involuntary grimace to my mouth, given Charles Danforth’s less-than-savory reputation among the locals. Witnessing the insolence that had escaped Colton’s lips, a knot of worry tightened in my gut. I could only hope he was smart enough not to provoke Charles.
Which seemed unlikely, given the way his mouth was forging a reputation of its own. Word had it that he’d already told Pastor John to "go fuck himself," flipped off Mrs. Cole for daring to request he remove his boots from his desk, and had implied that resident douchebag Tyler Poole “looked like he came from a close family.”
I should have taken that as a clear warning to maintain my distance. After all, Grandma Betty, a God-fearing woman molded in the crucible of the deep South in the fifties, had instilled in me that manners ranked just below the importance of Jesus himself. But for some inexplicable reason, it brought a smile to my face.
Maybe it has something to do with the fact you’re insanely attracted to him?
Speaking of which, it was as if I possessed an uncanny sixth sense for his presence. Whether it boiled down to pheromones or something a bit more "woo woo," as I strolled toward the cafeteria, a subtle tingling at the back of my neck signaled his proximity. Trusting my instincts, I turned around, only to narrowly miss colliding with Colton for the second time this week.
“Geez, do you ever watch where you’re going?” he grumbled, extending a hand to prevent my body from crashing into his. The solitary point where his finger met my chest sparked with an electrifying intensity, like being struck by lightning. “I guess it’s not something you need to worry about when you could literally step over anyone in your way.”
That beautiful scowl made a triumphant return, and for a fleeting moment, time stopped.
“Sorry, you’re right, I ought to pay more attention to those around me,” I conceded. “Um, anyway, since you’re new in town, I thought maybe I could show you around?” I offered, the uncertainty of my voice clear, even to my own ears. Truth be told, I craved nothing more than spending more time with the person who had so completely captured my attention.
“What’s there to see? We’ve got this charming little Stanford Prison Experiment here, also known as school, a main street with fuck all to see, and an abundance of cows. Cows on top of cows, which incidentally explains the lingering smell of shit in the air. There you go, tour done.”
Ah… I rubbed the back of my neck, at a loss for words. “Well, we could still hang out sometime?”
“I’m sure you’ve got some “bros” to grope in the name of sport, and definitely not for some repressed homoerotic reasons. Wouldn’t want to disrupt that,” he shot me a smirk, dripping with sarcasm. I opened my mouth to refute his claim, to insist that nothing could be more important than getting to know him better, but he had already fluttered his fingers in a dismissive wave and started walking in the opposite direction.
∞∞∞
Another week passed without any Colton encounters, and my frustration levels were escalating. To the extent that I found myself dragging my feet on the lengthy trek to the football field behind the school for Tuesday evening practice. After all, I had little reason to hurry, given that arriving early only presented the guys ample time to give me shit about my supposed ‘crush’ on Colton—their words, not mine. Apparently, my use of the term “future husband” painted me as nothing short of an unhinged stalker.
Their favorite thing to joke about? Their insistence that I couldn’t date someone whose height began with the number four, lest I be accused of kidnapping a pre-teen. Hardy har har.
Then I heard it.
A voice so hauntingly beautiful, it stopped me mid-stride.
Before my conscious mind even processed moving, my legs had propelled me closer to the source, as if the melody had cast a spell on me. As if that voice were the human embodiment of a siren’s call. I found myself cemented just beyond the door of the time-worn tin shed on the school’s periphery that housed the music room, completely enraptured.
Never before had I encountered a voice so breathtaking—reminiscent of Adele and Lewis Capaldi blending their talents into a musically gifted love child. Yet, that was only one part of appeal.
The lyrics. They struck a chord within me, resonating on a deeper level.
“In the shadows of silence, a young soul cries. His parents’ gaze, cold and distant.
Yearning for warmth, a touch that’s real. His heart beats loud, but no one hears.
A loveless home, where he’s non-existent. A boy unseen, masking all his fears…”
Even without the telltale prickling at the back of my neck, I knew, with an unmistakable certainty, that Colton lingered on the other side of that wall. His pain and sorrow echoed with every strum of the accompanying guitar. Perhaps that explained a piece of the puzzle of why I felt so inexplicably drawn to him; if those words were written by him, then we shared an undeniable kinship. Pain I had never bared to anyone in its entirety, seemed to parallel Colton’s own experiences. Even Remy, my closest confidant, remained in the dark about how deep the wounds inflicted by my mother’s abandonment and my father’s apathy really were.
∞∞∞
Before I realized it, my now habitual detour to the music room evolved into an almost compulsive need. Every afternoon, I intentionally delayed my exit from my last class, ensuring I would be alone so I could linger in the vicinity of the music room on the way to practice, yearning for any chance to hear Colton sing once more. More often than not, he could be found there after school, pouring his soul into a song. And more often than not, I found myself running laps at training as a punishment for my constant tardiness.
Then, one fortuitous afternoon, Coach canceled practice due to a physical therapy appointment for an old injury that was aggravated by the cold. With no other commitments, I stationed myself outside the music room, basking in the hypnotizing melodies for over an hour. Eventually the guitar strums finally ceased and the star of my fantasies emerged, securely locking the door behind him.
If I possessed any decency, I should have stopped my eavesdropping long ago. When Colt glanced up, he seemed more uneasy than his usual self upon discovering my presence outside, privy to his personal version of a diary. Our eyes met for a fleeting moment, a blush creeping up his cheeks before he bolted without a word.
2. “The Start of Something Good”
Grayson
Working the late shift at the only gas station in our small town wasn’t exactly glamorous. There wasn’t much to like about it, except that it offered a brief escape from my empty house on nights without training. I couldn’t complain too much; the job required minimal effort, with an average of maybe five customers to serve during my four-hour shifts. It might even be one of the safest gas stations in the country, as locals knew better places to target for a robbery, like the vast ranches on either side of town. With Jasper being so off the map, we rarely saw out-of-towners. Since I didn’t depend on this job for financial reasons—more as a badge of responsible adulthood—I didn’t have much cause for complaint.
