“Nate.” His voice was gentle but persistent. “I can see you thinking too hard about everything. Talk to me.”
The invitation hung between us, genuine and patient. Dad wasn't always great with emotional conversations, but he tried, and I could see the worry in his eyes that he was probably trying to hide.
“It's just weird, you know?” I finally said, setting down my spoon. “Being the new kid again. Everyone already has their friend groups, their inside jokes, their whole established thing. And I'm just... there. Taking pictures of stuff they've seen a million times.”
“Have you tried joining anything? Clubs, sports, activities?”
“Dad, I'm not exactly team sports material.” I gestured at my general everything. “And most of the clubs here are pretty small. Like, five-people-who've-known-each-other-since-kindergarten small.”
He chuckled, and some of the tension in my shoulders eased. “Fair point. What about that photography hobby of yours? Maybe there's a yearbook committee or school newspaper that could use some help?”
“Maybe.” I hadn't actually checked, too caught up in exploring the town and its weird collection of abandoned buildings and folklore. “The school's pretty old-fashioned though. I'm not sure they're looking for artistic interpretations of rusty mill equipment.”
“You never know until you ask.” Dad reached across the table and squeezed my shoulder. “I'm proud of you, you know. The way you've been handling all this change. Your mom and I know it's not easy to start over, especially your junior year.”
The unexpected praise made my throat tight. “I don't feel like I'm handling it very well.”
“Are you kidding? You've been exploring, meeting people, finding things to photograph that interest you. That's exactly what I'd expect from my son—someone who looks for the story behind the surface.” He smiled, and it transformed his whole face from tired businessman to proud dad. “Just maybe try not to wander too far into those woods alone, okay? These mountain towns can be tricky to navigate if you don't know the area.”
“I'm careful.”
“I know you are. But humor your old man and maybe find a local guide if you want to do any serious hiking? I'm sure some of the kids at school know all the best spots.”
The suggestion was practical, but underneath it was genuine care for my safety. Not control or disappointment, just a father wanting to make sure his son didn't get lost in unfamiliar territory.
“I'll think about it,” I promised, and meant it.
“That's all I ask.” He reopened his laptop but paused before diving back into work. “And Nate? Don't be afraid to be yourself here. The right people will appreciate what you have to offer. The wrong ones... well, their loss.”
The simple acceptance in his voice made something warm settle in my chest. Because maybe Dad was right. Maybe instead of trying to fit in, I just needed to find the people who were looking for someone exactly like me.
Even if I wasn't entirely sure who that was yet.
The library smelledlike old books and teenage desperation, with undertones of the industrial-strength air freshener that someone had apparently thought would mask the scent of unwashed gym clothes and hormonal anxiety. I'd claimed a table near the poetry section because it was usually deserted—nobody in Hollow Pines seemed particularly interested in Sylvia Plath or Robert Frost—and spread my homework out like I was actually planning to accomplish something productive.
I wasn't. I was hunting.
The guy from the other night sat alone in the far corner, bent over a notebook that suggested whatever he was working on mattered more than algebra or American history. Everyone elsegave him space, an invisible circle of avoidance that stretched at least three feet in every direction. Like he was radioactive. Or contagious.
Perfect.
I gathered my books and moved across the library with all the subtlety of a bull in a china shop, dumping my stuff on the table across from him with enough noise to wake the dead. Books slammed, papers scattered, and my mechanical pencil rolled off the edge and clattered onto the floor like a tiny earthquake.
His head snapped up, hazel eyes wide with what looked like genuine alarm before narrowing into a glare that could strip paint at fifty yards.
“Hi,” I said, settling into my chair like I belonged there. “Hope you don't mind the company. Everywhere else was taken.”
This was a bald-faced lie. Half the library was empty, and we both knew it.
He stared at me for a long moment, then slowly, deliberately, closed his notebook and placed both hands flat on the table. His fingers were long, I noticed, with calluses that suggested he did more than just sketch in his free time. Working hands. Strong hands.
Hands I probably shouldn't be thinking about in quite so much detail.
“You know,” I continued when it became clear he wasn't going to respond, “you've really perfected the art of glaring people into submission. It's impressive, actually. Very intimidating.”
Nothing. Not even a blink.
“Must be useful in awkward social situations. Someone tries to sit with you at lunch, boom.” I mimed an explosion with my hands. “Spontaneous combustion from the sheer force of your disapproval.”
