“Dancing?” Mason asked with deadpan delivery. “Could've fooled me. There was definitely some sort of choreographed eye contact happening.”
“You're both terrible,” I muttered, but there wasn't any real heat behind it. Mostly because they weren't wrong, and we all knew it.
Gideon's chuckle was rough with years of experience watching young idiots figure themselves out. “Don't mind them, son. They're just jealous they don't have anyone to make googly eyes at.”
“I don't make googly eyes,” Cal protested. “I make smoldering, mysterious glances.”
“You make constipated faces,” Mason corrected. “There's a difference.”
The old-fashioned word 'courting' made my chest tight with something that felt suspiciously like hope. Because that's whatthis was, wasn't it? Some tentative, complicated dance around the possibility that maybe we could try again. Maybe this time we could get it right.
“Besides,” Cal added cheerfully, “if anyone gives you trouble, just mention that you're part of the brotherhood now. We look after our own.”
“What exactly does that involve?” I asked, curious despite myself.
“Mostly drinking beer and arguing about carburetor maintenance,” Mason said. “Sometimes we fix things.”
“Sometimes we break things while trying to fix them,” Cal corrected. “It's very scientific.”
“Scientific,” Gideon repeated with the kind of fond exasperation that spoke of years of managing Cal's particular brand of chaos.
Footsteps approached, and I looked up to see Evan returning from the restroom, something lighter in his expression that suggested he'd taken a moment to center himself. He slid back into the booth with that unconscious grace, eyes moving between all of us with the sharp attention of someone who'd learned to read group dynamics.
“Everything okay?” he asked, and there was concern in his voice that made my chest tight with gratitude.
“Just explaining the brotherhood membership benefits to our newest recruit,” Cal said with exaggerated formality. “Making sure he understands the responsibilities that come with the honor.”
Evan's mouth twitched in what might have been amusement. “Are we still talking about fixing cars?”
“Among other things,” Gideon said mysteriously.
The loaded silence that followed was broken by our waitress appearing with the check, and the moment passed into something lighter, easier. But the warmth of acceptance lingeredas we paid and made our way back to the garage, a reminder that second chances sometimes came wrapped in the most unexpected packages.
18
THE SHAPE IN THE PINES
NATE
My camera felt heavier than usual as I adjusted the strap across my shoulder, the familiar weight both comfort and burden as I stepped off the main trail into the deeper shadows of Evernight Forest. Three days of wandering Hollow Pines with my lens had yielded exactly nothing worth keeping—tourist shots of quaint storefronts and nostalgic glimpses of places that looked better in memory than reality.
I needed something real. Something that would remind me why I'd fallen in love with photography in the first place, before Chicago had beaten the passion out of me and left me with nothing but technical skill and a portfolio full of images that said absolutely nothing about anything that mattered.
The forest called to me the way it always had, that sense of something alive moving just beneath the surface of ordinary reality.
The deeper I went, the quieter the world became. Not the oppressive silence of a library or empty apartment, butsomething expectant, like the forest was holding its breath. Waiting for something. Or someone.
My boots found the rhythm of walking meditation, that steady crunch of pine needles and fallen leaves that had soundtracked most of my teenage adventures. Back then, I'd usually had Evan beside me, his quiet presence making the wildness feel safe instead of threatening. Now I was alone with whatever lived in the spaces between the trees, and part of me wondered if that had been a mistake.
But the light was perfect. Golden afternoon sun filtering through ancient pines like honey through cheesecloth, casting everything in the warm glow that made mediocre photographers look like artists. I lifted my camera and started shooting, muscle memory guiding my hands through settings while my eyes hunted for compositions that might actually mean something.
A fallen log draped in moss like green velvet. The way shadows pooled between massive tree trunks. The suggestion of a path that might have been deer trail or might have been wishful thinking. Each shot felt more real than anything I'd captured in months, like the forest was offering itself up to be documented.
I was lining up a shot of sunlight caught in spider webs when I saw it.
Movement. Too big to be a squirrel, too fluid to be a person stumbling through underbrush. Just a flicker at the edge of my vision that made my hindbrain scream warnings while my conscious mind tried to rationalize what couldn't be rationalized.
I lowered my camera slowly, heart hammering against my ribs like it was trying to escape. The forest had gone completely still, that expectant silence deepening into something that felt actively watchful. Like I was being observed by things that had been here long before humans learned to walk upright.
