The uncle

chapter 9

Chapter 9

The next day at school, Betty found Dean waiting by the front gates, his backpack slung lazily over one shoulder and a grin that seemed to come naturally.

“There she is,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Survived the jungle?”

“Barely,” Betty muttered, but her tone was lighter today. Something about Dean made it easier to breathe — like she didn’t have to perform for him, didn’t have to explain who she was or wasn’t.

“I brought you something.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a small chocolate bar. “A peace offering. For dragging you into my tragic attendance record.”

Betty smiled despite herself. “I don’t even like chocolate.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “That’s a crime. Someone report her.”

She laughed — a real laugh — and didn’t notice Chris watching from across the quad, his jaw tight, eyes following them like a storm cloud waiting to break.

By lunchtime, Betty and Dean had carved out a table for themselves near the far window. He talked a lot — about movies, teachers he hated, dumb things he’d done as a kid — but he always paused to let her speak, and when she did, he listened.

“So you’re basically royalty now, huh?” he teased lightly, nudging her tray. “Living in that Lockhart mansion?”

“More like a well-decorated prison,” Betty said flatly. “No one smiles in that house. It’s like joy’s been outlawed.”

Dean leaned in. “You know what that means? You’re the rebel princess.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling again.

Just then, a tray slammed down at the far end of the table. Chris.

He sat without a word, eyes fixed on his food, even though he didn’t touch it. The air tensed immediately.

Dean glanced between them. “Hey, man—”

“Don’t you have someone else to annoy?” Chris cut in, still not looking at Betty.

Betty stiffened. “Wow. You really know how to ruin a moment.”

Chris looked up then, his gaze hard. “Just trying to balance out the fake ones.”

She stood, grabbing her tray. “You don’t know a thing about me.”

“I know enough,” he said calmly, almost coldly. “You love attention, and you hate when it’s not about you.”

Dean stood too, stepping slightly between them. “Okay, maybe chill out.”

But Chris didn’t respond. He just went back to picking at his food like she wasn’t even there.

Betty walked away, shoulders stiff, not caring if the whole cafeteria was watching.

Dean followed her out a second later. “Don’t listen to him. He’s… weird. Especially lately.”

“He hates me,” she said, her voice brittle.

“Nah,” Dean said with a slow shake of his head. “He notices you. There’s a difference.”

She wasn’t sure what that meant. But it made her feel something — something confusing and sharp.

The final bell had barely rung when Betty spotted Dean leaning against the fence outside the school gates, one foot crossed over the other, arms folded, and that same crooked grin like he’d been waiting all day just for her.

“Permission to kidnap you for a few hours?” he said, holding up two bottles of juice like a bribe.

She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of k********g involves juice?”

“The gentle kind. No ransom. Just sugar and questionable life choices.”

Against her better judgment — or maybe because of it — she nodded. “Fine. But I’m not wearing a blindfold.”

Dean led the way down the street, talking about a nearby bookstore with cheap coffee and a view of the lake. They didn’t end up there. Somehow, they detoured past a thrift shop, a dusty music store, and a food cart selling warm samosas that made her mouth water.

They sat on a low concrete wall near the bus station, legs swinging slightly, the city humming around them — car horns, chatter, the distant sound of music playing from a passing taxi. The sky was already softening into gold, streaks of pink brushing the edges of the clouds.

Dean handed her a samosa and unwrapped his own like it was a delicate treasure.

“I should warn you,” he said between bites, “I bond with people over food. If you eat this and don’t love it, we can’t be friends.”

Betty took a bite. The flaky crust gave way to spiced potatoes and warmth. “Okay. I’ll admit. It’s decent.”

“Decent?” He put a hand to his chest like she’d stabbed him. “You wound me.”

She laughed. A real one — light and unexpected. The kind she hadn’t felt in what felt like months.

Dean nudged her shoulder. “So… Lockhart mansion. Is it as dramatic as I imagine?”

She leaned back, brushing crumbs from her jeans. “It’s big. And quiet. Like someone pressed pause and forgot to hit play again.”

“No evil stepmother?”

“Not evil. Just… distant. Perfect hair, perfect posture, perfect silence.”

“And the mysterious uncle?” His tone was teasing, but his eyes flicked toward her, sharp with curiosity.

Betty hesitated. “He’s… complicated.”

“That’s not a no.”

She turned her gaze to the road. A boy zipped past them on a bicycle, his laughter trailing behind like ribbon. “He’s cold one minute, then warm the next. Like he doesn’t know how to be around me. Or doesn’t want to.”

“Maybe he’s just bad at feelings.”

“Maybe I am too.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then offered her his second juice bottle. “Feelings are overrated anyway. You want to know what really tells you about a person?”

She smirked. “Here we go.”

“Their music taste.”

“Okay. Hit me.”

He straightened dramatically. “Top three artists. No cheating.”

“Hmm…” She thought for a moment. “Lauryn Hill, Adele… and maybe Sampa the Great.”

Dean clutched his chest. “That’s it. I’m in love.”

She gave him a look. “You barely know me.”

“I know enough,” he said with a playful shrug. “You like bold women. Big voices. No fluff.”

She sipped her juice, hiding a smile behind the bottle.

Dean leaned in, elbows on his knees, suddenly softer. “You’re not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know. Stuck-up new girl. Too cool to laugh. But you’re… funny. And kind of dark. In a good way.”

She didn’t know what to say to that. Compliments made her uncomfortable, especially the kind that saw beneath her skin. She looked away — and that’s when she saw him.

Chris.

Across the street. Leaning against a black car, half-shadowed by a row of trees. His gaze locked on her and Dean like a silent accusation.

Her smile dropped, and something inside her twisted. She blinked, and he was already walking away, jaw tight, hands shoved in his pockets.

Dean followed her gaze. “Friend of yours?”

“Not exactly,” she said quietly. feeling relieved that Dean didnt recognize him.

He looked at her again, slower this time. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she lied. “I just forgot something.”

Dean didn’t push. Instead, he stood and offered her a hand. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

She let him pull her up, her fingers curling around his instinctively. They walked down the sidewalk as the sun dipped lower, golden light stretching their shadows behind them.

She didn’t ask where they were going. For now, she just let herself be led.

And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t feel completely alone.

They strolled in silence for a while, feet brushing fallen leaves, their shadows long and stretched beneath the amber glow of the setting sun.

Dean broke the quiet first. “There’s a party Friday night. Off campus. My friend Zoe throws one every month — music, bonfire, bad dancing. You should come.”

Betty glanced at him, eyebrow raised. “Do I look like the bonfire-and-bad-dancing type?”

“You look like the ‘I’ll pretend I’m not having fun until I accidentally do’ type,” he said, bumping her shoulder.

She smirked but didn’t answer right away. A party. She hadn’t gone to one since arriving in Texas. Since her whole life changed. The idea felt both tempting and dangerous.

Dean added quickly, “You won’t be alone. I’ll be there. And Zoe’s harmless. Plus… free food.”

Betty laughed. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“So that’s a yes?”

“I’ll think about it,” she said, but her smile gave her away.

They parted ways near the corner of her street. He offered her a lazy salute as he walked backward toward his bike. “Text me if you change your mind. Or if you need more samosas. I have connections.”

“Noted,” she called after him.

As he rode off, Betty turned toward the mansion. The gate loomed ahead like a warning. Her steps slowed as she approached the front door. She was still holding the juice bottle Dean had given her — half-empty, slightly warm, but oddly comforting.

Inside, the house was as silent as always. The air was cool, still smelling faintly of floor polish and something too clean. She dropped her bag by the stairs and tiptoed toward the kitchen, hoping to avoid any run-ins.

But as she passed the hallway, a voice stopped her.

“You were out late.”

Chris.

He stood by the dining room archway, his arms crossed, a glass of water in hand. He wasn’t looking at her, not really — his gaze hovered somewhere past her shoulder.

Betty stiffened. “I wasn’t aware I had a curfew.”

His eyes finally met hers. Something unreadable flickered behind them — not anger exactly, but something close. “I’m just saying… you’ve barely been here a week and you already have a social calendar.”

She stepped forward, chin lifted. “Thanks for the update, Uncle Chris. I’ll be sure to submit my weekly schedule next time.”

The word uncle tasted bitter in her mouth. He flinched slightly at it, and that alone gave her some small satisfaction.

He didn’t respond, just turned and disappeared into the study, the door clicking shut behind him.

She stood there for a moment, the warmth of the afternoon already slipping away.

Upstairs, her room was dim. She closed the door behind her, leaning against it as her heart thudded with something she couldn’t name.

Dean made her laugh. He made things feel lighter.

But it was Chris who made her feel too much.

And she hated that she noticed.