Detention and driveway’s
907 Words
Lena didn’t trust him.
“I know you think there’s more to him,” she said one night as we sprawled across my bed, textbooks open and forgotten, “but guys like that don’t change. They just pull you down with them.”
“I’m not falling for him,” I lied.
Lena gave me a look. “Your eyes say otherwise.”
Maybe she was right. Maybe I was crazy. But there was something about Jace that didn’t line up with the stories. Yes, he was rough around the edges. Yes, he skipped class and got into arguments with teachers. But I’d seen him take his lunch tray to a quiet corner and share his fries with a stray cat that prowled the edge of campus. I’d watched him help a freshman pick up their books after getting trampled in the hallway. He wasn’t heartless. Just hidden.
And I wanted to know what he was hiding.
5. Detention
Our first real conversation happened in detention.
Mr. Collins had caught Jace making sarcastic remarks during a poetry reading, and I’d gotten stuck there for turning in my essay late—thanks to obsessing over making it “perfect.” We sat in the back row of the classroom, the silence between us buzzing with unspoken words.
He tapped his pencil against the desk. “You always this good at getting in trouble?”
I smirked. “I’m not the one who made fun of Sylvia Plath.”
“She wrote like she wanted to be saved,” he said.
“She wrote like she wanted to feel.”
He glanced at me. “Same thing, sometimes.”
That shut me up.
Minutes passed. He leaned back, hands laced behind his head. “You don’t belong here.”
“In detention?”
“In this town. In this world. You look like you should be off doing something real. Not wasting time with nobodies.”
“Maybe I like wasting time with nobodies.”
That earned me a slow, crooked grin. “Careful. I might believe you.”
6. First Ride
The day he asked if I wanted a ride home, it was raining. My umbrella had flipped inside out, and I was drenched from head to toe, shivering by the curb. His Mustang pulled up beside me, windows fogged, music thumping low.
“Get in,” he said, pushing the door open.
I hesitated. Then I got in.
The interior smelled like leather and mint gum. His jacket was tossed in the back, and his playlist flipped from rock to some melancholy instrumental piece that surprised me.
“I didn’t peg you for piano music,” I said.
He shrugged. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
“I’m starting to realize that.”
The ride was quiet, but not awkward. I watched the way he drove—smooth, one hand on the wheel, eyes focused. Like he was running from something. Or toward something.
When he dropped me off, I lingered a moment before getting out.
“Thanks.”
He nodded. “Anytime.”
And then, just as I turned to leave, he said, “You’re different, you know.”
I smiled. “So are you.”
7. Walls and Windows
We started talking more after that. At school, in the library, through texts that lasted into the early hours of the morning. He made me laugh with his dark humor. He listened when I ranted about stress and grades. And slowly, he let his guard down.
I learned that his mom had left when he was ten. That his dad was a trucker who was rarely home. That he’d moved from state to state, school to school, never staying long enough to matter.
“I stopped trying a long time ago,” he said one night.
“Trying what?”
“Fitting in. Being someone worth keeping.”
I reached across the table and touched his hand. “You are.”
He flinched, just slightly. Like he didn’t know how to handle kindness. Like it hurt more than hate.
8. The Kiss
It happened at the fall festival. The air was cool, scented with cider and popcorn. Lights strung between the booths flickered above us like stars trying to compete with the real thing.
He showed up out of nowhere, dressed in all black but still managing to look like he belonged in a magazine spread. I’d been laughing with Lena, but when I saw him, everything else blurred.
“You came,” I said.
“You asked,” he replied.
We walked along the edge of the crowd, away from the noise. He tossed darts at a balloon stand and missed every time. I teased him mercilessly. He grinned like he didn’t mind.
Then, behind the old carousel, he stopped.
“Why are you really hanging out with me?” he asked, voice low.
“Because I like you.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Too late.”
And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t gentle. It was raw, like he didn’t know how to be soft. But there was a desperation in it too, like he’d been holding back for weeks and couldn’t anymore.
When he pulled away, his breath was shaky.
“This is gonna wreck you,” he whispered.
“Maybe,” I said, brushing my fingers against his jaw. “But maybe it’ll wreck you too.”
- Writer
