Bound to my High School obsession

Chapter 2: The Permanent Fixture

“You can put the box down, Annabel. It looks heavy."

Anthony’s voice was lower than I remembered, a deep, raspy baritone that seemed to vibrate straight through the floorboards.

The slight smirk playing at the corner of his lips told me everything I needed to know. He knew exactly what he was doing to me. He knew that my lungs had entirely ceased to function the moment I recognized him.

"I've got it," I managed to squeeze out, my voice tight as I forced my legs to move forward. I set the heavy box down on the bare mattress-less bed frame, desperately trying to keep my hands from shaking as I smoothed down the cardboard flaps. "What are you doing here, Anthony?"

"Helping out," he said simply. He leaned his hip back against my old oak dresser, crossing his arms over his chest. The leather of his jacket strained tight against his broad shoulders. "William said his new stepdaughter was moving in today. He just forgot to mention it was you."

I opened my mouth to respond, to demand to know why a guy from my past was suddenly standing in my sanctuary, but heavy footsteps thudded down the hallway before the words could form.

"Yo, Ant, did you find the brackets for the—oh, hey! You must be Annabel."

A guy with messy blonde hair and an easygoing grin walked into the room, carrying a stack of wooden shelves. He looked a bit like William, but without the stiff, business-like edge.

"I'm Chase," he said, offering a lopsided smile as he set the shelves against the wall. "Your new stepbrother. Sorry about all the chaos. Dad and your mom have been moving at lightning speed."

"Hi, Chase," I said, offering a small, breathless smile, immensely grateful for the interruption. "Thanks for helping with the heavy lifting."

"Don't thank me, thank Anthony," Chase laughed, throwing a playful arm around Anthony’s shoulder. Anthony didn't flinch, his eyes never leaving my face. "This guy is basically a permanent fixture around here. He lives ten minutes down the road but practically sleeps on our couch. Get used to seeing him."

My stomach did a violent flip. A permanent fixture.

I wasn't just moving back to Wyoming to live with my mother and a stepfather I barely knew. I was moving back into the immediate, daily orbit of the guy I used to secretly obsess over from the back of the classroom.

After Chase and Anthony finished moving the heavy furniture, they finally headed downstairs, leaving me alone. I spent the next two hours unpacking what I could, using the physical labor to distract my racing thoughts. Every time a floorboard creaked outside my room, my heart leaped into my throat, terrified it would be Anthony coming back.

By the time my mother called up the stairs that dinner was ready, I had managed to change into a fresh hoodie, though my nerves were still completely shot.

I walked down to the dining room, the heavy scent of pot roast filling the air. The table was set perfectly, a desperate attempt by my mother to make this artificial new family blend together. My mother sat at the head, fluttering and talking a mile a minute. William sat opposite her, nodding politely but occasionally checking his watch.

And, to my absolute horror, the only empty seat left was directly across from Anthony.

I took my seat slowly, pulling my chair in.

"We really appreciate you coming back to help with the transition, Annabel," William said, his tone authoritative and sharp as he carved the meat. "Family sticks together when things get tight."

"Of course," I murmured, staring intensely at my plate.

Every time I dared to look up, I regretted it. Anthony wasn't even pretending to eat. He was leaning back in his chair, a glass of water resting in his large hand, his dark eyes locked onto me. It was a heavy, unblinking stare that felt entirely too intimate for a crowded dinner table.

I remembered high school. I remembered the way girls would line up at the track just to watch him run, the way he would walk past everyone like they didn't exist. He had been an untouchable god in our small town. Now, he was watching me like I was the only thing in the room.

It made my skin prickle with a dangerous heat.

When dinner finally ended, I volunteered to help clear the table just to give my hands something to do. Anthony stayed behind to talk to William in the living room, their low voices drifting through the house. The moment the dishes were done, I practically bolted back upstairs and locked my bedroom door.

For the first hour, I just stared at the ceiling, my mind spinning. The room felt too small, crowded by the ghost of who I used to be and the terrifying reality of who was downstairs.

Needing a distraction, I stood up and walked over to my old built-in bookshelf. It was still filled with dust-covered paperbacks, old high school yearbooks, and half-empty notebooks from senior year. I began pulling the books down, wiping the shelves with a tissue, desperately trying to focus on the mindless task.

But as I reached the top shelf, my fingers brushed against a thick, worn sketchbook.

My heart skipped. I pulled it down and flipped it open. Page after page was filled with charcoal drawings from senior year—and nearly half of them were sketches of the back of Anthony’s head, his profile as he stared out the classroom window, the sharp line of his jaw. I had been so careful to never let anyone see it.

A wave of heat rushed to my face. I slammed the sketchbook shut and shoved it into the very bottom of my closet, burying it under a pile of hoodies.

By the time I finished reorganizing the shelves, it was past midnight. The house had finally fallen completely quiet, save for the howling Wyoming wind that rattled the windowpanes. My throat felt parched and raw from the dry air, and my water glass was completely empty.

Hoping everyone was asleep, I unlocked my door, stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, and padded quietly down to the kitchen.

The refrigerator light cast long shadows across the linoleum as I poured myself a cold glass of water. I leaned against the counter, taking a long, soothing sip, finally feeling the tension in my shoulders loosen.

"Can't sleep either?"

I jumped, nearly spilling the water all over myself.

Chase was leaning against the kitchen doorway, holding a middle-of-the-night bowl of cereal. He was wearing sweatpants, looking just as restless as I felt.

"Just adjusting," I breathed, pressing a hand to my racing heart. "It's a lot of change at once."

"Yeah, Dad can be a lot," Chase admitted, walking over to sit at the small kitchen island. "But hey, at least you've got some familiar faces around. You and Anthony went to Sheridan High together, right? Mom mentioned it earlier."

I swallowed hard, keeping my eyes on my glass, tracing the condensation with my thumb. "Yeah. We did. We didn't really talk back then, though. He was pretty popular, and I mostly kept to myself."

Chase snorted, shaking his head as he took a bite of cereal. "Yeah, well, he's still a mystery. Honestly, the guy is a ghost."

"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to sound completely casual, though my chest tightened.

"I mean, look at him," Chase said, gesturing vaguely toward the ceiling. "He's gorgeous. Girls throw themselves at him constantly at the gym and around town. But he hasn't touched a single girl since high school. Literally won't even go on a date. Dad thinks he's crazy, but it’s like he’s waiting for a ghost."

The kitchen suddenly felt ice-cold.

Waiting for a ghost.

I stared at Chase, the water turning heavy in my stomach, as a terrifying, impossible thought began to take root in my mind.