Chapter 4 CHLOE

I changed into a fuchsia sundress, and we left. Though I’d suggested this outing on impulse, it turned out to be a great idea.

The sun was bright and warm—just enough to give you a mild tan. It was nice to get out of the house for a minute— away from the stares and all…

Jason packed the car at a downtown garage, so we could walk the rest of the way. We strolled through the city together, hands entwined, pausing every so often to steal a kiss.

Our walk took us to his old high school building— an old looming structure, four stories of weathered red brick. A faded banner, with peeling gold lettering spelling out Home of the Hawks, clung to the walls.

I tried to picture Jason here, lanky, maybe with the same grin he wore now, running late to class.

It was the holidays, so the place was empty. And locked.

Jason smiled ruefully, “Should have thought about that.”

“Why come here, though?” I asked, letting go of his hand to rub an itchy spot on my neck.

He took my hand and tugged me towards a narrow path, just left of the building.

“Come on… There's a hidden entrance here, somewhere.”

I walked and ran a bit to keep up with his long strides. He found the entrance —a door which was not locked, and led me through it.

Jason turned the lights on.

It was a basketball court. The hardwood floor of the court gleamed under the lights, glossy in places, scarred with years of game in others. A faint tang of sweat was still in the air.

He let out a big whoop, the sound bouncing off the empty court walls, and raced to the trolley at the center of the court, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood.

I laughed. Jason was almost always so serious; his fun side rarely came out to play, so it was refreshing seeing him like this—like an excited teenager.

Sitting at the front row of the bleachers, I watched him take a running shot, clean, smooth, the net whispering as it swallowed the ball.

I clapped, grinning despite myself.

Jason turns to me, smiling.

“See that?”

‘I see that.” I acquiesced. “Not bad.”

“Not bad? That was perfect form,” Jason bragged, jogging over, eyes bright. "Your boy was the best shooter in his day.”

“Impressive,” I praised.

He liked being praised, so I made a conscious effort to do that often.

I liked being praised too—just not in the traditional way.

“Yeah. My arm was magic with the ball. Still is, from the look of things,” he was grinning widely.

“So why didn't you keep playing?”

Jason sat down next to me. His smile faltered, just for a bit. “I don't really know— maybe because it's fun for me. I didn't want to ruin it with pressure. It's just—hard to explain.”

“It's not,” I said, looking into his eyes. “It's the same for me—with pottery.

“I love the sense of control it gives me. But it gets overwhelming sometimes, doing it daily, meeting up with deadlines, and all.”

We shared a moment for a minute, where I could almost connect on a deeper level with him, before he looked away.

It was frustrating. The way we both avoided the deep, meaningful conversations.

In all the times I've known him, it had always been so easy that it felt like our relationship was something I could just put on, or discard anytime —like dirty laundry.

We spent a few more minutes on the court, during which he tried to teach me how to play. By the time we left, it was obvious that I was hopeless where the sport was concerned.

A light sheen lay on our skin now. It was so hot that I felt parched.

“Can we stop for a drink?” I asked, wiping my face with my hands.

“There's a burger place not far from here,” he said.

We headed in that direction and soon were seated in a corner booth. The place smelt faintly of grease, and the air was cool, a welcome relief from the heat outside.

A young waitress came by our table with the menus in her hands.

“My name is Marcy,” she said, placing them in front of us. “What will you be ordering today?”

“Does Frankie still make those extra ham cheeseburgers?” Jason asked, looking up at Marcy, rubbing his hands like a child.

Marcy lightened up, “Hell, yeah. You know the good stuff.

Have to say I haven't seen you around these parts,” She said, scribbling down his order.

“Well, I left town after high school,” he replied. “I'm back for Thanksgiving, though—my parents live here.”

Marcy cocked her hip and tilted her head. “And who are they?”

“Paul and Gigi Spencer.”

“No way.” Her jaw dropped. “I live next door. At the Griffins. They are my parents.”

Jason’s face tightened, just for a second, before he smiled, a little too wildly. “Little Marcy? How is that possible! Last time I saw you, you were what? Two feet tall.”

Okay, now I was feeling a little left out. I mean, I was sitting there, watching the two of them engrossed in their conversation, and I could literally leave now, and they wouldn't even notice.

“Jason? As in Stancy's Jason?” Marcy asked, hands on her hips.

His eyes cut to me sharply—yes, Jason. I heard that.

Marcy followed his eye movements, and as if only just realizing I was seated there, across from Stancy's Jason, she said,

“Hello there, ma'am, can I take your order?”

It was petty, I know—but I rolled my eyes.

“I'll have a club sandwich. And a cup of coffee,” I clipped.

And she hightailed from the table, not even bothering to write it down, or take Jason's drink order.

I watched her go before turning back to my fiancé. Our eyes met across the table.

“Stancy's Jason?" I asked. “Who's she?”

He raised his hands, as if he were calming a rogue horse. “She's a childhood friend. My next-door neighbor really…

“I think that was her kid sister back there. She was just three when I left Virginia.”

“So why did she address you like that?”

He waved his hands, exasperated. “Hell if I know. I haven't been back in years?” His eyes did not meet mine as he said this.

My brows raised. There was something he was not telling me; I just knew it.

“What's the deal with you and your brother?” I asked, changing the subject rapidly.

“Chloe…,” he groaned. “We just don't get along much, so there's no deal.”

“Really?” I asked skeptically.

“Yes, really,” he reiterated.

His eyes were shifty. Jason was keeping things from me. Though it was probably hypocritical of me to be worried—seeing as I had my own closet full of secrets—I couldn't help but wonder what was so bad that he wouldn't tell me about it.

At least I knew whatever it was couldn't be any worse than mine.

It was pretty much silent between us now. We had our lunch very quickly and headed home.

Jason parked the car and came around to open my door. I was barely out of the car when the front door opened, and a blond-haired, pretty woman, about my age, stepped out, laughing at something Declan was saying. She was dressed in jean shorts and was holding a square cookware in her hands.

I saw them first, before Jason did. And I watched as my fiancé froze, hands curling tight at his sides.

The dish fell to the porch, shattering into a thousand tiny pieces, but neither of them noticed. Then, she bolted down the stairs towards us.

Jason rocked back on his feet as she barreled into him, legs wrapped around his waist tightly. His arms caught her without hesitation—almost like muscle memory.

“Stancy…,” his voice cracked on her name. Soft—like a prayer.

My chest hollowed. Jason had never said my name like that, in all the times we'd been together. Was someone going to tell me who the fuck this woman was?