Chapter 2 CHAPTER 2
Chapter 2: Kai pov
“What makes you think this guy actually likes you back?”
Freddy leaned across the sticky lunch table, one hand gripping his phone, the other clutching the most revolting pickle-drenched sandwich I’d ever witnessed. Juice dripped onto his tray like a crime scene.
I shrugged, pushing cold tater tots around with my plastic fork. “It’s the vibe, man. In P.E. Yesterday, he passed me the basketball—super slow, eyes locked the whole time. Like he was saying something without saying it.”
Freddy’s dark curls practically vibrated as his brain spun. Wren slid onto the bench beside him, tossing their blue-black bangs out of their eyes and pulling a sandwich from a worn lunch bag covered in band stickers.
“Did you have something on your face?” Wren asked dryly. “Because that volcano zit on your forehead yesterday could’ve triggered a national emergency. He might’ve just been trying to warn you.”
Freddy groaned and slid his sandwich away.
“Wren, I’ve begged you—nuclear disasters and lunch do not mix. I can already feel my skin melting.”
I drummed my knuckles on the table, desperate for focus. “Come on, people. Serious strategy session. Is Logan McCreadie sending signals, or am I just reading smoke signals from my own desperate brain?”
Freddy rolled his eyes but dragged his lunch back. “You’re not desperate, Kai. But seriously, pick an easier target. There are like seven out guys in our grade—this town’s practically progressive by Specter standards. Wait, I mean Willow Creek standards.”
“Yeah, and most of them are your exes,” I shot back. “Hard pass on the hand-me-downs, Freddy.”
“Ex-sharing is sacred gay territory,” Freddy declared through a massive bite. “Especially in a small town. Didn’t you read the welcome packet?”
Wren snorted. “Enough. Who’s the target? Spill.”
“Logan McCreadie,” I said quickly. “Not officially out, dated Sarah Schultz over summer, but that’s dead. This week he’s been… intense. Foot thing under the desk in Geometry. Lingered by my locker. Compliment my Hudson’s Haunted Habitats pin.”
Wren raised a skeptical eyebrow—their default expression. “Foot thing?”
I demonstrated, propping my sneaker up and wiggling it seductively. It looked ridiculous.
Freddy laughed. “Dude, he was probably stretching after Coach Reedy’s suicide sprints at soccer practice. That man wants us dead before the playoffs.”
My foot dropped with a thud. “Okay, fine. But Tuesday—”
“Sarah’s locker is three down from yours,” Wren interrupted. “He was probably waiting for her.”
The realization hit like ice water. Damn. Had I invented the whole flirtation in my head? The table went quiet as embarrassment crawled up my neck.
Wren reached over, their ring-covered fingers squeezing mine. “Hey. Don’t spiral. Last year I was convinced Abby Sears was into me because of all the winking in English Lit. Turns out she has Tourette’s. Wuthering Heights triggered her like crazy. Though that book makes me twitch too—for different reasons.”
“Why is my brain wired like this?” I slumped forward, forehead nearly hitting the table. “Why do I only fall for the theoretically straight ones? The ones who can never like me back?”
Freddy swallowed his bite. “Told you—lower your standards. It worked for me.”
Wren smirked. “Lower them to the basement with yours? Not everyone thrives on chaos like Freddy DeSoto.”
The banter flowed easy, the kind that made surviving Willow Creek High possible. Freddy and Wren were my anchors—chaotic, loyal, and brutally honest. By the time lunch ended, my cheeks had cooled, and my chest felt lighter.
Later that afternoon, as the late bus crawled through Willow Creek’s quiet neighborhoods, I stared out the window replaying the Logan disaster.
The town looked peaceful from afar—tree-lined streets, the distant spire of Eternal Light Community Church, the old Catholic church on Holly Street that locals swore was haunted. But inside, it felt like a pressure cooker for anyone who didn’t fit the mold.
I finally got home around five. Mom and my sister Mira were at the kitchen table, deep in case files. Mira, three years older and laser-focused on her pre-law path at Georgia State, looked exhausted but sharp.
“Hey, Kai.” Mira waved, her copper curls tied back. We shared the same pale skin that burned instantly and the same stubborn nose, but that was where the twin illusion ended
.
Mom glanced at her watch. “Bus late again? Sorry, honey.”
“It’s fine. Gave me time to finish Geometry.” I poured sweet tea and joined them.
Mom kissed the top of my head before rushing back to the office. “Your dad’s filming late. Order Egg Rollz when you’re hungry. Mira, handle the Henderson file—count the police calls.”
Once Mom left, Mira slumped dramatically. “This internship is curing me of marriage. Straight people are feral. I’d rather shove angry hornets up my ass than mediate another divorce.”
I laughed. “Then why work with Mom?”
“Foot in the door. Pay dues, get the EPA dream job, never touch family law again.” She cracked her knuckles. “What’s up with you? You look like someone kicked your puppy.”
I deflated. “Thought a guy was flirting. Turns out he was just… existing near me. Classic Kai.”
Mira’s eyes softened. “Sixteen is too early for ‘forever doomed,’ little bro. But yeah, it sucks. You’ll find someone. Just put yourself out there—smartly. No getting punched by homophobes. Mom and Dad spent good money on those teeth.”
We laughed, and the tightness in my chest eased. Mira always knew how to cut through the angst without dismissing it.
That evening, after beef and broccoli arrived, I texted the group.
KAI: Saturday. Ghost tour at the old St. Agnes Catholic Church after Freddy’s soccer game? Hudson’s Haunted Habitats just dropped a new episode. Tours started because of it. Pizza after?
WREN: I’m in. Terrified but in.
FREDDY: I have a game… but fine. You’re buying pizza if anyone says “tiddies” again.
The chat exploded with memes and horror movie threats. For the first time all week, real excitement buzzed through me. Logan might be a fantasy, but nights like this—chasing ghosts with my chosen family—felt real. Dangerous. Alive.
As I lay in bed later, scrolling paranormal forums, the familiar ache returned. I wanted more than friendship and ghost stories. I wanted someone to look at me the way I looked at the stars—full of wonder and possibility. Someone who saw the real me and stayed.
Maybe the old church on Holly Street held more than ghosts. Maybe it held answers. Or at least a really good scare to distract me from the waiting.
