Saturday morning came slow.
I woke up to sunlight coming through my curtains. My room was quiet. The house was quiet. My parents had left early again. Betty was still asleep. I could hear her breathing through the wall.
I didn't want to get up.
But my phone buzzed.
Aiden: "Are you busy today?"
I stared at the message. He never asked that. He always just told me when and where to meet. This was different.
I typed back.
"No. Why?"
Aiden: "I want to take you somewhere."
"Where?"
"You'll see. I'll pick you up in an hour."
I blinked.
"You're picking me up?"
"Yes. Wear comfortable shoes. We're walking."
I stared at my phone. Then I smiled. Just a little.
An hour later, I was standing outside my gate when a black car pulled up.
Aiden was driving. He rolled down the window. "Get in."
I got in. The car smelled like him. Mint and something else I couldn't name.
We drove in silence for a while. The streets got quieter. The houses got older. We were heading out of town.
"So," I said. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere I used to go."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see."
I looked at him. His hands were on the steering wheel. His eyes were on the road. He looked calm. Relaxed. Different from how he usually looked at school.
I didn't push. I just watched the trees pass by.
We drove for about twenty minutes. Then he pulled up to an old house.
It was abandoned. The windows were boarded up. The paint was peeling. The yard was overgrown with weeds and wildflowers.
"This is it," he said, turning off the car.
I looked at the house. It looked sad. Like it had been forgotten.
"Why did you bring me here?"
He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "Because this place helped me. When things were bad."
I looked at him. His face was unreadable. But his eyes were soft.
"Tell me," I said.
He got out of the car. I followed.
He walked to the front of the house and sat on the steps. I sat next to him. Close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"Two years ago," he said, "my parents split. It was messy. My mom left. My dad blamed me for it."
I frowned. "Why would he blame you?"
"Because I was the one who told her about his affair."
I went still.
Aiden looked at the house. "I found out. I told her. She left. And he never forgave me."
I didn't know what to say. So I just sat there.
"I used to come here," he continued. "I would bring paint and brushes. I would paint the walls inside. It was the only thing that made me feel better."
He looked at me. "I haven't painted in a year."
I met his eyes. "Why?"
"I don't know. I think I stopped when I stopped feeling like I had something to say."
We sat there in silence. The wind moved through the grass. A bird called somewhere far away.
Then I said, "You can paint again. If you want."
He looked at me.
"I'll watch," I said. "If that helps."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, "Okay."
He wore a genuine smile for a longer time and I was beyond surprised. And most of the time, he was wearing it while staring at me.
We went inside the house.
It was empty. The floors were dusty. The walls were covered in old paint. Some of it was good. Some of it was messy. But all of it was him.
I walked around, looking at the paintings. There were landscapes. Faces. Abstract things I didn't understand. But I felt them anyway.
Aiden stood by the wall. "This is where I painted most of them."
I looked at him. "You're good."
"I'm okay."
"You're good."
He almost smiled. "Thanks."
We stayed there for a while. We talked about nothing. Everything. He told me about his mom. About how she calls him once a week but he never answers. About how his dad is still angry.
I told him about my scar. About how I used to think I would die alone. About how I didn't think anyone would notice if I disappeared.
He listened. He didn't interrupt.
When I was done, he said, "I would have noticed."
I looked at him.
"That's a lie."
He didn't look away and this time, his voice was deeper. "I would have noticed."
My heart did something strange.
The sun started to set.
We were sitting on the floor now, our backs against the wall. The light was coming through the cracks in the boarded windows. It was quiet. Peaceful.
We were close. Closer than I realized. His shoulder was against mine. His hand was resting on the floor between us, barely an inch from mine.
I could feel the warmth coming off him.
"Hey," I said.
"Yeah?"
I turned to look at him. He was already looking at me.
"Can I sleep over at your place tonight?"
He went still.
I didn't look away. "I don't want to go home. My parents are still gone. Betty is there. And I just... I don't want to be alone tonight."
He looked at me for a long moment. His green eyes were searching mine. Like he was trying to figure out if I meant what I said.
Then he said, "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He was quiet for another moment. Then he said, "Okay."
I smiled. A small, real smile.
He stood up and held out his hand. I took it.
His fingers wrapped around mine. Warm. Rough. He held on a little longer than he needed to.
"Let's go," he said.
But he didn't let go of my hand.
Neither did I.