Walk Over and Talk to Chris

I suck in another hit of my vape and mutter, “Well, shit, why not?” My heart’s doing this stupid little skip as I cross the street, my boots scuffing over the gritty pavement. Chris is still bent over his guitar, fingers coaxing out a riff that’s too damn good for this corner. He doesn’t notice me until I’m practically on top of him, leaning against a streetlight, one hip cocked.

“Hey, rockstar,” I say, my voice low, teasing, like I’m daring him to remember me. His fingers pause mid-strum and those hazel eyes, which are sadly duller now, flick up. He squints, like he’s trying to place me through the fog of whatever’s worn him down.

“Do I…?” He shifts on the milk crate.

“Thalia. Lincoln High.” I smirk, letting the words hang, then add, “You know, the weird goth chick who stared at you during talent shows?”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. “Oh, yeah. You were… intense.” He leans back, sizing me up, and I catch a flicker of the old Chris, the one who made every girl’s pulse race. “Blonde now, huh? Doesn’t seem like you.”

I laugh, sharp and a little bitter. “Yeah, tell me about it. Trying to be a grown-up or some bullshit.” I step closer. “You still shredding souls with that thing, or is this just for beer money?”

He strums a soft chord, eyes not leaving mine. “Bit of both. You sticking around? Could play you something… for old times’ sake.” There’s a hint of heat in his voice, and my skin prickles, that old recklessness urging me to stay, to see where this could go.

“Nah, got a friend waiting at a bar,” I say, but I linger, tossing my hair back, letting him think I might change my mind. “Keep playing, though. You’re still too good for this dump.” I turn, feeling his eyes on me as I walk away, my pulse buzzing. Fuck, that felt good.