Chapter 5: New Games, Old Wounds

4.

After that, Jake doubled down—gifts, money, late-night texts about bands I’d never heard of. It was relentless. I wondered if he’d ever take a hint.

If he’d been after my mom, it might have worked.

She loved flashy gestures and empty promises. Me? I’d seen it all before.

I looked at Jake, bored: "Your grades are too bad."

He blinked, caught off guard. For once, he looked almost real.

"Mia, not everyone’s a genius like you."

He pouted, shoulders slumping. A flash of vulnerability. I almost felt bad for him.

"But you’re talented at painting."

Even if I didn’t like him, I respected his art. His paintings had an edge—raw and honest.

He perked up: "You really think I have talent? The teacher says I just doodle, not good enough."

I nodded. He fidgeted, looking everywhere but at me.

"Don’t you think it’s just laziness?"

He wanted me to tell him he was special. I shrugged, letting him stew.

He started complaining—his family threatened state college if he didn’t quit art, said he’d end up a starving artist.

I cut him off: "Alright, I’m heading home."

I grabbed my bag, signaling the end of the conversation. I had better things to do.

If he was a real player, he’d know not to show weakness before the girl’s hooked. The best players never show their cards.

"Mia, want me to teach you to paint?"

He held out a brush, hopeful. I was curious.

Jake’s eyes were his best feature—deep, soulful, like something from a painting.

I caught myself staring. There was something real in them, under all the swagger.

I liked beautiful things. I smiled: "Your eyes are beautiful. Teach me to draw them."

He blushed, ears turning red. The brush trembled in his hand. It was almost adorable.

He tried to play it cool, but the tremor gave him away. For a moment, he was just a kid with a crush.

I laughed softly.

He looked away, embarrassed, but pleased. The first honest moment we’d had.

Was this the same guy who said he’d have me crawling at someone’s feet?

I remembered the conversation outside Starbucks, the threats he’d made for Madison. Here, blushing and stammering, he seemed harmless.

Not much of a threat—

I compared our drawings and sighed: "Guess I’m hopeless at painting."

My sketch was all crooked lines, his was full of life. I feigned disappointment.

Jake laughed: "You’re actually pretty cute."

His voice was soft, genuine. For once, he dropped the act.

I set the brush down: "The painting’s a mess. I don’t like messy things. Same goes for guys."

It was both a challenge and a warning. Jake’s smile faded. He understood.

He looked at his latest painting—my eyes, cold and unreadable.

It was unsettling, seeing myself through his lens. The eyes were too sharp. I shivered.

He forced a smile and left quickly.

He mumbled about practice and slipped out, leaving his paint-stained hoodie behind.

I felt a hostile gaze.

Turning, I caught Madison glaring from the hallway, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.

She was staring at the brush on the ground.

Jake’s favorite brush lay at my feet, bristles splayed. Madison’s gaze was icy, full of accusation.

He never went anywhere without them. Leaving one behind meant he was rattled.

I picked it up and tossed it in the trash.

A small rebellion, a signal that I was done playing their games. Madison’s mouth twisted in fury.

Maybe someone new would show up next.

I watched the last streaks of sunlight fade. The year was only half over—plenty of time for a new player to arrive.

Hopefully, they’d be more interesting.

I found myself hoping for someone who could surprise me. Life was too short for boring boys.