Hopefully everyone is starting to really enjoy this book! We are finally getting into the story a bit more which means less background and more ~plot thickening~. Don't forget, this story is updated every week!

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"Education is the ability to listen to almost anything without losing your temper or your self-confidence." - Robert Frost

Memory Lane: Chapter Eight

Even though my legs don't allow me the speed to catch up to Jesse quickly, there's no cause for concern. I can clearly see him even after he enters the tree line. This section of woods is nothing more than ten or so acres of forest separating Monument Avenue from another road that cuts through Bennington, and the brush is anything but thick. Each tree has breathing room for its limbs to spread and create a beautiful canopy of leaves, thinning out as the seasons change and the leaves fall. With autumn in full swing, the ground is dense with orange, maroon, and crispy brown leaves that crunch under each step I take to gain on Jesse's brisk pace.

Each quickened step I take causes my jeans to rub harshly against my skin, but I bite back any grimaces and instead choose to endure the discomfort. If it changes from discomfort to pain, I know I'll need to give up trying to catch up to the handsome, yet entirely too annoying, boy nearly fifty yards ahead of me and instead go back home to lather on more medical lotion.

Whether it be because he didn't hear my feet kicking up leaves near him and slowed down, or because I was able to step up my pace, I manage to almost completely close the gap between me and Jesse. I continue to trail behind him, not interested in matching his stride. My stomach growls in protest to once again skipping breakfast, but I grab some water from the bottle that resides in my backpack to momentarily satisfy it.

We emerge from the woods to another road, where West Road becomes Main Street and also the quickest road to leave or enter town. It's bustling with cars as the various families throughout Bennington rush off to their offices down on Main Street or rush straight out of town to reach their jobs in cities close by. Since the sidewalk is on the opposite end of the road, Jesse glances both ways and waits for a lull in the traffic. When one comes he quickly crosses the road, momentarily glancing over his shoulder to see if I made it across safely.

Before following him, I too glance both ways and flinch when noticing the old Walloomsac Inn just down the road on my left. The old, dreary building looms over the pavement and leaves an eerie chill in the air, so I hurry across the road after Jesse. As we pass the Old First Church and the adjacent Cemetery, the warm breeze I felt earlier this morning begins to slip away as a cloud covers the sun. I hug my arms across my body, narrowing my eyes at Jesse's muscled back just a few yards in front of me. His backpack is slung over one shoulder only, so half of his muscular back is within view.

"This is stupid," I mutter to myself. "Stupid curiosity for making me follow him. This is not the way I have ever gone and it feels like I'm being led on a wild goose chase, and it's creepy. Stupid Google Maps for supposedly leading me on a longer path, and stupid cemetery where what's-his-face from the Titanic is now buried that no one could seem to remember the name of-"

"Charles Greeson Jones."

My feet stutter at Jesse's voice. Up until crossing the street earlier, I wasn't sure he even knew I had decided to follow him.

"What?" I ask dumbly.

Jesse barely turns his head to glance over his shoulder, just enough so his voice can be thrown behind him. "The guy you're muttering about."

I blink at his back, "What about him?"

Jesse slows his stride, allowing me to finally catch up fully to him as he nods to the Cemetery. "He was one of the only first class Titanic passengers recovered by the Mackay Bennet and returned home. He was buried right here in Bennington."

I stare into the cemetery, surrounded by a well-kept white picket fence with rolling curves between each pillar. Every gravestone seems well cared for, not one shows its age with moss growth or mold. Each looks as pearly white as I'm sure they did when first placed into the ground.

"You do that a lot, by the way," Jesse says.

He waits until I'm next to him to start walking again. This time he keeps his speed manageable for me, but I doubt it was done on purpose.

I shift my eyes from the gravestones to him. "Do what?"

"Mumble your thoughts."

My face scrunches in denial, "When have I ever-"

"Earlier, when you were debating whether or not to try and follow my vague directions on your own."

I bite my tongue as embarrassment crawls up my neck. As I grew up, there were times when I would mumble about my observations. My mom and dad rarely pointed it out and they never did so with any judgment. They loved to hear the way I viewed the world, especially through my young lens. When they died, I figured I had stopped. Shaking my head, I toss away memories of my parents.

"Two times hardly constitutes you saying I do it a lot," I mumble.

Jesse doesn't respond, but I see the corner of his lips twitch up slightly. The movement is so small that I wouldn't have caught it had I not been looking.

Soon, our walk takes us far away from Charles Greeson Jones and Jesse has us enter another section of woods, causing me to duck under a low-hanging branch that he just sidesteps. From the corner of my eye, I watch him as he walks confidently through the woods. For a moment, I wonder if I misjudged him. The revelation that I prefer continuing this conversation with Jesse over walking in silence has me pinching my arm to make sure I'm not stuck in some sort of dream. Or nightmare.

"Kendall mentioned that you would know the name of the Titanic guy," I say.

He steps on a twig that snaps instantly under the weight of his foot. "I know."

"You know?" Again, I'm slightly taken aback and curse myself for the fact that five out of my last six remarks have been dumb, echoed questions.

Jesse glances at me, his chin just barely pointing in my direction before his eyes are back ahead of us. "Quinn and Kendall aren't what I would classify as quiet talkers."

For a moment I feel defensive over my two new friends, but there's something foreign to me in Jesse's tone. Once I recognize it as the most subtle inkling of humor, my defensive retort melts away, but the curiosity remains.

"So, you heard them at The Oven Bird?"

Jesse looks down at me silently, his expression looking as though he thinks I'm either hard of hearing or dumb. I internally curse myself for asking a question that was clearly already answered and instead find one that actually remains a mystery.

"If you heard them, why not speak up and say the name of the Titanic guy when you sat back down?"

He shrugs and pushes another branch out of the way and I quickly swing under it before he lets it go to snap back into place. "No one asked me."

I furrow my brow. "Well...yeah. Because they thought you'd get upset if they did. Then things got awkward when everyone tried to quickly find a new topic of conversation."

Jesse's jaw clicks as I push the conversation. "Good thing Allen is quick on his feet."

"Why make him be in the first place?" I ask.

He stops walking for a moment, turning his body towards me. I stumble over a small root and blink up at him when I catch my footing.

"It would have been more awkward if I had sat down and admitted to hearing everything they said."

I furrow my brow, naively ignoring how his eyes become more familiar to me as they shift from light to steely.

"How else would they know it's okay to talk about around you?"

"The Titanic?" He says dryly, his deadpan expression clearly showing he's not actually referring to that portion of the conversation. Instead, he's alluding to the reason the others' quickly changed the topic: too afraid to mention Jesse's dad.

I swallow slightly, maintaining his gaze up until the moment he begins walking again.

"If it's okay for them to talk about," I begin cautiously, fully aware that the Titanic no longer refers to Charles Greeson Jones, "then it might help to address that with them. Otherwise they think they can't mention him-"

Jesse whirls back around to face me, his gray eyes now dark with irritation. "That is none of your business. As a matter of fact, none of this is your business."

My words get lost in my throat and my tongue suddenly feels heavy at the sharpness of his tone, so I tug my lips together and shift my focus to the rainbow of leaves on the ground. I probably did cross a line. I don't know Jesse. I don't know about his dad. I don't truly know why everyone so adamantly avoids discussing that topic with him. Before now, the only thing I've known about him is that he's a quiet, brooding jerk. I internally scoff for allowing myself, even for a second, to imagine him as anything else.

"And my decision to walk to school is none of yours." I say coolly.

Jesse narrows his eyes momentarily and the two of us become stuck in a tense silence. Then, he turns and continues leading the way, his shoulders stiff and steps heavier.

Soon, we emerge from another section of the forest and my heart leaps in my chest. Mount Anthony High School is right across the street. The walk only took us fifteen minutes. A car zooms down the road and my eyes follow it, getting distracted by the tiny diner seemingly built in retrograde just down the road. No larger than an RV, the small diner sits with a bright tin roof starkly contrasting the blue tent acting as an entrance at the front. A smile lights my lips as memories come rushing back, forgetting about the tense moment shared earlier.

"Is that Blue Benn Diner?" I ask.

Jesse pauses before crossing the road, following my line of sight.

"A Bennington classic," he says, his voice teetering on the edge of mockery to a slogan I'm sure he's heard a thousand times.

"I haven't been there in years," I admit quietly.

Not since the last time I visited the Stallard's with my parents. It used to be tradition to stop by the Diner every visit. Sometimes my dad would take me out for a midnight snack, other times my mom would drag me along for a sunrise breakfast, and every now and then we would go as a full family in place of eating dinner.

Jesse watches me. Then, his gaze shifts between the school and his phone and he sighs. "We have some extra time if you want to stop in and get something to go."

In that same moment, I see a little girl emerge from the diner with her parents. They are each holding one of her hands, swinging her over one of the parking lot curbs as their laughter mixes in with her giggles. My heart clenches tightly, so much that I lose my breath for a moment as I stare at them. I shut my eyes just long enough to find my breath and turn back to Jesse, stiffening when I catch him watching me.

I hate that his expression is unreadable.

I easily slip a fake smile onto my face, knowing that it's convincing enough to be real. After all, it's moments like this that I've practiced them for.

"We should probably get to class," I say, letting out a breath of relief that my voice sounds normal and not strained.

Jesse's eyes narrow slightly. "Already have breakfast?"

My stomach growls right on cue, and thankfully another car drives past and drowns out the sound. I wave off Jesse's question with a dismissive nod. He responds by turning back to the road and walking across with me once again trailing behind him. As we walk up the steps and reach the front doors, I allow myself to peek up at the clock at the very top of the school. My lips part in shock at the time. 8:20 AM. Rather than being ten minutes late, following Jesse helped me manage to arrive ten minutes early.

A genuine smile slips onto my face as I quickly follow Jesse through the hallway and to class.

"Thank you," I say as he opens the door. "For showing me the quicker path. It's nice to not walk in during a lecture."

He holds it open a beat longer for me to walk through and looks at me, subtly tilting his head. "So, it's not hard to earn it."

My gratitude drops into confusion, "Earn what-" the second I open my mouth, my earlier comment about forgiveness comes to mind and I scowl at him. "And who says you earned it?"

There's the faintest lift of his lips as he takes his eyes off of me and sits in his seat, placing his attention on grabbing his notes from his backpack. As I watch him pull out his agenda and begin writing in it, my scowl deepens when irritation doesn't bubble in my chest. I squeeze my lips together and nearly groan when I realize that he was right. He did earn it.

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