Mixed messages - Jay

I stood in front of the mirror, staring at my reflection for what felt like the hundredth time. My hair refused to cooperate, no matter how many times I combed it, sticking up awkwardly in places like it had a mind of its own. I sighed heavily, dragging my fingers through it in frustration. Why did it even matter so much? It wasn't like Sam was going to notice my hair—or my shirt, or the way I was nervously fumbling with everything tonight.

Another groan escaped me as I swapped shirts yet again, throwing the rejected one onto the growing pile on my bed. My room looked like a small clothing tornado had hit it, and I was no closer to being satisfied. I glanced at the clock and realized I was running out of time to get it together.

"Jay?" My sister's voice cut through my spiral of thoughts. She stood in the doorway, arms crossed, with an annoyingly smug smirk plastered across her face. "What's taking so long? You're not getting ready for a date, are you?"

"It's not a date," I snapped, too quickly for it to sound convincing.

"Right. Sure." She raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe like she was settling in for a show. "So why do you care so much about your hair? And, what's that—shirt number three? Or are we on number four?"

"It's the second," I mumbled, though we both knew that was a lie.

She snorted, clearly enjoying herself. "Whatever you say. Have fun with your friend." She dragged the word out dramatically, grinning as she disappeared down the hall.

I rolled my eyes, but her teasing lingered in my head longer than I wanted it to. It wasn't a date. It wasn't. But then why did it feel like it mattered so much? I wanted to make a good impression. I wanted Sam to think I was cool, or at least normal. But I couldn't figure out why. Why did his opinion feel so important?

The walk to Sam's house was uneventful, though my mind wouldn't stop racing. My mom had offered me a ride, but I'd declined, figuring the walk would give me time to calm down. It didn't. I tried to think of things we could talk about—football? Music? School? But every idea felt forced, like I was trying too hard to be someone I wasn't. By the time I reached his front door, my palms were sweaty, and my heart was pounding as if I'd run the entire way.

When the door opened, Sam stood there, his easy grin making everything seem so simple. "Hey, Jay. Come on in."

"Hey," I managed, my voice embarrassingly quiet.

He stepped aside, holding the door open as I walked in. "I'll give you a quick tour. My parents are out tonight, so it's just us."

The house smelled faintly of lemon cleaner, and everything about it was pristine. The white walls, sleek furniture, and spotless surfaces made me feel like I'd stepped into a magazine. The kitchen, in particular, caught my attention. Its polished marble counters and gleaming chrome appliances looked brand new, like they'd never been used.

Sam led me through the living room, pointing out family photos and other little details, but I barely heard him. My mind was stuck on how different this felt from my own home—less chaotic, less... lived-in.

"This way," Sam said, motioning for me to follow him upstairs. His room was cozy in contrast to the rest of the house, the familiarity of his room was growing on me.

He gestured to the couch and sat down beside me. There was plenty of space, but he sat close enough that our knees almost touched. I tried to focus, but the stronger scent of his aftershave today threw me off.

To fill the silence, Sam opened Spotify on his phone, scrolling through playlists. "Check this one out," he said, handing me his phone. "It's my favourite right now."

I took the phone, glancing at the screen as he explained why he liked each track. His excitement was contagious, and I found myself smiling despite my nerves.

"Do you listen to this kind of stuff?" he asked, leaning slightly toward me.

"Sometimes," I said. "I mostly like indie stuff. It's... quieter."

He grinned, his eyes lighting up. "Figures. You seem like a quieter kind of guy."

It wasn't meant as an insult, but the way he said it made me wonder if that was a good thing or not. Before I could overthink it, I blurted, "I like slower songs because I play piano. They're easier to work with."

His grin widened. "That's so cool. I've always wanted to learn an instrument. You'll have to play something for me sometime. I'd love to hear you."

The thought of Sam sitting in my room, listening to me play, sent a warm flush through me. I nodded, unsure of what to say. "Sure," I managed, smiling at the idea.

As we talked, he shifted closer, our legs now touching. Every accidental brush of his arm sent tiny sparks through me, and I found myself hyper-aware of the small space between us. I tried not to read into it—he was just comfortable around me, like Alex was.

"This one's my go-to before games," he said, pointing to a playlist filled with high-energy rock and pop. "Gets me pumped up and I somehow play better or swim faster."

I nodded, listening intently as he explained the thought process behind each playlist. His enthusiasm was infectious, and I found myself smiling more than I had all week.

As the conversation shifted to his sports, his tone grew noticeably heavier, his casual confidence giving way to something more serious. "My parents are big on me winning," he said, "well actually more so my dad, but my mom joins in with the nagging too" his fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest of the couch. The steady rhythm seemed more like a nervous tick than a deliberate action. "They always say, 'Just do your best,' but what they really mean is, 'Don't mess up.' And if I don't win I'm usually grounded, or I have to go to more practice sessions to 'get better' as my dad puts it"

"That sounds tough," I said quietly, glancing at him. His expression was distant, his maw set tight, and I could see a flicker of vulnerability beneath his usual bravado. It wasn't a side of him I'd seen before, and it caught me off guard.

"It can be," he admitted after a pause. "Sometimes I just wish they'd let me... I don't know, enjoy things without all the pressure. Everything's always about winning—about being the best." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his fur. "Even when I do well, it's not enough. There's always the next game, the next competition. I barely get to breathe before they're talking about what's next."

I nodded again, unsure how to respond. What could I say to that? I couldn't imagine the kind of weight he carried, the constant need to prove himself. The closeness of the moment wasn't lost on me—his honesty, his unguarded tone. My heart raced, a confusing mix of hope and uncertainty stirring inside me.

"Hey," he said suddenly, breaking the tension as he stood up. "Let's bake something."

"Bake?" I blinked at him, caught completely off guard. The shift in conversation was so abrupt it took me a second to process it.

"Yeah," he said with a grin. "I make this apple pie sometimes. It's good, I swear. My dad hates it when I bake because of the mess, but he's not here tonight, so it's the perfect chance."

The kitchen felt even more pristine up close than it had during the tour earlier. Everything was spotless, perfectly organized, from the glass jars filled with spices to the neatly hung utensils. I hesitated at the doorway, afraid to touch anything and ruin the immaculate setup, but Sam moved around the room with ease, pulling out ingredients like he'd done this a hundred times before.

"Here," he said, handing me a handful of apples and a peeler. "You're on peeling duty. I'll get the rest ready."

It was like the moment he entered the kitchen Sam was back to this confident guy again, in his element and his magnetic aura was back, I was just happy tagging along for the ride to be honest, it felt like it didn't matter what we did it would be fun, Sam would make it fun

I took the apples, setting them down on the counter as I picked up the peeler. "So, is this a regular thing for you? Baking pies when your parents aren't around?"

He laughed. "Not really. My grandma taught me when I was a kid. It was kinda our thing, but my parents aren't big fans of the kitchen getting messy. Even when I clean up after myself, they complain."

As we worked side by side, the conversation turned lighter. He shared stories about his disastrous first attempts at baking, like the time he'd accidentally used salt instead of sugar. I found myself laughing at his self-deprecating humour, the way he didn't shy away from admitting his failures.

I was also deeply aware that perhaps Sam was being quite vulnerable with me right now, sharing something with me I bet he never shared with Kyle or Brad, Baking was his escape perhaps, I didn't want to dig too deep but still I wanted to understand it better.

"Wait," I said, grinning as I struggled to peel one particularly stubborn apple. "So you're telling me your parents banned you from baking because you're messy?"

"Yup," he said, popping the p with a laugh. "But it's not like I'm throwing flour everywhere or anything. I mean, most of the time..."

Our paws brushed more than once as we reached for tools or ingredients. Every time it happened, a jolt of electricity shot through me, leaving me flustered. It wasn't like when I worked with my friends. With them, those little touches were normal, easy to ignore. Here, though, it felt different—awkward, almost forbidden. And the way we made eye contact afterward only made it worse.

"Cinnamon or vanilla?" Sam asked, holding up two small jars as he leaned toward me slightly.

"Both?" I suggested, shrugging.

He grinned, his eyes lighting up. "Bold choice. I like it."

The smell of the pie as it baked was incredible, filling the house with the warm, comforting scent of apples and spices. We cleaned what utensils we could and leaned against the counter while we waited, our conversation flowing effortlessly. Sam told me about some of his favourite movies, and I found myself sharing stories about my friends and even letting it slip about Tara's upcoming birthday party at the bowling alley.

"Bowling, huh?" Sam said, his eyes lighting up. "I'm in, as long as I don't have to wear those silly clown shoes."

I laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, there's nothing worse than wearing someone else's sweaty bowling shoes."

Sam's laughter was light, genuine, and it eased something inside me. For once, I wasn't overthinking every word or worrying about how I came across. It felt... normal. Easy.

When the pie was finally done, Sam sliced it up, the golden crust flaking perfectly as he topped each piece with vanilla ice cream. The ice cream melted against the hot pie, sliding down the sides and pooling on the plate. He handed me a slice, his mischievous grin returning as he suddenly dabbed a bit of ice cream on my nose.

"Hey!" I protested, laughing as I wiped it off with the back of my paw.

"You started it," he teased, though we both knew that wasn't true.

Feeling playful, I scooped up a small bit of ice cream with my spoon and pressed it against his nose in retaliation. His mock gasp of outrage made me laugh harder, and for a moment, it felt like the world outside didn't exist—just the two of us, laughing over apple pie.

"You're going to pay for that," he said with a smirk, but there was no malice in his tone. If anything, his eyes sparkled with warmth.

I couldn't help but smile back, a warmth blooming in my chest that had nothing to do with the pie.

Back in his room, we picked up Switch controllers, the air buzzing with playful energy as we prepared for a Mario Kart rematch. The playful competition kicked off immediately, and it didn't take long for Sam to start his antics. Around a particularly challenging bend, he nudged my arm just enough to send my kart careening off the track. I groaned as the little cloud character scooped me up, depositing my kart back on the course at the very back of the race.

"Seriously?" I protested, glaring at him as he grinned, clearly pleased with himself.

"All part of the game," he said with mock innocence, but the mischievous sparkle in his eyes told me otherwise.

Determined to even the score, I waited for the right moment and nudged him back during a critical section, sending his kart spinning off the track allowing me to pass ahead of him. He groaned in outrage, and I laughed.

The back-and-forth escalated as we both found new ways to sabotage each other's progress, culminating in a final showdown at the last stretch of the race as Sam was back in the lead. Right before the finish line, I made my move, bumping him just enough to steal first place at the last second.

"Yes!" I exclaimed, throwing my arms up in victory.

"Oh, you're not getting away with that," Sam said, his grin turning devious. He set his controller down and eyed mine, clearly plotting revenge. I clutched it to my chest, leaning away from him.

"You're not getting it!" I said, laughing as he lunged toward me.

He tackled me suddenly, his weight knocking me off balance as he wrestled for the controller. "Cheater!" I laughed, twisting away and trying to keep it out of his reach. His paws went for my side, tickling me until I was squirming, my laughter spilling out uncontrollably. I dropped the controller, desperately trying to defend myself.

"All's fair in Mario Kart," he shot back, his grin widening as he doubled down on the tickling.

"Stop, stop!" I cried between laughs, my voice breathless and high-pitched.

Sam didn't relent, and somehow, in the chaos, I ended up flat on my back on the couch. Sam straddled over me, pinning me down with his weight. His paws gripped my shoulders, holding me in place, and I froze beneath him, my laughter dying in my throat.

"You win," I said softly, breathless as I conceded defeat. "You win."

His grip loosened, but neither of us moved. His chest rose and fell against mine, both of us panting from the playful struggle. His face was inches from mine, his warm breath brushing my fur. The humour in his eyes had shifted to something deeper, something that made my heart race in a way the game never could.

His paws lingered on my shoulders, the heat of his touch seeping through my shirt. My gaze locked with his, and the air between us felt thick, charged with something I couldn't name. My heart pounded, and I barely dared to breathe, afraid of breaking the fragile intensity of the moment. Did he feel it too? Or was it just me, caught up in something that wasn't really there?

But then, the sound of the front door slamming shut shattered the moment.

"Crap," Sam muttered, pulling back so quickly it left me dizzy. "That's my parents."

The spell was broken, and we scrambled to tidy up. The kitchen was still in disarray, so we dashed downstairs to clean up, as we moved around cleaning up baking trays and wiping down counters, the playful atmosphere returned, though a little more subdued. It was easier this way—focused on tasks instead of what had just happened.

Sam's mom and dad appeared briefly, offering only a polite hello before disappearing into another room. I tried not to overthink their presence, but I couldn't help feeling awkward. Before long, the doorbell rang, signalling my mom's arrival.

Sam walked me to the door, his expression softer than usual. "Thanks for coming," he said, his voice almost shy.

"Thanks for inviting me," I replied, though the words felt inadequate for everything the night had been.

We paused briefly our eyes watching one another, simply saying goodbye didn't feel enough but maybe it was and unsure how else to say bye, my paw reached for the door handle, instead I was pulled into a hug, his arms lingering around me just a fraction longer than I expected. I felt the warmth of his embrace, the subtle strength of his hold, and for a moment, I didn't want to let go. When we finally parted, I nodded at him, my throat too tight to say anything else, and headed out to the car.

The ride home was quiet. I stared out the window, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows across my face as my thoughts tangled into knots. Every moment of the evening replayed in my mind—his laughter, his smile, the way he looked at me, the way he held me down on the couch, and the fleeting intensity of that charged moment before his parents came home.

Did he feel it too? Or was I reading too much into it, seeing something that wasn't really there? Was I hoping for something impossible, something that only existed in my imagination?

I didn't have the answers, and the uncertainty gnawed at me. All I could do was hope—hope that maybe, just maybe, there was something real between us.