Chapter six_Friends?

The late afternoon sun had begun to cast long shadows over the narrow sidewalks. The corner store buzzed softly with activity—customers trickling in and out, the occasional chime of the entrance bell breaking the hum of quiet music playing through an old speaker mounted above the register.

Mary stood behind the counter, scanning a small stack of canned goods for an elderly woman. Her part-time job at Barton's Mini-Mart wasn't glamorous, but it was a quiet space, and that was what she needed. Quiet. Predictable. A place to hide behind shelves and routine.

She handed the woman her change with a small smile and a polite "Thank you," before returning to her usual posture—elbows on the counter, gaze flickering between the front door and the clock on the wall. she was reaching under the counter to organize some receipts when the doorbell chimed.

"Hi. Do you guys have Marlboros?"

Mary looked up, her eyes locking onto the tall figure approaching the counter. Drake Edward. A familiar face from school. She knew his name before now—they'd exchanged pleasantries a few times. He was the kind of person who drew attention without trying: the calm confidence, the effortless charm.

She blinked, caught off guard.

He smiled when he recognized her. "Hey," he said, more warmly now. "You're mary right?."

"Yes…" she said slowly, unsure if she was supposed to pretend not to know him or not.

Mary glanced at the cigarette shelf behind her, grateful for something to do. "Marlboros, right?"

He glanced behind him at the shelves. "I come for cigarettes, mostly. And gum when I'm pretending I don't want cigarettes."

Mary cracked a small smile.

Drake tilted his head. "Didn't know you worked here."

"Just started," she replied. "Part-time."

He nodded, resting one elbow on the counter. "Balancing work and school. Impressive."

"It's manageable," she said. "Barely."

He smiled again, more gently this time. "What's your major again?"

"Literature."

"Right," he said. "That makes sense."

Mary raised a brow. "Why does that make sense?"

"You seem like someone who pays attention to details," he said, eyes lingering thoughtfully. "The kind of person who reads between the lines."

She blinked, caught off guard. "That's… oddly accurate."

"I get lucky sometimes."

She scanned the shelf behind her and grabbed his usual pack. "Marlboros, right?"

He chuckled. "You do pay attention."

Mary handed him the pack and started ringing it up.

"What about you?" she asked, glancing at him. "You're in… architecture?"

"Yep. Final year."

She nodded. "So you're the guy who stares at buildings the way people stare at paintings."

He laughed. "Only the good ones. The rest I criticize like a bitter old man."

"Sounds exhausting."

"You'd be surprised," he said. "There's something satisfying about imagining something and then seeing it take form."

She tilted her head slightly. "I think that's what books do, too. Just… differently."

"True," he said, his voice softer. "You build with words. I build with steel."

She didn't say anything, but there was a shift in her expression—something thoughtful, intrigued.

Drake leaned a little closer, casually, not in a way that made her shrink back. "I've seen you around campus. Mostly with that guy. Stephen, right?"

Mary tensed just slightly, but nodded. "Yes. He's… a friend."

Drake caught the pause but didn't press. "Just a friend?"

She hesitated, then met his gaze. "Yes. We've known each other forever. He's practically family."

"Got it," Drake said, his voice light, but his eyes stayed searching. "He looked… comfortable around you. Protective, even."

"He's always been like that," she said. "We grew up together."

Drake nodded. "That's rare these days—long friendships that last."

Mary gave a small, almost nostalgic smile. "I suppose so."

A brief silence passed between them, not awkward, just quiet.

"Is it weird being behind the counter?" he asked, casually changing the subject.

"Not really," she said. "I like routines. Knowing what comes next."

"I get that," he said. "But routines can also get… dull."

Mary smiled faintly. "That's why I read. Books never stay the same."

"Favorite book?"

She paused, taken off guard again. No one really asked her that. Not since… well, not in a long time.

"Too many to choose," she said. "But I always go back to Wuthering Heights. It's tragic, dark, intense. People think it's romantic, but I think it's about damage."

Drake tilted his head. "That says a lot about you."

She raised a brow. "What does it say?"

He hesitated, but not for long. "That maybe you understand pain… more than most."

The air shifted.

Mary lowered her gaze for a moment. "You don't know me that well."

"No," he said quietly. "But I'd like to."

Something caught in her chest—just for a moment. She wasn't used to people saying things like that. Not directly. Not gently.

She cleared her throat, breaking the moment. "Do you want a bag for the cigarettes?"

He smiled. "No. I'm good."

He didn't leave immediately. His fingers tapped lightly on the counter, like he wanted to say something else.

Mary looked up again. "What?"

He hesitated, then shrugged. "Nothing. Just… it's good seeing you here. You're easier to talk to now than back on campus."

"I'm not different," she said.

"No, but here… you're not surrounded by people. You're more… present."

She nodded slowly, understanding what he meant more than she expected to.

"I guess that makes two of us," she said quietly.

The door opened, and another customer walked in. Drake glanced back, then looked at her once more.

"I'll let you get back to work."

Mary nodded. "See you around."

He turned to go but paused halfway to the door. "Mary."

She looked up.

"You really do read between the lines."

And with that, he left.

The door chimed behind him, and she stood there for a moment, heart unexpectedly unsettled. Not anxious. Not afraid.

But before the thought could fully settle in her mind, the bell rang again.

Drake was back.

She looked up, surprised.

He took a breath, as if second-guessing himself, then stepped forward with a small grin. "I forgot something."

Mary gave him a curious look. "What?"

He scratched the back of his neck. "Your number."

Her eyebrows lifted slightly. "My number?"

"Yeah," he said, shrugging casually. "So we can talk. Get to know each other."

Her head tilted. "You want to get my number… to be friends?"

Drake nodded. "I mean, unless you've got a rule about making new ones."

Mary didn't answer right away. She just looked at him, studying him, trying to read between his words. She wasn't someone who gave herself away easily. Over the years, she'd grown used to walls. Even Stephen, after all these years, only got so far.

But something about Drake was different. He wasn't pushing. He wasn't pretending to be anything but curious. And maybe that was what made her pause.

"Friends?" she repeated, her voice quiet now.

"Yeah," he said again, softer. "Just friends."

She hesitated, staring at him. And then, slowly, she reached under the counter, pulled a pen, and scribbled her number on the back of a receipt.

As she handed it to him, something in her chest stirred—a strange mix of resistance and relief.

Drake smiled when he took it. "Thanks, Mary."

She nodded. "Don't text weird things."

He laughed. "No promises."

And with that, he was gone.

As the door shut behind him once more, Mary stood still for a long moment. Her fingers curled around the pen she'd just used. Her heart wasn't racing, but it was aware—like it had been asleep and now stirred for the first time in a while.

Why would I befriend him? she thought. Why now?

She didn't know.

She rarely opened up to people. She rarely let anyone in.

But with Drake, something just… felt different.

And for the first time in a long time, she didn't run from that feeling.