CHAPTER 2: LINGERING SPARKS

The ride home was unusually quiet. Jim sat in the back of the car, his eyes fixed on the window, but his mind replayed the evening over and over. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t erase the image of Max—the way she smiled, the calm elegance in her walk, and the strange pull that left his chest tight.

Across town, Max was facing her own unrest. Surrounded by her siblings’ chatter on the drive back, she forced herself to laugh at jokes she barely heard. Her thoughts kept drifting to Jim—the boy she had always known as a cousin at family gatherings, yet tonight he seemed different. Something had shifted, though she wasn’t sure if it was right to notice.

Both carried the weight of unspoken feelings, sparks they didn’t fully understand but couldn’t deny.

At dinner, Jim’s parents noticed his silence.

“You seem too quiet, Jim. Are you okay?” his mother asked softly.

“I’m fine,” he replied quickly, though the frown on his face betrayed him.

After prayer, he retreated to his room, tossing restlessly on the bed. Sleep refused to come. Every time he closed his eyes, Max’s face appeared. Her smile. Her voice. The way his heart had leapt when he saw her again.

Gosh, he thought, is this some kind of payback for rejecting Angelle? When she said she couldn’t sleep, is this what she meant?

His thoughts dragged on until finally, exhaustion won, and he drifted off.

Morning broke with its usual brightness—the chirping of birds across the garden, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Jim stretched, yawned, and tried to shake off the heaviness in his chest. He showered, brushed his teeth, and stepped into the parlor.

But the house felt… different. His parents’ greetings were strained. His mother burned the toast twice, something that never happened unless she was deeply troubled. His father barely touched his tea.

Jim’s frustration grew as they dodged his attempts at conversation. Finally, he slammed his hand on the table.

“Spit it out! What are you hiding from me?”

His father froze. His mother’s lips trembled as tears welled in her eyes. Then, in a voice heavy with grief, she whispered:

“Your uncle Fred… he’s gone. Only Max survived.”

The words crashed into Jim like a storm.

“What? No… no… no!” He staggered from the table, ran upstairs, and threw himself onto his bed. His cries tore through the house, raw and unrelenting.

Two days later, Jim stood in the driveway as a black car pulled in. His mother’s hand rested gently on his shoulder. Inside the car sat Max, her face pale, her eyes swollen from days of tears.

She stepped out slowly, clutching a small suitcase. For a moment, their eyes met. Neither spoke, but the silence carried more weight than words ever could.

From that day forward, Max became part of their household. She was family, yes, but every time Jim saw her across the dinner table or passed her in the hallway, his chest tightened with the same restless spark he had felt at the party.

The tragedy had brought them together. But it was only the beginning of a much deeper story.