Teaching | Eddie Munson

The Hideout

The three weeks since the party had felt like an eternity to Victoria. She could still picture the backyard steps at Steve's house, where she and Max had sat under the weight of the stars and the heavier weight of their conversation. The cool air had brushed against her skin, but Max's words about Billy—about letting go—had stirred something deeper.

Since that night, Victoria had been restless. No matter how much she tried, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was changing inside her. Each passing day, it felt like the world around her grew more claustrophobic, like the walls of her trailer were closing in on her. Every moment seemed to drag her back to that night, to Eddie, and no matter how hard she fought to push him out of her mind, his presence lingered.

There was a strange, bitter irony in how things had played out. The party had helped her patch things up with Steve, which was an unexpected relief. Max and Lucas were practically glued to each other again, their laughter echoing through the halls of the school, and even that had lifted a small weight off her shoulders. But underneath it all was a gnawing tension she couldn't ignore. It was Eddie—he haunted her thoughts like a specter that refused to leave, appearing in her dreams, even in the moments she was sure she was alone with herself.

She tossed and turned at night, staring at the ceiling of her bedroom, her mind replaying every brief encounter with him, over and over again. The way his eyes had locked on hers at the party, the way his voice had sounded when he told her he'd come to see her. It didn't make sense. Why her? Why now?

During the day, it was even worse. Each morning she left her trailer, her heart would jump with the fear—and hope—that he might be standing outside his own, across the small gravel path that separated them. The trailer park wasn't big, and they both lived on the same strip of cracked pavement. She had become almost hyper aware of his presence, flinching at the sound of every door closing or footsteps crunching on the gravel, her stomach twisting into knots at the thought of running into him.

She had learned to time her exits, waiting until she was sure he wasn't around. And yet, sometimes—whether by fate or cruel coincidence—she'd step out and catch a glimpse of him just as he was leaving, his silhouette framed against the pale light of the early morning or the fading glow of dusk.

And when their eyes met—because, inevitably, they always did—it was like the world around them stopped. She tried to look away, to resist the pull of his gaze, but every time she failed. Every single time, her resolve would crumble, and she'd find herself staring back, lost in the emotions that flickered between them.

What she saw in his eyes unnerved her. It wasn't just anger or frustration. There was something deeper, something raw. Pain. Confusion. It mirrored her own feelings so closely that it left her breathless, her chest tightening as if the air had been sucked out of her lungs. She wondered what he saw in her—did he see the hurt she tried so hard to mask? Did he know how conflicted she was, or how desperately she wanted to understand why he affected her like this?

But she always looked away first. She couldn't bear the intensity of his gaze for too long. It was too much—too raw, too real. She wasn't ready to face whatever it was that simmered between them, and so she would lower her eyes, her heart racing, and continue walking as though nothing had happened.

At school, she found herself constantly scanning the hallways, half-hoping to avoid him, half-dreading the moment their paths might cross. They didn't have any classes together, but the hallways were another story. She would catch sight of him out of the corner of her eye—leaning against his locker, or sitting at the edge of the cafeteria, his dark curls falling messily over his face. And though she told herself not to look, she always did.

And every time she looked, there it was again—his eyes, burning into her from across the room.

They hadn't spoken since the party. Not a word. It was strange, how silence could feel so loud, how the absence of words between them felt like a constant hum in the back of her mind. She had no idea what she would even say if he did approach her. There were so many things left unsaid, but at the same time, it felt like there were too many words, too many emotions, to even begin sorting through.