Chapter 1
Chapter 1
Evie smokes behind the gym during break, lost in her usual hopelessness. She spots Cal across the schoolyard and their eyes lock, sending a jolt through her. He begins walking toward her, and the chapter ends as he reaches her and speaks her name.
The first drag of the day is always the best. It burns down my throat, hot and sharp, and for a second, the smoke clouds everything—the screaming, the silence, the way my parents look straight through me like I'm made of glass. I lean back against the brick wall behind the gym, let the cigarette dangle between my fingers, and watch the gray wisps curl into the morning air. Nobody comes back here. That's the point. I've been coming to this spot every day for six months, and no one has ever bothered to find me.
I take another drag. My lungs are used to it by now. The teachers don't care enough to patrol this far, and the popular kids are too busy smoking their own cigarettes out front, laughing too loud, flicking ash like they own the place. I don't belong with them. I don't belong anywhere. The thought sits heavy in my chest, familiar and dull, like a stone I've been carrying so long I've forgotten what it felt like without it.
Then I see him.
He's standing near the edge of the schoolyard, half-turned away from a cluster of boys, his hands shoved into the pockets of a black leather jacket. His hair is perfect—dark, slicked back at the sides, a little wave on top. It catches the morning light like it's been polished. Even from here, even through the haze of my smoke, he glows. I don't know who he is. I've never seen him before. But the moment my eyes find him, he turns.
Our gazes collide.
I freeze. The cigarette stalls halfway to my mouth. My face goes hot, a violent rush of blood that starts at my cheeks and spreads down my neck. My stomach does something I haven't felt in years—a flip, a flutter, a swarm of butterflies that wake up from a long, long sleep. He's looking right at me. Not through me. Not past me. At me.
His lips twitch. A small, almost shy smile, like he's caught me doing something I shouldn't (and I am, with this cigarette) but he doesn't mind. He holds my gaze for a three-count, maybe four. The world around us blurs—the shouts of kids, the slam of a metal door, the distant hum of a car on Maple Street. All of it fades to static.
Then he starts walking.
My heart hammers. He's coming straight toward me. The boys behind him call something, but he waves a hand without looking back, and they laugh. I press myself harder against the brick wall, suddenly aware of my old cardigan, the frayed collar, the smoke-stained fingers. I should drop the cigarette. I should disappear. But I can't move.
He gets closer. I see the detail now—how his jacket is worn soft at the elbows, how his eyes are a warm brown, how he carries himself like he's not afraid of anything. He stops a few feet away, close enough that I can smell leather and something clean, like soap or aftershave. The smoke from my cigarette curls between us.
He tilts his head, that small smile still in place. "You're Evie, right?"
My mouth goes dry. I don't know how he knows my name. I don't know why he's here. But the question sits in the air between us, heavy and bright, and I realize that for the first time in forever, I want to answer.