Chapter 2
The eight becomes a nine, meaning I only have a minute left. I pull in a deep breath, then release a long exhale. I wait until my lungs are burning to inhale again. The slight discomfort isn’t the shock to the system I was hoping for.
Today is the first day of senior year. The final first day of high school. The start of the last chapter.
I should be nostalgic or excited or nervous. Not … numb. The day hasn’t even started, and I already know how it’ll go. How it’ll end.
Reassuring, I guess. Also boring.
Twenty-nine turns to thirty. I hit the off button before the alarm can begin blaring—a stupid game I play every morning.
“Elodie?” There’s a rapid, efficient knocking on my bedroom door. “Are you awake?”
“Yes,” I respond, injecting plenty of false enthusiasm into my tone.
We’re both happier when my mom isn’t worrying about me.
“I didn’t hear your alarm. Is it broken?”
“It went off,” I lie.
Explaining I try to beat my alarm each morning isn’t a concept my mother would understand. She’d probe and analyze and look at me like I was crazy until the silly ritual was ruined.
“Good. Breakfast is ready.”
“I’ll be right down!”
Retreating footsteps are the only response.
I hold one more breath before tossing the sheets away and climbing out of bed. I can hold it for a lot longer than I used to be able to. Maybe I should quit cheerleading and try out for the swim team instead. Do something different so that senior year doesn’t look just like junior year did. To escape the endless déjà vu.
My bedroom has its own connected bathroom, so it’s a short trip to start getting ready. I make my morning routine last as long as I can, wanting to shorten breakfast with my parents as much as possible before my boyfriend, Archer, picks me up.
I would prefer to drive myself to school, but people rarely take what I want into consideration. And fighting the tide gets more exhausting the longer you do it. Pathetic as it sounds, I’ve mostly given up on challenging any currents.
A yogurt parfait and hard-boiled egg are waiting when I enter the formal dining room—same as most mornings. I wonder if my mom remembers this was Rose’s favorite breakfast, not mine.
“Good morning, Dad,” I tell today’s edition of the Boston Globe as I take a seat at the table.
The newsprint lowers to reveal my father. Combed hair. Trimmed beard. Shrewd eyes.
“Good morning, Elodie.” He takes a bite of oatmeal, then a sip of coffee, careful not to let either spill on the navy suit he’s wearing. He wears some variation of this outfit every weekday and most weekends, down to the pressed pocket square and monogrammed cuff links. “Ready for your first day?”
“Yes,” I respond, knowing that’s the only acceptable answer.
Clarkes are always ready.
“This is an important year,” my father tells me.
“I know.”
He nods. “Good.”
I can tell his attention is already drifting back toward his paper. My father limits his paternal responsibilities to pleasantries, monitoring my report cards, and paying for a credit card with an unknown limit I’ve never managed to hit.
“I’m taking an Architecture class this semester,” I tell him.
“Architecture?”
Twin lines appear between my father’s eyes. Brown, like Rose’s were. I inherited my mom’s blue ones.
“For my elective. It’s a new offering this year.”
“What about Mock Trial?”
“They’re not offering it as an elective any longer. It’s an after-school activity now.”
My father frowns. “Won’t that conflict with cheerleading?”
“Yes.”
He shakes his head. “I’ll call Principal Walker on my way to the office.”
I don’t protest. If anyone can get the Fernwood High School schedule changed, it’s Michael Clarke. My father controls every situation he’s a part of, running his life with the same efficiency as a judge in a courtroom.
My mother breezes into the dining room a few seconds later, carrying a platter of freshly cut fruit. I quickly swallow the final clump of yogurt-coated granola and wash it down with some orange juice.
“Is that dress new?” she asks after taking the high-backed chair across from my dad.
“Yes. I got it with Keira and Juliet last weekend.”
Her hum is disapproving.
I glance at the grandfather clock next to the fireplace, then drain the rest of my juice. “I’d better get going. Archer will be here any minute.”
That announcement distracts my mom from my outfit, just like I knew it would. “Archer is driving you to school? How considerate. He’s such a sweet boy.”
I resist the strong urge to roll my eyes, knowing all it will earn me is a lecture.
Sweetisn’t an adjective I’d use to describe Archer Hathaway. My sole interest in him is that he’s hot and … well, his appearance is his main selling point. And that dating him gets my mom off my back about dating him. She’s best friends with Archer’s mother. I’m pretty sure they’ve been planning our wedding since kindergarten. Resisting it became … exhausting.
“Uh-huh,” I say, standing and then pushing my chair in at the table. “See you tonight.”
“Have a good day, honey,” my dad says.
From my mom, “Love you.”
“Love you too,” I respond as I walk into the soaring entryway. I grab my backpack out of the front closet, where it’s been sitting with the winter coats since June.
It still feels like summer when I step outside, no sign of fall’s crisp chill in the late August air. I pass my car—a cherry-red convertible I’m still shocked my parents agreed to buy me. A convertible is one of the most impractical vehicles you could have in New England, which is my favorite thing about it. It’s something different, something unexpected.
There’s no sign of Archer. He’ll probably be late.
I take a seat on the edge of the stone fountain that sits in the center of the circular driveway, tipping my head back so the sun warms my face. I sit like that, basking in the sun’s rays like a lizard, until I hear gravel crunch and open my eyes.
Archer isn’t alone in his Mercedes, which I’m not surprised by. We spend most of our time together as part of a larger group. We don’t have much to say to each other when we’re alone.
The SUV slows to a stop, and Archer rolls down the window to flash me a broad grin. He looks good, his tan skin and blond hair emphasized by the blue T-shirt he has on. “Hey, babe. We match.”
I glance down at the dress I’m wearing. The one my mom raised her eyebrows at. It’s shorter than the ones she buys for me, but that wasn’t why I chose it. The color was what I loved, and Archer is right. It’s very similar to the shade of his shirt. That makes me like it less, not more.
“Yeah, we kinda do,” I say, glancing past Archer at his best friend, Perry Welch, who’s sitting in the passenger seat, scrolling on his phone. “Hey, Perry.”
He glances up, smirking as his gaze dips from my eyes to the low neckline of the dress. “Hey, Elle.”
We fooled around a few times before Archer and I officially started dating in the spring. Mostly because I was hoping my showing interest in his best buddy might cause Archer to lose interest in me. No such luck. My feelings for Perry were no stronger than any I have for Archer, but at least he has a more entertaining personality to be around. Archer’s attention has already shifted to the screen in the dashboard, four words all he could come up with to say to me.
“I’m not riding in the back,” I tell Perry, crossing my arms.
No matter how many times Archer takes his car to get detailed, the faint odor of sweat lingers from his football equipment.
Perry rolls his eyes but opens the passenger door and climbs out of the car. He holds it open as I round the front fender, taking a mocking bow before shutting it. “Your Highness.”
Archer snorts, then revs the engine.
Once Perry is slouched in the back, Archer takes off in a spray of gravel that will piss off both my father and the gardeners. Unlike my mother, my dad isn’t part of the Archer Hathaway fan club. He’d rather I wait to date until I’m in law school—or even better, a first-year associate at one of Boston’s top firms. He only agreed to let me go out with Archer because he’s a Hathaway.
Loud rap music pours out of the car speakers, making conversation impossible, which I’m fine with. I tune out the racket as best as I can and focus on the streets of Fernwood flashing by instead.
Fernwood is a small town, about forty-five minutes outside of central Boston. It provides all the allure of small-town living—sprawling lots, fresh air, and plenty of square footage—while also allowing for a reasonable commute to the downtown offices, where most of its adult residents work.
The three-story colonial I grew up in is located in Fernwood’s most exclusive cul-de-sac, obnoxious stone facades marking the entrance to almost every driveway. Several blocks later, we pass the small downtown section with a few restaurants, a movie theater, a general store, and a couple of gift shops. The post office and the library.
I look wistfully at Brewed Awakenings, the local coffee shop, as Archer speeds by. If I’d driven myself, I could have stopped for a latte and a doughnut. My mom considers coffee a gateway drug and only serves tea at breakfast. I’m positive my dad cheats and gets his caffeine when he arrives at the office, but Fernwood High’s cafeteria lacks a barista.
Five minutes later, Archer parks—crooked—in a spot in the front row. The silence is deafening when he turns the car off and the music stops. Perry pops his door open, allowing shouts and exclamations from the lot to enter the car. I climb out next, slinging my backpack over one shoulder.
A crowd is already forming around Archer’s car. Mostly football players. A few girls, who offer me sweet, fake smiles as they gush over my dress.
I possess a popularity I didn’t lobby for and don’t really understand but is a combination of every cliché you could think of. I’m the captain of the cheerleading team, dating the varsity quarterback. Student council president. Head of the Honor Club. The college applications my parents insisted I spend the summer working on are all for the most prestigious universities in the country. Perfect is an objective, impossible standard. But I know it’s how most people describe me. It’s probably how I’d view my own life if I wasn’t living it.
“See you later, babe.” Archer presses a wet kiss against my mouth, prompting plenty of hooting and hollering from his football buddies.
I nod and manage a smile, no part of me surprised he’s not walking in with me. Unless it’s an opportunity to badger me about sex, Archer avoids spending alone time with me. It’s like dating me is all he wanted, and now that we’re officially together, his work is done. I should probably care, but I don’t.
“Have a great day, babe,” I reply, fighting the urge to wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
I’m sure Archer has told anyone who will listen that we go at it like rabbits every chance we get. But honestly, if his kissing technique is any indication of his bedroom skills, I have no desire to change my mind about sleeping with him.
Archer doesn’t catch the subtle sarcasm, but Perry does. He reaches up to tug the brim of his hat lower, half covering his smile.
I hate being called babe, and Archer acts like it’s my legal name.
I turn and head toward Juliet’s car, parked right next to the brick entrance of Fernwood High. There’s no sign of Keira yet, predictably. She’s as late as I’m punctual.
Juliet’s leaning against the bumper of her sedan, eating a muffin. I eye the iced coffee beside her elbow enviously.
“Hey!” she says as soon as she spots me.
“Hey,” I reply, stopping a couple of feet away.
Juliet scans my appearance, then nods approvingly. “I was totally right. That dress looks amazing on you.”
I smile before stepping forward and taking the spot beside her, surveying the filling parking lot as I rest most of my weight against her car. “Bonus: Frances hated it.”
“They’re her genes. I would kill for boobs and legs like yours. She can’t blame you for showing them off.”
“I’m sure she’ll manage to.”
Juliet laughs and takes another bite of her muffin. “How was last night?” she asks after swallowing.
“As bad as I had expected.”
“Did you and Archer … you know?”
I shake my head. “He got wasted during pool pong. Took him an hour to realize I’d left.”
Juliet rolls her eyes. “Boys.”
“Boys,” I agree.
“I got you a coffee, by the way. It’s in the center console.”
“Bless you.” I stand and walk over to the passenger door, salivating over the sight of the iced coffee in the cupholder. The plastic is damp with condensation, the cool water refreshing against my palm.
“Don’t forget the straw,” Juliet teases as I return to her side, pulling one out of the back pocket of her jean shorts and handing it to me.
I flick some water drops toward her bare arm. My mom’s other fear of coffee, aside from the potential caffeine addiction, is that it stains teeth. Reluctantly, I peel the paper sleeve off the straw and stick it in the opening. Sorry, turtles.
“I forget, did you get Gibbons for History?”
“No. I have Anderson.”
Juliet sighs. “Ugh. Like having it last period wasn’t bad enough.”
“I’d trade last period for taking regular over AP.” If there’s an advanced section of a class, I’m taking it this semester.
“Oh, you poor smarty-pants.”
I roll my eyes before taking a long pull of coffee. I work hard for good grades. They’ve never fallen into my lap the way everyone assumes.
“Thanks for the coffee.”
“What are best friends for if not smuggling illicit substances? I got one for Keira, too, if she ever shows?—”
Loud music announces the arrival of my other closest friend. The decibel rivals Archer’s rap, but it’s a song I actually like.
Keira parks her Jeep four spots down, then practically skips over to us. “Happy senior year!”
“Gah!” Juliet says in response to Keira’s loud exclamation. “Some of us still have our hearing.”
Keira snorts, then focuses on me. A wide smile spreads across her face as she stares at what I’m wearing. “Yes! You’re wearing the dress. Did Archer love it?”
“Sort of.” If commenting on the color counts. Not exactly a compliment.
Keira nods. “Typical.”
“I got you a coffee,” Juliet tells Keira. “Not that you need it.”
Keira beams, then bounces over to the door to grab her coffee. “Whatever did Mrs. Clarke say?”
“She wasn’t a fan of the dress either,” Juliet says.
“Told you that you should’ve gotten it in two colors,” Keira comments.
“Maybe next time,” I reply.
The car door slams shut, and then Keira reappears with her coffee in hand. “Guess what. Nicole and Alec broke up.”
“She wasn’t at Perry’s last night, so I wondered,” I respond.
“And you didn’t text me?” Juliet exclaims. “Elle!”
I swallow more coffee, savoring the cold caffeine. “Alec? Seriously?”
“You’re the one dating Archer Hathaway.”
“Yeah. And you know why.”
Keira scoffs. “When are you going to stop letting your mom run your life?”
“You’ve met her. When I’m fifty.”
Juliet laughs.
The three of us have been best friends since kindergarten. They know most of the ugly truths about my relationship with my parents. They held my hands at Rose’s funeral. They helped pick out my junior prom dress for my first official date with Archer. And they’ve spent enough time around the two of us as a couple to see past the pretty facade the rest of the school reveres.
“Oh, guess what else I heard,” Keira says. She forges ahead without waiting for any predictions. “Ryder James is back.”
I drop my coffee, my numb fingers going slack with shock.
“Elle!” Juliet screeches as she jumps away from the icy spray.
My shins are soaked, chilled coffee running down my bare legs in tiny streams. I can’t feel it.
“Sorry. Wet cup—cold hands—slipped.” I stumble through an explanation neither of my friends is listening to.
Juliet has already pulled out napkins, dabbing at her shorts before passing a few to me.
“Thanks.” I bend down to wipe the coffee off my legs, my head spinning so fast that I feel dizzy.
There’s a muffled roar in my ears that drowns out most of the commotion around us. Heat radiates off the blacktop, but my skin burns hotter.
Today was supposed to be predictable. He was supposed to stay gone.
“Nice, butterfingers,” Keira teases as I stand. “Good thing you’re becoming a lawyer, not a surgeon.”
My nod is wooden as the first bell rings, signaling five minutes before homeroom. Streams of students start toward the front entrance.
“Let’s go!” Keira says, striding ahead.
I trail behind her, and Juliet falls into step beside me.
“What were you saying?” I suck in a deep breath as we walk inside the air-conditioned lobby and continue down the locker-lined hallway, my eyes darting around the familiar sight. I’ve spent more of the past three years inside this building than my house. “About Ryder James?”
It’s a thrill to say his name. It also sounds wrong, like a secret spoken aloud.
“Oh. Maddie said she saw him with Tucker and some of the other Twos at Robinson’s last night. He left after freshman year, remember?”
Remember?I’d need a severe case of amnesia to forget.
“Maybe,” I say instead. “Is she sure it was him?”
Fernwood is a very wealthy town. The Twos are the kids from the trailer park that sits on the far edge of the town limits. An invisible boundary line many residents—including my parents—have attempted to redraw in order to exclude anyone with that address from attending Fernwood’s public schools, which are considered some of the best in the state. Attempted unsuccessfully. The best they could do was alter the zip code so that one section of town is 02612 instead of 02611. An invisible geographic line that extends inside the school. The Twos keep to themselves. That includes Ryder James, who moved to Fernwood at the start of high school and left at the end of freshman year. I doubt Maddie Peterson ever spoke to him, much less knows what he looks like after two years.
Keira shrugs, unconcerned and unbothered. Entirely oblivious to the way my heart is banging against my ribs. “She said it was him.”
My lips press into a thin line as we continue down the hallway, chatter bouncing off the lockers. Juliet and Keira pull out their schedules to compare teachers. I walk in a daze, too stunned to reply to any of the voices calling out greetings to me.
I’d be lying if I said I don’t still think about Ryder sometimes.
But it’s the absolute truth that I never expected to see him again.
Juliet and Keira follow me into Mrs. Andrews’s room. Neither of them is actually assigned to my homeroom, but no one cares. I’d say it’s a perk of being seniors, but it’s really just a perk of being us. Or me, rather. No one reprimands Elle Clarke. I’m deemed innocent before ever being found guilty.
The loudspeaker crackles to life to share the morning announcements, but the noise level in the classroom barely drops. Mrs. Andrews doesn’t make any attempt to quiet students, just continues to write notes for her first class on the whiteboard.
I grab the restroom pass off the hook and head down the hallway that’s now empty. The ladies’ room is also still and silent, thankfully. The plastic pass hits the laminate counter with a quiet thunk when I reach the sinks. I wet a handful of paper towels, wipe my legs of coffee residue, and then toss the wad of wet paper into the trash.
I clutch the edge of the counter, focusing on deep inhales and long exhales as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The loose curls in my hair have held, and there aren’t any coffee stains on my new dress. But there’s a stubborn wrinkle between my eyes that won’t smooth, no matter how hard I try to relax my face. It remains, worried and willful.
Maddie’s wrong. She must be. A guy from the trailer park probably had a friend visiting who tagged along to the local diner, and that’s who she saw at Robinson’s. Maybe his name is also Ryder, and that’s why she thought it might be him.
Because why would he be back after two years? Someone said he moved to Florida.
And of course, there were the juvie rumors, which swirl around all of the Twos. Stereotyping at its finest. Living in a mobile home doesn’t make you a criminal.
Wherever Ryder ended up, that’s probably where he still is.
But the wrinkle remains. I blow out an exasperated sigh, then grab the pass off the counter and head back to homeroom. The bell signaling first period rings right as I walk into the classroom.
“See you at lunch,” Juliet says, passing by as I grab my backpack from the spot on the floor where I left it.
I nod in response.
“What wing are you headed to?” Keira asks as I smooth my dress flat.
“G,” I answer.
“Cool. Me too. Economics.”
I nod again. I barely drank half of my coffee before painting the parking lot with it, but I feel wired and jittery. Unfocused and unsure.
I’m mostly convinced Maddie must be wrong. But what if she’s right? That slim possibility has my every sense on high alert.
Keira is still ignorant to my distracted state as we head toward the social studies wing, talking about the party set to take place on Friday night. It’s an annual back-to-school bash, but this year’s will be special for the obvious reason that it’s the last one. Next year, we’ll be scattered at universities across the country. I mostly mmhmm along as she runs through outfit options until we reach the door of the AP European History class I have first period.
“Elle!”
I glance over one shoulder at an approaching Kinsley Henderson. She’s the vice to my president on student council.
“See you at lunch,” Keira tells me, then continues walking.
“See ya,” I say, pausing for Kinsley to catch up.
I haven’t seen her all summer. We’re more school friends than close confidants.
“Hi! How was your summer?” Kinsley asks, pushing her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses up closer to the bridge of her nose.
“It was great,” I reply. “How was yours?”
“Busy. Lots of college visits.”
“That’s—”
“You’re blocking the door,” a male voice interrupts.
I freeze. My muscles lock, and my stomach drops with an unpleasant lurch.
Maddie Peterson was right.
Kinsley is staring, wide-eyed, over my shoulder. I spin around slowly, taking advantage of every possible second before I have to face him. But I can’t postpone the inevitable forever. Part of me doesn’t want to. Has waited—hoped—for this moment for two years.
Flinty gray eyes meet mine, higher than I expected.
At fourteen, Ryder James gave me butterflies.
At seventeen, I can only hope I’m not visibly drooling.
His eyes are the exact same. Everything else is different. His brown hair is darker and shaved short so none of his face is hidden. He’s sporting a dark tan that makes me think maybe the rumor about Florida was true. But the biggest change is his height. He was the tallest freshman, but he must be over six feet now. Not only that, but he’s also got muscles that make him look a lot older than seventeen. The tendons in his forearm and biceps contract as he grips the strap of the backpack slung over one shoulder.
He’s still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And holding eye contact with him still feels like standing at the edge of a cliff on a windy day, anticipating a fall.
“You’re back.” I make sure the two words don’t hold any indication of my feelings about his return.
Easy, since I have no idea how I feel about it. All I’ve ruled out so far is indifference. Apathy isn’t staring at someone for a minute without choosing to.
“Yeah.” Ryder smirks, but there’s nothing carefree or amused about the shift in his expression. It’s a challenge. An appraisal. His eyes harden to the consistency of metal, not just the color. There’s no lust or worship in his expression, the way most guys look at me.
No warmth.
No apology.
He’s acting like we’re the strangers anyone would call us.
“For good?”
It’s a stupid question. If this were a short visit, he wouldn’t have shown up for school.
“You’re still blocking the door,” he says, apparently agreeing that didn’t require a response.
Ryder takes a step closer. He’s three feet away from me now, maybe less. Waves of heat wash over my body, my breathing turning too rapid.
I forgot how exasperating he is. How blunt. How captivating.
Electricity buzzes across the surface of my skin as I register his closer proximity. I have yet to process that he’s really here, near enough to reach out and touch. My fingers curl into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms, and I hope he doesn’t notice.
“Yeah, you should get to class. Your attendance record is pretty terrible.”
Amusement appears, flashing across his perfectly symmetrical face, in response to my casual reference to his two-year disappearance. The sight of it feels like a victory. Satisfaction spreads as we continue to stare at each other while I battle against all the questions I want to ask.
Why did you leave?
Why did you come back?
Did you miss me?
Rather than voice them, I move out of the way. Ryder sidles past me without another word, so close that I can feel the heat emanating from his body.
Three deep breaths later, I follow him into the classroom. Kinsley’s curious eyes remain on me the entire time.
Ryder’s standing at the front of the room, talking to Mr. Anderson. I take a seat in one of the front rows like the teacher’s pet that I am. Kinsley takes the desk next to mine as I reach down to pull a new notebook out of my backpack. I deliberate between a black or blue pen for a ridiculously long time, trying to appear busy.
“Hi, Elle,” Brock Patterson greets as he walks by. He’s on the football team with Archer.
“Hey, Brock,” I respond, sitting up and flipping through blank pages.
Ryder chooses my row to enter the sea of desks. I don’t know if it’s intentional—I sat in the middle of the five, and at least six other students have also passed me by—but it feels intentional. I keep my eyes fixed straight ahead as he walks past, attempting to ignore the heat I can feel flooding my cheeks as my body reacts to his proximity.
Class begins a couple of minutes later.
Mr. Anderson launches right into a lecture, dropping a stack of papers at the front seat in each row to be passed back. The course syllabus. I dawdle as I scan the top page, trying to avoid turning around until I have to. When I do, I keep my eyes on Liza Jones, who sat behind me, passing her the stack with a small smile before spinning right back around.
Mr. Anderson continues outlining the first topic of the semester—World War I—as I flip through the pages of the syllabus. Normally, I’d be taking careful notes by now. But calming myself down seems like a more pressing task at the moment.
As I page through bullet points on decades of world events, I mull over how ironic it is that this is the class I’m facing Ryder in.
But that’s all we share now.
History.
He made damn sure of that.