Falling for a Second Chance

Chapter 1

It’s just past eight o’clock in the morning, and I’m about to break up with my therapist.

Dr. Zahler and I have been together for five months, which has been my longest relationship—of any kind—to date. When I make

the call, I’m standing in a quiet spot outside school, buffeted by the crisp October breeze, hoping to leave a message with

her scheduling assistant before moving on with my day. But Dr. Z picks up.

“Claire,” she says. “Good morning. Is everything okay?”

Shoot. I must have called the number that routes to her cell outside office hours.

“Oh . . . hi, Dr. Z. I’m sorry,” I say. “I was planning to leave a message.”

“This one’s the emergency line. But you have me now, so what’s up?”

“So here’s the thing.” I begin to run through the reasons why I’d like to stop our sessions—my busy senior year schedule, the expense of the co-pay, feeling like I’m “doing great, I promise”—and it’s almost like I’ve separated from my body and I’m watching myself from ten feet away.

Like I’m a director behind the camera, listening to the inflections of my voice, judging whether I’m striking the right tone.

When I finish, Dr. Z says, “I see. I respect your decision if you’re truly ready to stop. But just so you know, you aren’t

my first patient to cancel right after a vulnerable session. So how about this. What if we keep our next appointment and talk

about what’s coming up for you after yesterday? And if you’re still done after that, I’ll fully support it.”

Part of me wants to laugh. All I did was mention that my dad owes me money. I wasn’t planning to bring it up; it just slipped

out. I haven’t told her anything else about my past, none of the really juicy stuff that would make her clutch her pearls.

And just that one small comment was enough for her to lean forward, her gaze sharpened, and ask me to tell her more. The feeling

of her focusing on it, on me, made me want to crawl out of my skin. It reminded me how lucky I was that I got a chance for a real do-over here in Connecticut,

a new life to step into after we left Los Angeles.

“Thanks for the offer,” I say briskly. “But I’m going to pass.”

“Okay,” Dr. Z says. “But please know that I’m always here if you need me, Claire.”

“Thank you, and have a great rest of your day!” I chirp, hanging up before she has a chance to say anything else.

Maybe I should feel bad, but I don’t. All I feel is an intense wave of relief. On my way inside, I make sure to step on all

the best-looking dry leaves littering the asphalt. With each satisfying crunch, something inside me relaxes.

Mom will be upset about this. Well, not upset, but disappointed.

“It’s fine if you don’t want to talk to me,” she’s said more than once, “but I think you should talk to someone.”

Little does she know, I can’t. Telling Dr. Z that Dad owes me money is the only detail I’ve let slip about my life from before,

with any of the therapists I’ve briefly seen since moving here. I guess I’m more screwed up than even Mom suspects, which means she’s

right, I should be in therapy. I can’t remember the name of that myth about the snake eating its own tail, but that’s the

kind of situation I’ve got going on.

I haven’t even spoken a word about my past to Evie, and she’s my best friend. I can’t. Because I know if I open that door

even the tiniest bit, I’ll never be able to shut it again.

And keeping that door closed is what keeps me together. It’s what makes everything okay.

When I get to the student center, which also doubles as our school’s cafeteria, I consider whether to spend eight dollars

on one of the few remaining pumpkin muffins from the “seasonal” shelf or if I should make do with the granola bar I brought

from home. As good as the muffin looks, I decide to skip it. Then I settle at an empty table to use the last fifteen minutes

before the bell rings to study for my AP chem test.

Ten minutes later, Evie slides into the seat next to mine. “Morning. Want to share this with me? I got the last one.”

She’s taking the plastic wrap off a pumpkin muffin. Only now do I realize how badly I wanted one. Our school’s food isn’t that great, but their pumpkin muffins—which they only sell in the fall—are incredible.

“You read my mind,” I say, reaching out to break off a chunk before going back to studying.

“By the way, have you seen this?” she asks.

“Seen what?”

“This,” she says, holding out her phone, which is open to TikTok. “Everyone is freaking out about it.”

“Text it to me and I’ll watch it later.”

“It’s only fifteen seconds!” Evie says.

“I’m studying!”

There are less than five minutes left until the bell rings. We’re both good students, but somehow I’m always the one trying

to study and Evie’s the one trying to distract me.

“If you won’t watch the video, can I at least tell you about it while you work?” Evie asks. Clearly she’s dying to talk about whatever this is.

“Okay, fine,” I say, indulging her. She is sharing her muffin with me, after all. I reach out to break off another piece. “Tell me.”

“So you know the Westbury murder book?”

“Of course I do.” Everyone within a hundred miles knows about the Westbury murder book.

“It’s going to be a movie,” she tells me.

“I know,” I say. “It’s been planned for a while.”

The Westbury murder book—which is actually titled Our Sweet Boy—was a bestselling true crime book that came out a couple of years ago, about a local high school teacher who was murdered

by one of her students. It was a big enough scandal that it shut down Westbury’s public high school, and their town’s student

population merged with ours. That’s why our high school is huge even though Glenridge is so small.

The murder happened over a decade ago, but the book brought on a new wave of public interest, including a splashy movie deal—much

to the consternation of the busybodies who run the Audubon Center’s gardening club and would rather our small corner of Connecticut

be known for its bucolic charm.

“No, like, it’s going to be a movie now,” Evie says. “And they’re making it here, between Glenridge and Westbury. Apparently they’ll be filming for the next two

months. They’re even filming here, at school, over Thanksgiving break.”

“Oh, no kidding,” I say, scribbling a note in my book. Carbonic acid, two hydrogens, one carbon, three oxygens . . .

I read the book, and after the movie rights got sold, I checked Hollywood Reporter a few times to see if there were any more details, but it’s all been very hush-hush.

Evie pushes my shoulder. “You’re not listening!”

“I am listening! But I’ve got a chem test second period.” I drop my pen and look her square in the face. “They’re finally filming the Westbury murder book, and they’re doing it here, on location, for a month. See? I heard you.”

“Two months,” she corrects me.

“Fine. Sorry. Two months.”

She’s still not satisfied. “Why aren’t you more excited? This is huge. Nothing like this happens here.”

I shrug. “It’ll be more annoying than anything else. With traffic and street closures and stuff like that.”

“I always forget you’re from LA,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear. She must have cut it last night, because it’s

noticeably shorter today. “Stuff like this is old news to you, huh?”

I ignore her and tug on a strand. “This looks great, by the way.”

Evie is constantly messing with her hair and is always trying—and failing—to get me to do the same. I’ve never understood

her impulse. My hair has always been my favorite thing about myself. Beachy waves with body, glossy instead of frizzy, streaks

of blond toward the front as though I’ve been in the sun. Evie calls it my security blanket, which it is.

“Thanks. But listen. There’s an open casting call for extras on Sunday. Eddie and I are thinking of going. Want to come?”

The first bell rings. I break off one last piece of her muffin before I gather my notes and start shoving them in my bag.

“Can’t. I’m scheduled to help my mom at an event. Plus, that’s not really my thing.”

Not anymore, anyway. But of course I don’t say that.

“Can you cancel, just this once?” Evie asks.

Evie has two working parents, who both make a lot of money. My mom has a good job, and we’re comfortable—exactly comfortable

enough that it’s unlikely I’ll qualify for any good financial aid packages for college. Ever since I realized this, the specter

of college tuition and the question of how I’m going to pay for it has increasingly loomed over me. I rub my fingers together

at Evie as we join the throng of students dispersing toward their classrooms. “Nope. Following your dreams costs money, honey.”

“Right, of course,” Evie says innocently. “But maybe you’ll change your mind when you hear who’s starring in the movie.”

“Who?” I ask, but my thoughts are already back to carbon chain double bonds.

“I’m glad you’re a goody-goody and didn’t let me show this to you while you were studying, because now it gets the dramatic

reveal it deserves.”

She thrusts her phone back into my hands, and finally, I stop to focus on the video playing.

I recognize the street it’s on. Right off Glenridge Ave.

, the main strip of shops in our little downtown area.

The camera is focused on the glass door of the Sunoco gas station.

I know it’s recent because of the huge cardboard boxes of pumpkins for sale out front.

The video is grainy, as if it was shot on a phone from far away and is zoomed all the way in.

I turn up the volume. Whoever is filming—based on the profile name, I think it’s a junior on the field hockey team—is saying, “Oh my God. No way.”

A few seconds later, a tall person in a black hoodie walks out of the gas station. The girl filming laughs nervously and turns

the camera away, and the video ends.

His hood was up, and his face was only visible for a second or two. But it was long enough.

I stare at the screen as the video loops back to the beginning. “Was that—”

Evie takes her phone back. “Yup. Lucas Cordova.”

The noise of chairs scraping and people talking fades away and is replaced by a loud, faraway buzz.

Luke is . . . here? In Glenridge?

“Hey,” Evie says. “Are you okay? You look bad. I mean, like, pale and greenish. Like you saw a ghost.”

I touch a hand to my forehead, which suddenly feels clammy. “No. I mean, yeah. I’m fine. Just low blood sugar, probably.”

“Want me to run and get you something else to eat real quick? There’s still time before the second bell.”

She looks worried, so I force myself to smile. “No. I’m fine. I’ll see you later, okay?”

I turn and walk away before she can protest. I don’t want her to see how freaked out I am. Because Evie’s right: I do feel

like I’ve seen a ghost. No—like I learned someone who died is coming back to life.

Except the person who died? It’s me. Or at least it’s the version of me I left back in Los Angeles, the me who knew Luke Cordova, the me who was an unrecognizable version of the me who lives here in tiny, unremarkable Glenridge, Connecticut.

The relief I felt after breaking up with Dr. Z is gone, replaced with hot, ringing panic.

Because Luke Cordova, coming here, could ruin everything.