Chapter 4
MILO
I spent the weekend reconnecting with others so I could connect puppies with people. Dusty Hollow Animal Shelter said between Sadie’s Facebook post and my efforts, all eight puppies now live in homes that aren’t Sadie’s.
Now it’s Tuesday, and I’m standing outside Dusty Hollow High to officially claim my classroom. Last time I was here, I was eighteen and wearing a light blue graduation gown and cap. Sadie wore hers better, enhanced with her gold tassel and bright smile.
She graduated valedictorian, and I graduated with a determination that football was going to change my life. And I suppose it did, just not in the way I expected.
The red brick building hasn’t aged. The heavy glass door I opened for Sadie every morning still catches slightly, and the smell of floor wax and old paper rushes up to meet me—clean and worn at the same time.
It’s the same smell that used to cling to my clothes after late practices and study hall—when the place felt emptier without her. It’ll probably feel similar today.
I step inside, the hallway stretching out to my left and right, lockers lining the walls.
“Mr. Carter.” The voice belongs to a woman who also hasn’t seemed to age.
Ms. Valdez. Principal. Face of sharp angles and a slow stare that slips beneath your secrets and forces you to expose your lies.
I remember how surprised she was my sophomore year when I started caring a little more about my grades and saw less of the inside of her office.
“Ms. Valdez,” I say warmly, extending my hand.
Her mouth quirks in a side smile as she puts her hand in mine.
“Life has a strange way of bringing back people I never thought I’d see again. Especially not here as a teacher.” She laughs, and it’s the same laugh. Bubbly but restrained.
I put my hands in my pockets, rocking back on my heels. “Yeah, I didn’t see this coming.”
“Do you want me to show you to your classroom?” she asks.
I shake my head. “No. I know how to get there.”
“If you have any questions, find someone else. I take my summer break seriously. I’m just here to welcome you back.”
I chuckle. “Thank you.”
She leaves me in the hallway, and I begin the familiar trek to where Coach Ryland used to lecture us on things that once happened. I didn’t really care back then, but now I understand how much your past shapes your future—or reveals just how na?ve you once were.
I trace my fingers over the cream cinder block walls, the texture rough beneath my touch.
When I reach the classroom which is strangely now mine, I can practically see Sadie smiling at me from the desk right up front across from the teacher’s.
I heard the grumbles and jokes kids made when Sadie always turned her paper in first or raised her hand to answer every question, but her certainty always made me smile to myself.
I was never annoyed by her. I was in awe.
I slide my backpack off and drop it on the floor next to the desk chair, slipping into where Sadie used to be. Then I grab my Bible from my bag, the history book that I’ve learned the most from—one that lives in the past, present, and future.
Sadie gave me this Bible when we were ten.
I open it in an attempt to ground my wandering thoughts. Thoughts about last night. How the girl I once loved—still love—looked at me with so much grief in her gaze that I thought I might disintegrate right there on her doorstep.
When I left Dusty Hollow, I broke her heart.
I broke mine, too.
I can still feel the way her tears felt against my cheek as I held her on the day I left . . .
“Your grandpa is so proud, you know,” she said with a soft smile. “A college boy.”
I grinned because I knew he was proud of me. My grandpa doesn’t smile much, but when scouts began sniffing around the stadium my junior year, he always made sure to accommodate them—to give me my best chance.
“I know,” I said. “It’s my chance to be somebody.”
“You are somebody, Milo,” she said, her big brown eyes wide and honest.
But I wanted greatness. I had this belief that if I could become great, it would somehow redeem my past, even though it wasn’t mine to make up for. I know that now, but when I was eighteen, I still allowed my parents to define me in some ways.
My mom left when I was three. I was too young to understand. One day she was there, and the next day, she wasn’t. I was eight when I moved in with my grandpa after my dad was taken to prison.
I was a kid who learned to keep to myself—until the day I met Sadie Summers.
Her smile wasn’t just a smile. It made me feel like she saw me when no one else did.
“You’re going to do amazing things, Sadie Summers. You’re so smart and you’re beautiful. The world is going to be amazed by you,” I told her, putting her soft face in my hands.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she laughed lightly.
“Promise me something?” she asked.
“Anything,” I replied.
“Give your all, Milo. You have what it takes. I expect to see your face on television, making a stupid amount of money.”
“I promise,” I said.
She nodded, but her smile wobbled, just barely. She glanced past me toward the driveway where my truck waited, the engine already humming. Everything was already moving. Leaving was already happening.
“Thank you for not letting me be the girl you feel guilty about,” she said. “The one you’re thinking about when you should be focused. I don’t want to be the reason you give up your dreams, Milo Carter.”
My chest tightened. “Sadie—”
“I’m so proud of you,” she said.
And those words were an ache because she was the first person who meant anything to me who ever said them out loud.
But even then, I knew—if she’d asked me to stay, I wouldn’t have.
Pride is a strong heartbeat, especially when it’s beating alongside the need to prove that you matter.
When I kissed her, it wasn’t desperate. It was devastating.
But at the time, we both thought it was necessary.
A knock at the door startles me from my thoughts and memories. I look up and see another familiar face.
Mrs. Hensley.
“Heard you were back,” she says.
“I promise I’m not here to make more messes during lab,” I tease as I stand from the desk. “How are you, Mrs. Hensley?”
This woman has aged. Her hair is now bright white instead of gray, and there’s a softness on her face, or maybe that’s just because I’m now her colleague instead of student.
“Kids aren’t the same. I miss the days you were in my classroom,” she replies.
I tilt my head. “You sure about that?”
She chuckles. “TikTok has ruined everything.”
I warm at her words, thinking about my TikTok account that is actually doing quite well. Brings in a little extra money, which is helpful on a teacher’s salary.
Mrs. Hensley then winks at me. “I’m just teasing. I know you have TikTok. Although attention spans do seem shorter, but if I remember correctly, your attention span wasn’t great either for other reasons.”
I laugh. “Better reasons than a phone screen.”
“We can agree on that,” she says. “Well, it’s good to see you, Milo.”
“You too, Mrs. Hensley.”
“Greta,” she corrects. “I’m not your teacher anymore.”
“I’m not sure if I can do that.”
“You’ll learn.”
Then she leaves me alone in this room full of memories—of who I used to be, when I thought I’d never be enough.
I left to become someone new, but I didn’t realize how much of who I was would stay here.