Chapter 1
There are exactly one thousand seven hundred and twelve lockers at Westbrooke High, and somehow, I got stuck sharing one with him.
I stare at the tiny silver door like it personally betrayed me. It’s wedged between the science wing and the janitor’s closet—prime traffic area, which means everyone gets to witness my slow descent into madness. Wonderful. This day is just getting better and better.
“Still gawking at it like it’s going to sprout legs and walk away?” a voice drawls behind me, smooth and annoyingly familiar.
I don’t have to turn around. I know that voice. It used to read me lines from his terrible comic book scripts. Used to whisper late-night secrets through my bedroom window. Used to make my heart do stupid things it had no business doing. It used to make me feel at home.
Maxwell Carter.
The stereotypical high school handsome boy all girls wish is their boyfriend. With his wavy blonde hair and icy blue eyes, the girls in our school stare at him as if he were a luxury item. And of course, he is the basketball caption, so the type of person you will expect a jock to be.
I force a breath and twist the dial on the locker, ignoring the heat crawling up my neck. “I’m just waiting to see if it combusts from how much it reeks of desperation.”
He chuckles. “Ouch. Still got that edge, Lane.”
I don’t look at him. I can’t. Not yet. Not when the sting of last summer still sits under my skin like a splinter I never pulled out. Instead, I open the locker. Half the space is already jammed with his junk—books, a basketball jersey, a half-eaten granola bar.
Disgusted, I reach in and hold the bar up between two fingers. “Seriously?”
He shrugs, finally stepping beside me—our arms brush. I flinch as if I touched fire. And maybe I did.
“It’s protein-packed,” he says. “Want a bite?”
“Not unless it comes with a tetanus shot.”
We fall into silence, the kind that used to be easy between us. Comfortable. Now it’s the kind that presses too hard on your chest and makes your throat tight. I shove my math textbook onto the top shelf, nudging it with more force than necessary.
“I still think this is cruel and unusual punishment,” I mutter.
Maxwell leans against the locker, way too casually. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t have duct-taped Principal Larson’s car to the flagpole.”
I glare at him. “That was your idea.”
“And yet you were the one holding the duct tape when campus security showed up. Convenient.”
“Why aren’t the other people punished!?!? They played an important part! If you ask me, Principal Larson hates us.”
I want to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both. Because, of course, this would be how we end up thrown back into each other’s orbit—thanks to a prank gone wrong and a sadistic school administration with a flair for drama.
“I’m only sharing this locker because I don’t want to get suspended,” I say flatly.
“Same. I can’t miss the upcoming games. Truce?”
He offers a hand.
I look at it. Long fingers, a faint scar from where we both tried to skateboard off my garage roof in eighth grade. He’s still Maxwell. Just not my Maxwell. Not the Maxwell who used to make me feel like I’m his whole world, now I’m just a memory he has to revisit.
I shake his hand anyway.
“Truce,” I lie. I’m so ready to make you regret pulling me in this. Just you wait.
