Prologue
Arden
The first thing I remember about James Mitchell is the sound of sneakers squeaking on the elementary school gym floor.
He’d been faster than everyone else in class, the kind of kid who never tripped or missed a throw. I’d been the kid who tried too hard, hair in my eyes, shoelaces uneven. When the red rubber dodgeball rolled my way, I hesitated just a blink too long, and he’d shouted, “I got it!” before I could even bend to pick it up. Then he’d grinned at me afterward, a quick flash of teeth and dimples, as if to say no harm done.
It wasn’t love, not yet, but it was the kind of kindness that imprints on you when you’re eight and always just a little behind everyone else.
By middle school, that grin had turned into something rarer. James was one of those boys who was friends with everyone, somehow both in the center of things and above them. He wasn’t mean like some of the other popular kids, but he also wasn’t reachable. When he passed me in the hallway, he’d nod, maybe toss a “Hey, how’s it going?” that made my whole week, even though I knew he probably didn’t think twice about it.
He was good at that, making people feel like they mattered, even if just for a second.
By high school, the town had begun to feel smaller, like everyone was just waiting for their next chapter somewhere else.
James was still the one everyone seemed to orbit around. He played soccer, drove an old truck that backfired outside the diner, and could make teachers laugh out loud in the middle of class. I watched from the edges of classrooms, my notebook full of doodles and unfinished essays, telling myself I was over the silly crush from middle school.
I wasn’t.
It wasn’t about popularity. It was the way he treated people - teachers, janitors, the shy freshman who dropped her tray in the cafeteria. He was easy to like, hard to know.
Our worlds only overlapped in flashes: group projects, hallway conversations, the kind of small-town parties where everyone ended up standing around the same bonfire pretending not to shiver.
One fall night at one of those bonfires, he’d found me sitting on the back of a truck bed, hands tucked into my sleeves. He’d handed me his jacket without asking, the scent of smoke and pine caught in the fabric.
“You look cold,” he’d said.
“Thanks,” I’d managed, trying to sound casual and not like my pulse was a drumline.
He’d stayed for a few minutes, talking about the upcoming game, the new math teacher, the way the stars looked brighter out past the cornfields. When someone called his name, he’d hopped down from the truck and jogged away, leaving me with the jacket and a small, impossible warmth that stayed with me for days.
Later that week, I’d left the jacket folded on the hood of his truck before first period. He never mentioned it, but one afternoon I caught him looking my way in the hallway, just a flicker.
That was our rhythm: almost-moments. Glances that could have meant nothing or everything.
Graduation came wrapped in sunlight and noise, folding chairs lined up in neat rows, the air thick with the smell of cut grass and excitement. My gown stuck to the back of my knees as I fanned myself with the program, trying not to lose sight of my friends in the crowd.
James sat two rows ahead, tossing his cap between his hands, talking to one of the soccer guys. He looked as he always had: relaxed, confident, the center of everything without even trying.
I’d told myself the crush was long gone, that I’d outgrown the flutter of nerves whenever he smiled. But when his name was called and he strode across the stage, the cheers that rose from the crowd made my throat tighten anyway.
My turn came soon after. I tried to keep my steps steady, not to trip, not to look for him, but I did. And when I did, I caught him watching me. Just for a moment. A small, private smile.
It was nothing. It was everything.
After the ceremony, the courtyard filled with noise, parents taking photos, friends shouting over the music from someone’s car, teachers hugging students goodbye. My best friends, Annie and Viv, were already talking about the move to the city. University, roommates, late nights, freedom. The words felt like possibility.
I looked around one last time: the cracked sidewalk outside the gym, the football field in the distance, the row of maple trees that always turned red too early. This had been my whole world once.
I saw James again, across the parking lot, his cap pushed back, laughing at something his sister said. He looked like he belonged here, rooted, steady, comfortable in a way I never had.
Our eyes met briefly, almost by accident. He lifted his hand in a wave. I returned it, small and uncertain, before Annie tugged me away toward the waiting car.
That night, I packed the last of my clothes into a too-small suitcase, my acceptance letter folded neatly on top. The room felt emptier than I expected.
I paused by the window, looking out at the quiet street, the glow of the porch lights, the sound of cicadas in the distance. Somewhere out there, James was probably doing the same, closing one chapter, opening another.
I wondered if he’d remember me at all.
And, though I wouldn’t admit it to anyone, I wondered if I’d ever see him again.
Authors note
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