Angel eyes

Lilly

The cafeteria smells like overcooked green beans and something vaguely resembling pizza, though I’m pretty sure actual pizza would be offended by the comparison. I sit at our usual table; third row from the windows, right side, tucked between the vending machines and the exit to the courtyard with my turkey sandwich half-eaten and my copy of Jane Eyre propped against my water bottle.

“Earth to Lilly.” Emma waves her hand in front of my face, her silver rings catching the fluorescent light. “You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” I ask, though I already know.

“That thing where you’re physically here but mentally in nineteenth-century England.” Ava grins from across the table, stabbing at her salad with more force than necessary. “Let me guess; Mr. Rochester just revealed his deep, dark secret?”

“Actually, I’m only on chapter twelve,” I say, closing the book and setting it in my lap. The worn paperback spine is cracked in at least seven places; evidence of how many times I’ve read it. “No deep, dark secrets yet.”

Mason snorts, unwrapping his second sandwich. “There’s always a deep, dark secret. That’s like, the whole point of those books, right?”

“Those books,” I say, making air quotes, “are classics for a reason.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He grins at me, and I can’t help but smile back. Mason’s been my friend since sophomore year, when we got paired up for a biology project and discovered we both had an unhealthy obsession with true crime podcasts. He’s the kind of friend who texts you random facts at two in the morning and actually remembers your coffee order.

The cafeteria buzzes around us; hundreds of conversations blending into white noise, punctuated by the occasional burst of laughter or the clatter of a dropped tray. I’ve always found it strange how you can be surrounded by so many people and still feel completely alone. Not lonely, exactly. Just... invisible.

I’ve perfected invisibility over the past four years. It’s not that I’m unpopular; that would require people to notice me. I’m just there. Background noise. The girl with the long blonde braids and the stack of books, always sitting in the same spot, always with the same three friends. Teachers know my name because I turn in my assignments on time and never cause trouble. Other students don’t know my name at all. And I’m okay with that. Mostly.

“So, Lilly,” Emma says, leaning forward with that gleam in her eye that means she’s about to say something that will make me want to disappear into my sandwich. “Are you going to the bonfire this Friday?”

“Probably not,” I say, which is code for definitely not.

“Come on,” Ava joins in, and I realize this is a coordinated attack. “It’s senior year. We’re supposed to be making memories and living our best lives and all that inspirational poster crap.”

“I make plenty of memories,” I protest. “Last week I finished a thousand-piece puzzle. That was memorable.”

Mason laughs. “You’re eighteen, not eighty.”

“Puzzles are ageless,” I say with mock dignity, but I’m smiling. This is familiar territory; my friends trying to drag me out of my comfort zone, me resisting, all of us knowing I’ll probably give in eventually because I love them and they know it.

The double doors at the far end of the cafeteria swing open, and the noise level shifts. It’s subtle; a change in pitch, a redirection of attention. I don’t have to look up to know who just walked in. But I look up like everyone else anyway.

Frost Kingston enters like he owns the place, which, in a way, he does. Not literally; his family isn’t wealthy or anything, but he has that magnetic quality that makes people turn their heads. He’s flanked by his two best friends, Nash and Preston, and the three of them look like they walked off the set of some gritty teen drama. Black leather jackets despite the early September heat. Dark hair that’s artfully messy in that way that probably takes more effort than my braids. Blue eyes that all seem to share the same shade, like they’d planned it. They could pass for brothers instead of friends.

My heart does that stupid flutter thing it’s been doing since sophomore year, when Frost Kingston looked at me for exactly three seconds while passing back chemistry tests. He’d handed me my paper; an A minus, I still remember, and his fingers had brushed mine as he’d said, “Nice job.” Two words. Three seconds. Two years ago. I’m pathetic.

“Don’t look now,” Emma whispers, which of course makes all of us look, “but the Holy Trinity just arrived.” That’s what people call them; Frost, Nash, and Preston. The Holy Trinity of River-Run High. They’re not mean or bullying or any of the typical bad boy clichés. They’re just... separate. They show up to class when they feel like it, skip when they don’t, and somehow still maintain decent grades. They work on motorcycles in Preston’s garage and race them on the old highway outside town. They’re the subject of approximately seventy percent of the school’s gossip and one hundred percent of my embarrassing daydreams.

Frost laughs at something Nash says, and the sound carries across the cafeteria. My fingers tighten around my sandwich. They walk past our table without a glance. Because that’s how it goes around here. I might as well be a ghost. A piece of furniture. Part of the beige cafeteria wall.

Frost’s leather jacket has a small tear near the left shoulder, and there’s a smudge of what might be grease on his jaw. His dark hair falls across his forehead, and those blue eyes; God, those eyes, scan the cafeteria like he’s looking for something specific. Not me, though. Never me.

They claim their usual table near the windows, the one that’s somehow always empty when they arrive, like people instinctively know to leave it open. Frost straddles the bench, and I force myself to look away before someone notices I’m staring. “You okay?” Mason asks quietly.

“Fine,” I say, too quickly. “Totally fine.”

He doesn’t believe me, Mason’s known about my stupid crush since junior year, when I accidentally said Frost’s name instead of “frost” while complaining about scraping ice off my windshield, but he’s kind enough not to push it.

The rest of lunch passes in a blur of conversation I only half-hear. Emma talks about her upcoming art show. Ava complains about her calculus teacher. Mason debates the merits of various pizza toppings with the kind of passion most people reserve for politics or religion. I nod and smile and contribute when expected, but part of my attention stays locked on that table by the windows. Frost never looks my way. Not once.

The bell rings, and we scatter to our respective classes. I have AP Literature, where I can hide behind my books and essays and pretend that words on a page are enough to fill the spaces in my life. They are enough. They have to be.

The parking lot of River-Run Books & Brew is nearly empty when I lock the front door at 10:07 PM. My shift ran seven minutes late because Mrs. Miller came in at 9:55 looking for a specific cookbook she’d seen three weeks ago, and I couldn’t leave until I’d helped her find it. That’s the thing about working at a bookstore; people assume you have the entire inventory memorized, and somehow, after two years of working here, I kind of do.

The September air has that perfect early-autumn crispness that makes me wish I’d brought a jacket. My car; a twelve-year-old Honda Civic that my dad helped me buy with my savings, sits under the one working streetlight, looking small and tired. I know the feeling.

I toss my bag onto the passenger seat and start the engine, which turns over with a reluctant cough before settling into its familiar rattle. The radio comes on mid-song, some pop anthem about living your best life and seizing the moment. I turn it down and pull out of the parking lot onto Riverside Road.

This stretch of highway is quiet at night. It winds along the river for about three miles before cutting inland towards the residential neighborhoods. During the day, it’s busy with traffic heading to the shopping district. At night, it’s just me and the occasional truck.

I’m thinking about my English essay; due Friday, analyzing the use of symbolism in The Great Gatsby, when I see the headlight. Just one. Weaving slightly. A motorcycle, moving fast along the opposite side of the road.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel. I’ve seen plenty of motorcycles on this road; it’s a popular route for riders, but something about this one makes my stomach clench. The way it’s moving, maybe. Too fast. Slightly erratic. Then I see the second vehicle.

A dark SUV, no headlights, coming up fast behind the motorcycle. Everything happens in the space between heartbeats. The SUV accelerates. Swerves. Clips the motorcycle’s rear tire. The bike goes down.

I see the rider try to correct. The motorcycle slides out from under him, and I watch in horror as the rider hits the pavement and rolls. The SUV doesn’t stop. It speeds past the fallen rider, past me going the opposite direction, and disappears around the bend with its headlights still off.

My foot slams on the brake before my brain catches up. The Civic skids to a stop on the shoulder, and I’m out of the car and running before I can think about what I’m doing. The motorcycle lies on its side in the middle of the road, one wheel still spinning. The rider is crumpled about fifteen feet away, not moving.

“Oh god, oh god, oh god,” I hear myself saying as I run towards the driver. My phone is in my hand; when did I grab my phone? and I’m dialing 911 with shaking fingers. I drop to my knees beside him, and my heart stops. Black leather jacket. Dark hair. Even in the dim light from my car’s headlights, I recognize him right away. Frost Kingston. “911, what’s your emergency?”

“There’s been an accident,” I say, and my voice sounds strange, too high and too fast. “Motorcycle accident on Riverside Road, about two miles east of the shopping district. The rider’s injured. He’s not moving. Please hurry.”

The operator asks me questions; is he breathing, is there visible bleeding, am I safe, and I answer on autopilot while my free hand hovers over Frost, afraid to touch him, but also afraid not to. “Frost,” I whisper. “Can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. They’re unfocused at first, glazed with pain and confusion. There’s blood on his temple, trickling down into his hair. His leather jacket is torn, and I can see road rash on his arm where his sleeve has been shredded. But his eyes find mine. Green meeting blue.

I watch awareness flicker across his face. His lips move, forming words I can’t hear over the operator’s voice in my ear and the rushing of blood in my own ears. “You’re going to be okay,” I tell him, even though I have no idea if that’s true. “Help is coming. Just stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”

His hand moves, just slightly, and his fingers brush against mine. The touch is feather-light, barely there, but it sends electricity up my arm. He’s looking at me like he’s trying to memorize my face. Like he’s trying to hold onto something in the darkness that’s pulling at him.

“Your eyes,” he murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. “So… Green...”

“I’m here,” I say, and I don’t know why I’m crying but there are tears on my cheeks. “I’m right here. Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me.” But his eyes are already sliding shut, his hand going limp against mine. “Frost!” I grip his hand tighter. “Frost, please!”

The operator is telling me the ambulance is three minutes away. I’m telling her he’s unconscious. I’m checking his pulse with trembling fingers and finding it weak but there, thank God, it’s there. Sirens wail in the distance, growing closer.

I stay kneeling beside him, holding his hand, watching his chest rise and fall with shallow breaths. My mind is racing, replaying what I saw. The SUV with no headlights. The deliberate swerve. The way it clipped his tire and kept going. That wasn’t an accident. Someone hit him on purpose. Someone tried to kill Frost Kingston. And I’m the only one who saw it happen.

The ambulance arrives in a blaze of red and white lights, and suddenly there are paramedics surrounding us, asking questions, gently moving me aside. I stand on shaking legs and watch them work, stabilize his neck and check his vitals and load him onto a stretcher. One of the paramedics; a woman with kind eyes and gray hair, touches my shoulder. “You did good, honey. You might have saved his life.” I nod numbly, unable to form words.

They load Frost into the ambulance, and I watch the doors close, and the vehicle pull away with its sirens screaming into the night. I’m alone on the side of the road with a wrecked motorcycle and the smell of burnt rubber and the image of Frost’s blue eyes staring into mine, trying to hold on, trying to remember.

My phone buzzes. A text from Emma. Movie Friday? Please say yes. I stare at it for a long moment, at the normalcy of it, at the life I was living just twenty minutes ago when my biggest concern was an English essay and whether I’d ever work up the courage to talk to Frost Kingston. That life feels very far away now.

I get back in my car and drive home with my hands still shaking on the wheel, and I don’t see the dark SUV parked on the side road a quarter mile back. Its driver watching my taillights disappear into the night.