Chapter 1: East Ridge Is a Lie
The halls of East Ridge High School smelled like lemon floor cleaner and teenage angst.
Dana Denin walked with her shoulders back and her sleeves pulled down. A perfect picture of composure.
Neat cardigan. Hair tucked behind one ear. Lips glossed just enough to pass for effort.
She looked like she belonged in a college brochure.
She felt like she belonged anywhere else.
Every step echoed. Not from her boots—those were silent—but from the weight she carried in her ribs. The bruises on her arms and legs were hidden, but the ones on her heart? Not so much. She’d gotten good at looking people in the eye just long enough to seem normal.
If East Ridge had a motto, it would be: Pretend. Perform. Repeat.
Her locker creaked open with a dramatic whine, probably louder than necessary, but she welcomed the noise. It drowned out the buzzing in her brain. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, eyes darting left and right.
She swapped her books and shut the locker with finality. Time to keep moving.
That’s when Carter Lively appeared—like a caffeine rush in combat boots.
Carter fell into step beside her, shoulder brushing Dana’s like it was muscle memory.
She carried herself like a girl who fought back first and asked questions never.
Brown hair in a half-assed ponytail, eyeliner wrecked just enough to say: If I cared, you’d know. Trust me.
“Hey, DeeDee,” she said, light and sarcastic, cutting through the static of morning chatter.
“You look like a Pinterest board, by the way. Ten out of ten.”
Dana gave a soft laugh, habit, not humor.
Carter always kept things light so they wouldn’t get too heavy.
“You say that every year.”
“Yeah, and every year I mean it,” Carter said. Then, quieter, her voice slipping beneath the noise,
“Was your dad home last night?”
Dana flinched before she could stop herself. “He was gone.”
Carter’s jaw clenched. “Good. Let’s hope he stays that way.”
She didn’t ask for more. That was the rule. Dana didn’t give details. Carter didn’t need them.
The silence between them was a thread; thin, stretched, and always close to snapping.
Before either of them could say more, the hallway seemed to shift, like the air got colder or the lights dimmed just slightly.
Because he had arrived.
Ryder Shay.
Black hoodie. Cracked leather jacket. Guitar case slung over his shoulder.
A scar sliced just below his eye like punctuation on a story no one really knew.
He walked like he didn’t care who watched, but also like he knew they all were.
Carter raised an eyebrow. “Who’s Hot Topic?”
Dana blinked. “Is that the new guy?”
Carter squinted. “Ryder… something? I heard someone say he transferred in. Supposedly he’s been in and out of juvie. Or rehab. Or both. But I didn’t think he’d look like that.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Honestly? Kind of iconic.”
Dana stared, trying not to, and failing.
Ryder stopped by the main office, not looking up, not acknowledging a single soul. But something about the way he moved, tense, deliberate, like he was always ready to fight or run, pulled at something buried in Dana’s chest.
They weren’t the same, not even close. But she knew that look.
The one you wore when the world had taken too much from you too fast.
She turned back to her locker.
“Incoming,” Dana muttered, eyes flicking toward the end of the hall.
“Cousin alert?” Carter asked, already bracing.
Dana gave a short nod. “He’s my cousin. Your ex. And somehow still the worst person in this hallway.”
Jake Dawson cut through the hallway like he owned it—football jersey on, jaw clenched like he was grinding bone. People moved out of his way without being told to. The kind of guy you don’t make eye contact with unless you have to.
He stopped too close, eyes dragging across Carter before landing on Dana like she was an afterthought.
“You two look cozy,” Jake said, voice low and smooth, like a threat tucked into a compliment. “Catching up on girl talk?”
Dana’s skin crawled. “Just heading to class.”
Jake didn’t move. He tilted his head at Carter, gaze heavy. “You miss me yet, baby?”
Carter didn’t flinch. “Only when I forget how low my standards used to be.”
Jake’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “That’s cute. You always had jokes.”
His hand twitched, just the smallest movement, and Dana’s pulse kicked like it always did when he was near. There were no bruises between them, but there had been moments. Yelling. Slamming doors. Things that made her mom go quiet at family dinners.
“Get lost, Jake,” Carter said. “We’re not doing this.”
He leaned in like he was about to say something else, something worse, but the warning bell rang, slicing the moment clean. Still, he didn’t budge.
“Later, Dee,” Jake said at last, but his eyes didn’t leave Carter.
He walked off, and Dana exhaled like she’d been holding her breath the whole time. Carter looked like she wanted to punch a locker.
“You okay?” Dana asked, voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah,” Carter said, but her jaw was tight. “I just hate how he walks around like no one remembers who he really is.”
Dana didn’t answer.
Because she remembered.
A bell rang overhead, shrill and final.
As the crowd surged toward first period, Dana glanced back toward the office.
Ryder Shay was gone.
Like he’d never been there at all.
But he wasn’t gone for long.
First period was a blur of syllabi and seat assignments, the usual first-day-of-school filler. Dana sat near the window, second row from the back, in her usual zone of polite invisibility. She took notes even when there was nothing to note, eyes forward, mouth shut.
Carter had a different strategy—leaning back in her chair and offering the occasional snort whenever their English teacher, Mrs. Ferrell, used phrases like “literary exploration” or “your academic journey.”
It was barely 8:20am and Carter had already declared this class a war zone.
Dana was halfway through underlining discussion participation is 10% of your grade when the classroom door creaked open.
And in he walked.
Ryder Shay. Hoodie still up. Leather jacket half-zipped. Like he hadn’t decided whether he was staying or planning to bolt at any second. The guitar case was gone, probably in a locker—or maybe he didn’t have one. Maybe he just carried it around like a warning.
Mrs. Ferrell paused mid-sentence. “You must be Ryder.”
He didn’t answer. Just gave a single nod and held out a folded piece of paper. Transfer paperwork, probably. Or a court order. Hard to say.
Dana stared at her notebook, willing herself not to look up again.
She failed.
His eyes scanned the room like he didn’t care what he saw—and then landed on her.
For half a second, it felt like he saw straight through the cardigan, the glossed lips, the practiced calm. Like he saw the bruises on her soul even she tried to forget.
Then it passed.
He looked away.
Mrs. Ferrell cleared her throat. “There’s an open seat… back row.”
Ryder didn’t respond. Just moved. No backpack. No books. Just himself—too much tension in his shoulders, too little interest in everything else.
He passed Dana’s desk. She caught a hint of cigarette smoke and something sharper underneath. Not cologne. Not soap. Just him.
Like if danger had a scent.
Dana’s phone buzzed softly in her lap.
She slid it out and tilted the screen low.
CARTER:
you’re staring
She thumbed a quick reply.
DANA:
I am not
Buzz.
CARTER:
girl. you’re burning holes in the back of his hoodie
DANA:
I was looking past him
the window is there
nature is healing
CARTER:
nature is not 6 ft tall in a leather jacket
Dana bit back a smile, then immediately felt stupid for smiling.
CARTER:
you like him don’t you
hot topic is totally your brand
DANA:
you’re literally insane
CARTER:
and yet correct.
Dana locked her phone and shoved it back in her cardigan pocket just as Mrs. Ferrell launched into a lecture about narrative perspective. Ryder slouched in the back row, arms crossed, hood still up.
He stared upward, like maybe it was easier than looking around.
Dana stared at her notes. She was writing words but not registering any of them. Her pulse was unreasonably loud in her ears.
Something about him bothered her. Not in a bad way. In a too familiar way.
She knew that look—the one Ryder wore like armor. The don’t-talk-to-me, don’t-look-at-me, don’t-get-close.
She’d worn it. Hell, some days she still did.
The bell finally rang, slicing through Mrs. Ferrell’s voice. Dana filed out behind Carter, but a flicker of motion behind her caught her eye. She glanced back and saw Ryder pause at the classroom door, shoulders still tight, gaze briefly brushing hers before flicking away.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.
But something passed between them.
Recognition, maybe. Or curiosity. Or that mutual understanding people don’t talk about. The kind born from pain.
Carter bumped her shoulder. “You coming or just emotionally communicating with the silent new kid?”
Dana shook herself. “Coming.”
As they moved into the hallway rush, Carter kept talking—something about how Mrs. Ferrell clearly hated her already—but Dana wasn’t listening.
She felt it again.
That strange pull in her ribs.
The sense that her life had just shifted, just a little.
Like a storm cloud had rolled in on a clear day—and somehow, she wanted to stand in the rain.
