Chapter 1: The beginning
Ariana
The gym smells like sweat and floor wax and old rubber. Basketballs thud against the hardwood in a steady, heavy rhythm, sneakers squeal so loud they make your teeth ache, boys yell over each other for passes. None of it touches me.
I walk along the edge of the court with my face down, thumbs flying over my phone screen. Megan is typing back just as fast, every message coming in three separate bubbles one right after another, and I am so busy winning this stupid argument I don't hear anything at all. Not the whistle. Not the warning shout that goes up from half the court.
Not until my name.
"Ariana!!"
I look up just in time to see the orange ball fill my entire field of vision.
BAM.
It hits me dead center in the forehead.
My phone flies out of my hand. My feet go out from under me and I land hard on my ass, the gym floor vibrating up my spine. For two whole seconds I can't breathe. All I can see is little white stars.
Dang it.
I hear sneakers skid to a stop right in front of me. I blink the stars away and there he is. Ethan. My best friend since seventh grade. Standing over me, basketball still in one hand, chest heaving a little from running.
I open my mouth to yell. He flicks me right on the forehead.
"OW." I swat his hand away, staring up at him like he has lost his mind. "What was that for?"
He sighs so deep his whole shoulders drop. The exact same sigh he uses when I forget my lunch, when I stay up until three am crying over bad movies, when I walk directly into lampposts.
"Did literally no one ever teach you not to stare at your phone while you walk?"
He doesn't wait for an answer. He kneels down, brushes my bangs back with his thumb, and squints at the bright red splotch blooming right between my eyebrows. His hand is warm. It smells like lemon soap and basketball.
"Guys!" He calls over his shoulder without looking away from my face. "I got an emergency here. Keep going without me."
Somebody whoops. Someone else yells something about not making out on the court. Ethan doesn't even react.
---
The infirmary bed is cold plastic. The nurse left ten minutes ago, said she had a headache and we could handle it ourselves. Which means Ethan is in charge. Which means I am going to suffer.
"OW that's cold." I try to jerk my head away from the ice pack. His other hand comes up and holds my jaw perfectly still, firm but not hard. He doesn't even look apologetic.
"Hold still." He presses the ice a little harder, just enough to make me wince. "You should have been more careful, Aria."
His voice is quieter now. No more exasperation. Just that thing he gets when he's actually worried, the thing he tries very hard to hide. He holds the ice for another minute, then sets it down on the tray beside the bed. He brushes my bangs back again, very gently, like he's checking it didn't get worse.
"Who were you texting anyway?"
"Megan." I cross my arms and roll my eyes. "She started it."
Ethan snorts. He pulls out his phone, leans in, and takes a very unflattering close up picture of my forehead and the ice pack.
"She is not worth your time. And she is definitely not worth getting beaned in the head with a basketball for." He hits send. I hear my mom's phone ping three rooms away.
"You threw it at me."
"I did not throw it at you, you little bird." He stops. Sighs again. Rakes a hand through his hair. "Never mind. Damage is done. Just don't ever do that again, okay?"
He ruffles my hair. His hand stays there for just a second too long, fingers tangled in the ends.
And that's when it happens.
That stupid, ridiculous, horrible little flip low in my stomach. The one that feels like someone just dropped a handful of butterflies down my shirt. The one that has no business being there. Not for Ethan. Not for the boy who used to put dead bugs in my backpack, who saw me throw up on the school bus in eighth grade, who knows every single dumb embarrassing thing I have ever done.
I don't say anything. I don't look at him. I stare very hard at a crack in the linoleum floor and pray he can't hear how loud my heart is suddenly beating.
He doesn't say anything either.
He just picks the ice pack back up. And this time, when he presses it to my forehead, his thumb brushes the edge of my eyebrow.
