I don’t tell them that part. Partly because it’s private, and partly because I don’t know what I meant. Did I mean that he finally had that curious look in his eyes that he had the night we first met, that half-cocked smile resting on the edge of his lips, the comfort between us where there may have been masks, but there were no secrets.

There you are, I had said, but what I meant was, I found you, finally.

When I finish the story, we’re way late to class, but Quinn and Annie haven’t budged from my car, and the parking lot attendant is making a beeline for us in his off-white golf cart.

My friends exchange a look—the same look—as if they’re in agreement.

“You’ve got it bad.” Annie breaks the news to me.

A blush creeps across my face. “What? No, of course not. Why would I?—”

Quinn puts a hand on my shoulder. “You’ve got it really bad.”

My shoulders droop. “Oh balls. I do, don’t I?”

They nod severely. “And we need to get to class before we get written up again. I can’t go to Homecoming if I have after-school detention. Do you have the emergency bagel?”

“It’s a day old.” Annie nervously takes it out of her bookbag, but I grab it anyway.

A moment later, the parking lot attendant parks his golf cart beside my car, gets out, and knocks on the window. He’s stone-faced and regal, his graying hair gelled back and his shirt pressed beneath his too-loose football jacket.

“Miss Thorne,” he greets me as I slowly roll down the window. “You’re a little late.”

I give him an innocent smile and present him with the day-old breakfast bagel. “Umm, hungry?”

He shakes his head.

Ruh-roh.

“Break for it!” Annie roars, shoving open the passenger-side door. I quickly grab my bookbag, phone, and science notebook, which were strewn on the floorboard, and go scurrying over the middle console and out of the passenger door with her. Quinn vaults out of the back seat, and we haul ass across the parking lot before the attendant can get back into his golf cart and come after us. We don’t slow down until we’re through the breezeway and into the school.

I lead the charge, and turn the corner into C Hall when—

I collide with a brick wall.

Quinn and Annie catch me before I bite the dust, but the contents of my arms go everywhere. My science notebook, with all of its loose pages, poofs into the air.

“Watch where you’re—Rosie!” Garrett calls my name, surprised to see me.

The worst person I could run into right now.

“Sorry, Garrett, can’t stay and chat,” I reply, gathering up my science notes with the help of Annie and Quinn, and I hurry by him before he can stop me. I’m not all that worried about the parking lot attendant writing me up for being late, but Mrs. Angora in homeroom?

She has a penchant for making tardy students suffer.

Luckily, she’s lenient today and lets Annie and me sneak in about five minutes late, before the morning news begins. Quinn’s homeroom is one class down, but their teacher doesn’t care how late they are, which is lucky. We can’t afford to have Quinn ejected from the running this late in the game. The morning announcements ramble off the student festivities for Homecoming week—spirit days, the colors we’re supposed to wear to the game on Friday, the ticket price for the dance on Saturday, and worst of all, the people leading Homecoming King and Queen.

“For Homecoming Queen, it’s a tight race between Myrella Johnson and Ava Singh, but as for Homecoming King, Garrett Taylor is winning by at least thirty votes. You can vote every day during lunch in the cafeteria, and don’t forget to dress in school colors this week. Go Wildcats!” the news anchor says, signing off.

Great. Of course Garrett is officially winning.

It isn’t until halfway through second period that I realize I don’t have my phone. I must’ve left it in the car, though I could swear I grabbed it. I was in a hurry, though. Ugh, great. Today is already shaping up to be one hell of a terrible Monday, because after second period I find out why Garrett was out of class this morning, too.

He was hanging up a poster for Homecoming in the common room of the high school. A ten-foot-tall poster that says VOTE GARRETT TAYLOR AS YOUR KING! It towers over the entire student body every time class changes. You can’t miss it, and I certainly don’t.

My doom now looms over me as the bell rings every hour.

* * *

—

  AS LUNCH WRAPS up, I steel my courage and walk up to the table selling Homecoming dance tickets. They’re beginning to pack up, locking the money box, when they see me standing at the other side of the table.

“Oh, sorry,” Savannah, the school president, replies. “Rosie, right? Did you want one?”

“Two, actually.”

“I think Garrett already got yours,” says the other student.

“Probably not,” I reply, and repeat, handing them a twenty-dollar bill out of my back pocket, “Two, please.”

They exchange a look, but then the president shrugs and accepts my cash, and hands me two golden tickets. They have roses on them. Of course they do. The theme for this year’s Homecoming is “Garden of Memories.”

Then why do I feel like I already want to forget the whole thing?

* * *

—

  SO, I TAKE IT BACK—there is at least one thing more embarrassing than a ten-foot-tall poster of Garrett Taylor and realizing that you wake up to the smoldering looks of one Vance Reigns every morning combined: it’s going to a boy’s house after realizing that you might have a very small, unsubstantial, incredibly overcomable, crush on him.

The boy in question is sitting at the counter, eating an apple, when I let myself in and dump my bookbag in the corner of the kitchen. He looks up from another Starfield novel I recommended to him this past weekend, since he didn’t want to read any more in The Starless Throne without me.

“So I see you decided to read it,” I say, trying not to think about how incredibly hot he looks reading. He really should do it more often.

“Mmh, yeah, but I can’t really get into this one,” he replies, and takes another bite of apple.

“Really? Don’t like the political intrigue of the Noxian Court?” I slide up onto the stool beside him. “And the ball. I love the ball. Magic spells. Daring sword fights. A prince in disguise.”

“I definitely figured him out in chapter three,” he replies, amused, and puts a bookmark in before he closes the book. “Everything okay, Thorne?”

I sigh, sort of hating how he can see right through me. “Have you seen my phone? I thought I left it in my car, but apparently not.”

“You lost your phone?”

“Don’t act so surprised. It’s old! It’s better as a paperweight, so I just don’t really use it unless I have to.”

He cocks his head. “Huh, so that’s why you never asked for my number.”

“What?”

Instead he says, “Maybe someone at school will turn it in.”

“Maybe,” I mutter, stealing a slice of apple as I make my way to the library. He grabs the plate with apple slices and follows me. “At least it’s password protected.” That I say more to myself than to him, because I still have that video on my phone—from when I first broke into the house and found Vance. I don’t want to think about how he’ll react. I’ll find my phone. I probably just lost it at school.

There’s no need to worry.

It was probably fate telling me to not text him, anyway.

I was hoping the library would ease my mind, but I still feel anxious. My heart hammers every time I catch a glance of Vance on the other side of the room, reaching for a book or flipping through another.

It’s driving me crazy.

I shouldn’t feel this weird in a place that has become my sanctuary. Am I standing properly? Is my hair doing that weird cowlick thing? Do I have anything on my face? Why does it matter?

Because, in the golden afternoon, he looks so perfect, illuminating his hair in a halo of platinum. He walks through the folds of sunlight and comes to a stop in the shadows, his cornflower eyes brilliantly bright, almost glowing. He puts his hands into his pockets and tilts his head just enough.

Just enough for a piece of hair to come undone behind his ear.

Just enough for his perfectly symmetrical countenance to shift to something quite different, almost endearing.

Just enough for my heart to thump wildly in my chest, like a jackrabbit.

I don’t understand.

“Is that all?” he asks.

“Yes,” I lie, turning away from him to boot up the iPad. There aren’t many books left to shelve. The boxes have all but disappeared, stacked empty in corners, the library filling slowly to full, like a soul waking up from a long sleep. I try to busy myself with the next set of books, the last of the cardboard boxes. When it’s done, so will be my job.

I won’t have to come here any longer after that.

Why does it make my chest hurt?

“I mean, why would you think otherwise?” I ask, my back turned to him. “Everything’s fine. I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be? We’re almost done with cataloging and all of these books have taken forever to file, you know? But I loved seeing all of the original covers for the Starfield collection and—” I turn around and find him right there, so close I have to stop myself from running into him.