His eyes are so full of hurt when he drops to the pillow. “You hate me so much,” he says as he grabs my hand. His eyes fall shut again, and he releases a heavy sigh.

I stare at him silently, allowing him to keep hold of my hand until he’s quiet and still and there aren’t any more tears. I pull my hand away from his, but I stay by his side for a few minutes longer.

Even though he’s asleep, he somehow still looks as if he’s in a world of pain. His eyebrows are furrowed, and his breathing is sporadic, failing to fall into a peaceful pattern.

For the first time, I notice a faint, jagged scar, about four inches long, that runs smoothly across the entire right side of his jaw. It stops just two inches shy of his lips. I have the strange urge to touch it and run my finger down the length of it, but instead, my hand reaches up to his hair. It’s short on the sides, a little longer on the top, and just the perfect blend of brown and blond. I stroke his hair, comforting him, even though he may not deserve it.

This guy may deserve every single bit of the remorse he’s feeling for whatever he did to Rachel, but at least he’s feeling it. I have to give him that much.

Whatever he did to Rachel, at least he loves her enough to regret it.

Chapter two

MILES

Six years earlier

I open the door to the administration office and walk the roll sheet to the secretary’s desk. Before I turn and head back to class, she stops me with a question. “You’re in Mr. Clayton’s senior English class, aren’t you, Miles?”

“Yep,” I reply to Mrs. Borden. “Need me to take something to him?”

The phone on her desk rings, and she nods, picking up the receiver. She covers it with her hand. “Wait around another minute or two,” she says, nodding her head in the direction of the principal’s office. “We’ve got a new student who just enrolled, and she also has Mr. Clayton this period. I need you to show her to the classroom.”

I agree and plop down into one of the chairs next to the door. I look around the administration office and realize this is the first time in the four years I’ve been in high school that I’ve ever sat in one of these seats. Which means I’ve successfully made it four years without being sent to the office.

My mother would have been proud to know that, although it leaves me kind of disappointed in myself. Detention is something every male in high school should accomplish at least once. I have the rest of my senior year to achieve it, though, so there’s that to look forward to.

I retrieve my phone from my pocket, secretly hoping Mrs. Borden sees me with it and decides to slap me with a detention slip. When I look up at her, she’s still on the phone, but she makes eye contact with me. She simply smiles and goes about her secretarial duties.

I shake my head in disappointment and open up a text to Ian. It doesn’t take much to excite people around here. Nothing new ever happens.

Me: New girl enrolled today. Senior.

Ian: Is she hot?

Me: Haven’t seen her yet. About to walk her to class.

Ian: Take a picture if she’s hot.

Me: Will do. BTW, how many times have you had detention this year?

Ian: Twice. Why? What’d you do?

Twice? Yeah, I need to rebel it up a little before graduation. I should definitely turn in some homework late this year.

I’m pathetic.

The door to the principal’s office opens, so I close my phone. I slide it into my pocket and look up.

I never want to look down again.

“Miles is going to show you the way to Mr. Clayton’s class, Rachel.” Mrs. Borden points Rachel in my direction, and she begins to walk toward me.

I instantly become aware of my legs and their inability to stand.

My mouth forgets how to speak.

My arms forget how to reach out to introduce the person they’re attached to.

My heart forgets to wait and get to know a girl before it starts to claw its way out of my chest to get to her.

Rachel.

Rachel.

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

She’s like poetry.

Like prose and love letters and lyrics, cascading down

the

center

of

a

page.

Rachel, Rachel, Rachel.

I say her name over and over in my head, because I’m positive

it’s the name of the next girl I’ll fall in love with.

I’m suddenly standing. Walking toward her. I might

be smiling, pretending I’m not affected by those green

eyes that I hope will one day be smiling just for me. Or

that red-as-my-heart hair that doesn’t look like it’s been

tampered with since God created it specifically with her

in mind.

I’m talking to her.

I tell her my name is Miles.

I tell her she can follow me and I’ll show her the way to Mr.

Clayton’s class.

I’m staring at her because she hasn’t spoken yet, but her nod is

the nicest thing a girl has ever said to me.

I ask her where she’s from, and she tells me Arizona. “Phoenix,”

she specifies.

I don’t ask her what brought her to California, but I do tell her

my father does business in Phoenix a lot because he owns a few

buildings there.

She smiles.

I tell her I’ve never been there but I’d like to go one day.

She smiles again.

I think she says it’s a nice town, but it’s hard to understand her

words when all I hear in my head is her name.

Rachel.

I’m gonna fall in love with you, Rachel.

Her smile makes me want to keep talking, so I ask her another

question as we pass Mr. Clayton’s room.

We keep walking.

She keeps talking, because I keep asking her questions.

She nods some.

She answers some.

She sings some.

Or it sounds that way.

We get to the end of the hallway, right when she says

something about how she hopes she likes this school because

she wasn’t ready to move away from Phoenix.

She doesn’t look happy about the move.

She doesn’t know how happy I am about the move.

“Where’s Mr. Clayton’s classroom?” she asks.

I stare at the mouth that just delivered that question. Her

lips aren’t symmetrical. Her top lip is slightly thinner than

her bottom lip, but you can’t tell until she talks. When

words come out of her mouth, it makes me wonder why

words are so much better coming from her mouth than any

other mouth.

And her eyes. There’s no way her eyes aren’t seeing a prettier,

more peaceful world than all the other eyes.

I stare at her for a few more seconds; then I point behind me

and tell her we passed Mr. Clayton’s classroom.

Her cheeks grow a shade pinker, like my confession affected

her in the same way she’s affecting me.

I smile again.

I nod my head toward Mr. Clayton’s class.

We walk in that direction.

Rachel.

You’re gonna fall in love with me, Rachel.

I open the door for her and let Mr. Clayton know that Rachel

is new here. I also want to add, for the sake of all the other

guys in the classroom, that Rachel is not theirs.

She’s mine.

But I don’t say anything.

I don’t have to, because the only one who needs to be aware

that I want Rachel is Rachel.

She looks at me and smiles again, taking the only empty seat,

all the way across the room.

Her eyes tell me she already knows she’s mine.

It’s just a matter of time.

I want to text Ian and tell her she isn’t hot. I want to tell him

she’s volcanic, but he would laugh at that.

Instead, I discreetly take a picture of her from where I’m

seated.

I send the picture in a message to Ian that says, “She’s gonna

have all my babies.”

Mr. Clayton begins class.

Miles Archer becomes obsessed.

I met Rachel on Monday.

It’s Friday.

I’ve said nothing to her since the day we met. I don’t know

why. We have three classes together. Every time I see her, she

smiles at me like she wants me to talk to her. Every time I work

up the courage, I talk myself down.

I used to be confident.

Then Rachel happened.

I gave myself until today. If I didn’t work up the courage by

today, I’d be giving up my only shot with her. Girls like Rachel

aren’t available for long.

If she’s even available.

I don’t know her story or if she’s wrapped up in a guy back in

Phoenix, but there’s only one way to find out.

I’m standing next to her locker, waiting for her. She exits the

classroom and smiles at me. I say “Hi” when she walks up to

her locker. I notice that same subtle change in her skin color. I

like that.

I ask how her first week was. She tells me it was fine. I ask her

if she’s made any friends, and she shrugs as she says, “A few.”

I smell her, subtly.

She notices anyway.

I tell her she smells good.

She says, “Thank you.”

I push through the sound of my heart pounding in my

ears. I push past the sheen of moisture developing on

my palms. I drown out her name, which I keep wanting

to repeat out loud, over and over. I push it all down

and hold her stare while I ask her if she’d like to do

something later.

I keep it all pushed away and make room for her response,

because it’s the only thing I want.

I want that nod, actually. The one that doesn’t require words?

Just a smile?

I don’t get her nod.

She has plans tonight.

It all comes back tenfold, spilling over like a flood and I’m the

dam. The pounding, the sweaty palms, her name, a newfound

insecurity I never knew existed, burying itself in my chest. All

of it takes over and feels like it’s building a wall around her.

“I’m not busy tomorrow, though,” she says, obliterating the

wall with her words.

I make room for those words. Lots of room. I let them invade

me. I soak those words up like a sponge. I pluck them out of

the air and swallow them.

“Tomorrow works for me,” I say. I pull my phone out of my

pocket, not even bothering to hide my smile. “What’s your

number? I’ll call you.”

She tells me her number.

She’s excited.

She’s excited.

I save her contact in my phone, knowing it’ll be there for a

long, long time.

And I’m gonna use it.

A lot.

Chapter three

TATE

Normally, if I were to wake up, open my eyes, and see an angry man staring me down from a bedroom doorway, I might scream. I might throw things. I might run to the bathroom and lock myself inside.

I don’t do any of these things, though.

I stare back, because I’m confused about how this is the same guy who was passed out drunk in the hallway. How is this the same guy who cried himself to sleep last night?

This guy is intimidating. This guy is angry. This guy is watching me like I should be giving him an apology or explaining myself.

It is the same guy, though, because he’s wearing the same pair of jeans and the same black T-shirt he fell asleep in last night. The only difference in his appearance between last night and this morning is that he’s now able to stand up without assistance.

“What happened to my hand, Tate?”

He knows my name. Does he know it because Corbin told him I was moving in or because he actually remembers my telling him last night? I’m hoping Corbin told him, because I don’t really want him to remember last night. I suddenly feel embarrassed that he might recall my consoling him while he cried himself to sleep.

He apparently doesn’t have a clue what happened to his hand, though, so I hope that means he has no recollection of anything beyond that.

He’s leaning against my bedroom door with his arms folded across his chest. He looks defensive, like I’m the one responsible for his bad night. I roll over, still not quite finished with sleeping, even though he thinks I owe him some sort of explanation. I pull the covers over my head.

“Lock the front door on your way out,” I say, hoping he’ll take the hint that he is more than welcome to go back to his place now.