Prom day.
My body practically hums with excitement. I can't even erase what happened last night—what wassupposedto happen—out of my head. The almost-kiss. The way Zach looked at me like I wasn't justbest friend Carolinebut... something else. Somethingmore.
And I'm sorry, but guys don't look like they're about to kiss you if all they see is friendship. Right? Right?
I roll around in my bed, hugging my pillow and kicking my feet like an absolute maniac. Today feels different. Like everything is about to change. I can feel it in my bones, in my heartbeat, in every cell of my lovesick body.
I crank Taylor Swift on my speaker—Enchanted, duh—and hum along while scribbling in my diary. Okay, fine, not scribbling. More like squealing and giggling every five seconds like a deranged Disney sidekick.
But can you blame me?
My life is finally aligning exactly how I pictured it in my delusional fantasies.
If last night was real—and Iknowit was—then Zach and I are finally about to level up. Best friends to boyfriend-girlfriend. Before graduation. Which is literally less than a month away. Then? Ridgewater U. Together. Our shared dream. The rest of our lives starting this fall.
And it's not just me living in dreamland. Zach's already ending senior year on the highest note imaginable. Two months ago, he led Everglades High to theUSA Hockey High School National Championship, skating off with the trophy and another banner for the school.
Everyone's still hyped about it—posters, announcements, the wholeNatty Champsglory tour. He was the star, the captain, the guy who delivered what no one else could. Basically, he's already peaked—and I'm right here, part of the story.
See? Everything's falling perfectly into place.
I hop into the shower, singing at the top of my lungs because yes, I am That Girl today. After, I fix my hair, fluff it a little, swipe on some gloss, and then... my eyes catch in the mirror.
My fingers immediately reach for the heart necklace Zach gave me.
The locket feels warm against my skin, like it's been absorbing my heartbeat all night. I touch it gently, tracing its outline, and bam—there go my insides again, melting into sugary goo.
He got this for me. Thought of me. Asked me to prom properly.
Zach Westbrook, hockey superstar, my best friend, my almost-first-kiss last night, my soon-to-be boyfriend (probably, hopefully, please God).
I sigh, smiling at my reflection like the fool I am. "Tonight's the night," I whisper to myself.
In just a few hours, Mom's going to drag me into full-on prom prep mode—hair, makeup, nails, the whole sparkly shebang. Which means this is literally theonlywindow of time I have to do something important.
Give Zach his boutonniere.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I was supposed to hand it to him last night. But excuse me for being a little preoccupied with...youknow... almost kissing my best friend in the middle of a very cliché rom-com setup.
Boutonnieres weren't exactly on my mind when his face was two inches from mine.
So now, here I am, scarfing down brunch like I'm in some eating contest, then yanking open the fridge to grab the tiny white box I shoved in there yesterday. Inside: one perfectly fresh boutonniere, carefully picked out just for Zach.
I hurry back upstairs, the box clutched to my chest like it's a crown jewel, and head straight for my balcony. My pulse is already racing, and I haven't even stepped onto the bridge yet.
The bridge. Our stupid little connecting bridge. I've crossed it a million times since we were kids, but right now it feels like a tightrope strung over a canyon with no net. Every step makes my heart beat faster, louder, like it wants Zach to hear me coming before I even get there.
What am I supposed to say to him?
"Hey, here's a flower to stab on your chest, oh and by the way, did you also feel like the universe tilted last night when our faces almost collided, or was that just me being delusional again?"
Ugh.
I shake my head, cheeks burning just at the thought. Every time I replay that almost-kiss—and believe me, it's been on repeat every five seconds since it happened—I feel like my whole face turns tomato red.
The worst part? I'm not even exaggerating.
But whatever. Boutonniere first, sanity later.
