I thought I was fine.
I thought I could do this.
Every day, I’ve regurgitated an old memory I once swallowed as a bitter pill because every day, I’ve had to look at a carbon copy of my childhood best friend and try to act like it hasn’t affected me. My heart has finally reached its capacity for lies and can’t take any more.
Day one, I gave myself grace. I was doing okay. Better than okay under the circumstances.
I was thankful Celeste had warned me about the morning drop-off because it gave me a couple of extra minutes to prepare. I’d seen Hendricks once since I’d returned to Valentine Nook, and I could do it again. But that first time had been a blur, distorted by a torrent of emotions at a reunion after a necessary and brutally painful absence. It hadn’t been enough to commit him to memory.
The second time was.
When I left, Hendricks was a man on the verge of becoming an adult. He was strong and broad, but his muscles still had that gangly quality.
Not anymore.
Six years and Hendricks has turned into an absolute rig.
Even under his thick jumper and body warmer, it was obvious there’s a strength to him that’s come from more than just lifting weights at the gym. Hendricks has grown into his size and his width, and if the craning of my neck was anything to go by, his height. He’s taller than I remember, much taller.
Under my brief assessment, the only thing I could see that hasn’t changed was his nose. Long, strong Roman with the bump down the middle from the time he broke it playing rugby, but it has still somehowremained perfectly symmetrical with the rest of his face.
The bump offset the prettiness of his clear blue eyes, long lashes, and full mouth.
Pretty was not a word you could use now.
Where he’d always been fresh-faced, now a thick layer of dark brown scruff covered his jaw and hid the dimples he used to flash at any opportunity, much to my annoyance. He and Miles both. A hard-set mouth replaced the smile I loved so much.
Fun, sweet teenage Hendricks had owned my heart and broken it, but this guy . . . this guy? This guy could demolish it.
This guy had me slack-jawed to a mortifying degree, and the longer he held my gaze, the longer I felt like I was being stripped bare until he could see every single piece of me. Even the pieces I always kept hidden from him.
The longer we stared, the quicker everything I’d blocked out came rushing back.
But in typical Miles fashion, he ruined the moment. Or saved me. I’ve yet to decide. Because if my heartbeat stalled when it saw Hendricks, it gave up altogether when I realized the impossibly beautiful blond woman holding the hand of a familiar-looking little boy was with him.
By day two, the shock had worn off.
But when the school bell rang for the start of the day, and the blonde brought Max to school without Hendricks, sadness took over.
Sadness turned to an anger I thought I’d moved on from already. It turns out I was just sticking a Band-Aid over a bullet wound that reopened exactly a year ago, and I’ve spent the week riding the stages of grief. Thefirst four, anyway.
I can’t see myself accepting this situation any time soon, just like I refused to six years ago. This time, it’s infinitely harder.
Avoiding Hendricks is one thing, but I’m spending all day with his mini-me—Maxwell Burlington—who, I’m loath to admit, is the cutest kid I’ve ever come across.
He’s exactly like Hendricks was at his age, and it’s impossible to see anything else. I’ve tried.
Every mannerism, every smile, even his handwriting, big and round, belong to Hendricks. The eye rolls I’ve caught a couple of times are all Miles, however.
I’ve tried to laugh through it. When Celeste asks me if I’m okay, I’ve brushed it off as new-term tiredness.
The supply closet off my classroom has become a place to cry without being seen when the ache in my chest becomes too overwhelming to hold it in.
Max is a part of Hendricks’s life I know nothing about. He’s a living, breathing reminder of why I ran away.
Max is proof that I left Hendricks standing alone by the fountain. Proof we lived the past six years without sharing every single detail like we used to. Without sharing anything.
Hendricks moved on, and I onlythoughtI did.
