I'm not the best with names. I can meet someone ten times and still not remember their name; however, I'll remember details like where they went on vacation, how many pets they have—heck, I might even remember their pets' names. But their name...forget it. And right now, that particular fail is driving me absolutely insane.
He laughs at something Hollis says, and my eyes snap back up to his face. The sound is warm and genuine, and I hate how my pulse quickens in response. There's something so achingly familiar about the way his eyes crinkle at the corners, the tilt of his head, but I can't place it. It's like having a word on the tip of your tongue that refuses to surface, except a thousand times worse because now I'm staring like some kind of creeper while simultaneously wanting to march over there and demand he explain why he neededthose specificveggie sticks when there were other snacks available.
"Earth to Asha." Emma waves her hand in front of my face. "Are we going to sit or what?"
"Yeah, sorry," I say. "Wherever you want to sit is fine," I add, my frustration building at the stranger across the room for being annoyingly attractive, and at myself for caring about stupid vegetable sticks, but mostly at my brain for failing me. Because something tells me that remembering where I know him from is important.
Emma glances toward the corner where the dance team sits and then rolls her eyes before choosing a table right beside the exit. She falls squarely into the "silver spoons." Her parents shipped her and Eldridge off to Ridgewood, not because they needed the education, but because it was wheretheyhad attended school. For years, Emma had been the perfect little legacy student, following in her mother's footsteps by joining the dance team, and debate club because that’s what her father had done. A carefully curated path, but last year she torched it all, quit dance, and joined Key Club instead. That act of rebellion was where our friendship started.
I had seen her around school before the great Emma Morrison reinvention. We'd shared classes, but she was always surrounded by her dance team satellites, all blonde highlights and matching everything. I've never had any interest in breaking into those social circles, especially not that one. Socializing with kids my own age isn't my thing anyway. I'm not shy; I just refuse to wade into the exhausting politics that come with belonging to any group. I'm too busy grinding through advanced classes, padding my volunteer hours, and building the kind of college resume that might actually get me somewhere. But post-rebellion, Emma made herself impossible to ignore.
"Are you ever going to tell me what happened between you and your team?"
We are walking contradictions as friends. She is the quintessential Malibu Barbie brought to life, blonde hair, blue eyes, flawless cream complexion that has never known a blemish, and a bubbly personality. I, on the other hand, am all dark angles: long black hair that refuses to hold a curl, dark eyes, and toffee-colored skin that doesn't fade with the seasons. Most people mistake my seriousness for being cold, maybe even cruel. I know exactly what they call me behind my back, and I've made peace with not caring. The only thing Emma and I have in common when it comes to looks is our chests. We both bloomed early.
"I already told you," she mumbles, tearing off a giant piece of bread and shoving it in her mouth like she's trying to physically block the conversation. "Nothing. I quit. End of story."
I nod, letting the silence stretch between us. The way she won't meet my eyes tells me everything I need to know about that particular lie. People don't usually quit a team and lose all their friends as well. You don't just choose a table next to the exit because you lost interest in herkies and competition.
We've gotten pretty close over the past year and a half, spending most of our free time volunteering together, hunched over textbooks in the library until they kick us out, and planning our once-a-month escapes into the city. I've let those countless hours of shared secrets and inside jokes fool me into thinking there were no walls left between us. But her casual brush-off is a sobering slap of reality, reminding me of the truth I keep forgetting: everyone has a vault where they lock away the pieces of themselves too sharp or too damaged to share. Even Emma, with her sunshine personality and apparent openness, keeps her darkest corners carefully guarded.
I take a bite of my sandwich, chewing slowly as my armor slides back into place, because this is the lesson I should havelearned by now. Trust is just another word for the moment before inevitable disappointment.
I can't get my stupid locker open. The combination dial keeps slipping in my damp hands from the milkshake I had to grab after last period, a free "welcome back to school" treat from the faculty. As the hallway starts to clear out, I'm starting to regret taking it. I just want to grab my chemistry book and get out of here so I can change. Finally, it clicks open, and I grab my stuff.
"Practice is behind Hill House across from the library today, right?"
That voice. I freeze with my hand still on my textbook. It's loud and deep, and something in its tone is familiar. I peer over my shoulder, and sure enough, it belongs to the same guy who scored my veggie sticks, the boy with the eerily familiar face that I haven't quite been able to place, a detail that's infested my mind since lunch. I haven't been able to focus on a single word spoken in any of my classes since.
"Yeah, it's the same field we practiced on during summer warm-ups," one of the guys from the polo team says as he squeezes his shoulder. "I'll walk with you."
He's talking with the guys, not being obnoxious, cocky, or arrogant like most jocks. In fact, he's not doing a damn thing to provoke me, but something about him makes my chest feel tight. Why does he seem so familiar?
I chew on the inside of my lip as he keeps walking with the team.
"I just have to grab my duffel bag out of my car," he says as Hollis finishes packing up his bag at his locker a few doors down from mine. I watch them, trying to figure out why this randois making me feel so weird. I know I haven't seen him around here. I'd remember that; I'd be able to place it. It's as if my body remembers him, even though my brain doesn't.
They head toward the exit, and I stare momentarily, transfixed by the light on the other side of the doors. I could attempt to let it go, but unfortunately, my brain doesn't work that way. If it did, I would forget about this creepy feeling and go home. But something won't let me.
I grab my strawberry milkshake, close my locker, and follow them. Maybe something will click into place.
I try to keep a non-stalkerish distance behind them as I follow them through the parking lot, even though stalking is exactly what I'm doing. They're droning on about polo and the first match this weekend, and my heart starts racing when I hear him say, “Yeah, I grew up on a ranch. Just because I haven’t been playing polo since I was old enough to ride a bike doesn’t mean I don’t know my way around a horse.”
My heart starts beating faster, and I don't even know why. He grew up on a ranch. There’s a pinch of pain in my temple, and I squeeze my eyes closed, a flicker of familiarity flashing across my mind, but it’s gone too soon, and when I open my eyes, an unmistakable dark-green Bronco is trumping every care I had about placing him. That Bronco is the exact reason my flyers were destroyed. It’s the truck responsible for the stains on my clothes, and now my mystery man is tossing his backpack into the passenger seat.
I'm closer now, closer than I was this afternoon when I saw him across the commons at lunch. At this distance, I can see everything. The way he moves. The angle of his jaw. But it’s his arm as he shoves his hand in his back pocket to grab his phone that recognition doesn’t just return, it plows into me, stealing my breath.
I don't just know him. I hate him. He ruined my life.
FRESHMAN YEAR
TRIGGER
"Crestview isn't going to know what hit them," Hollis says as I toss my backpack on the passenger seat of my Bronco and grab my phone out of my pocket. "Seriously, no one at this school can ride like you. Your mallet skills could use a little polish, but?—"
"Polish? What's wrong with the way I hold a mallet?"
I'm not trying to sound like a pompous ass, but I seriously have the biggest arms on the team, and that includes the upperclassmen. Most of these guys look like they haven't done a day of manual labor in their lives. Sure, they're in shape, but they're gym strong, not bred strong, and there's a difference.
