Page 3

3

MADISON

T hankfully, the rest of my day goes by without another class with Jaxon.

I don't see him once I get back from having lunch at my apartment, or on my way to the admin offices. It's a long shot, but I am really hoping to switch into a different Algebra 111 class.

As I round the corner towards admissions, I run into a wall made of solid muscle.

"Easy there, turbo." Looking up, I see a familiar face: Carter Hayes, quarterback for the PCU football team and my occasional escape from reality.

We've hooked up a few times, nothing serious. He knew the score: no strings, no expectations. After a while, our physical connection fizzled into more of an easy friendship, giving me a much needed shoulder to lean on.

I plaster on a smile, grateful for the distraction. "Sorry about that. I was in my own little world."

He grins, his blue eyes twinkling. "No worries. I'm always happy to catch you."

It would be so easy to lose myself in Carter, just like always, to use him as a shield against the emotions seeing Jaxon stirs up. Surely not a healthy coping mechanism, but I’m in survival mode at this point .

"What brings you to this neck of the woods?" I ask, leaning against the wall.

Carter shrugs, his broad shoulders stretching his t-shirt in all the right ways. I never said he wasn't easy on the eyes. His sandy blond hair and blue eyes scream trouble. "Just turning in some paperwork for the athletic department. You?"

"Trying to switch classes," I admit. "Turns out, Algebra 111 isn't my jam. Again."

"Math's never been my strong suit either.” He chuckles, running a hand through his hair. “There's a party at the Sigma house tonight. You should come. You know, blow off some steam."

I bite my lip, considering. Having a few drinks and losing myself for a bit may be exactly what the doctor ordered after today's events. But what if Jaxon is there too?

"Maybe," I say noncommittally. "I'll see how I'm feeling later."

Carter leans in closer, his voice dropping low. "Come on, Maddy. It'll be fun. Plus, I missed you over the summer."

"Okay," I find myself saying. "I'll be there."

Carter's grin widens. "Great. I'll see you tonight then."

"Hey," I call, stopping him before he can get too far. "Why didn't you say anything about the new football transfer?"

His brow furrows in confusion. "Montgomery? He entered the transfer portal at the literal last second. I'm still shocked we got him. I think we found out a day or so before camp started. Why?”

"Just curious. I'll see you tonight." I wave him off, more confused now than when I asked in the first place.

As I watch him walk away, I can't help but wonder what pulled Jaxon here. The last I'd heard, he was tearing up the field at Michigan State, projected to be a first-round draft pick this year. Why would he risk that to come to PCU, a school with a decent football program but nowhere near the national spotlight of MSU? It doesn't make any sense, unless...

No . I shut that thought down before it can fully form. There's no way he'd transfer schools to be closer to me, not after how things ended between us, after I walked away without a proper goodbye. I mean, shit, I didn’t even tell him I wasn’t going, and I definitely haven’t replied to any of his texts over the last three years.

Shaking off the guilt, I push through the doors to the administration office, only to find a line stretching nearly to the door. Great. Just what I need—more time alone with my thoughts.

I take my place at the end of the line, pulling out my phone to keep listening to my audiobook, anything to distract myself from the memory of Jaxon's eyes across the classroom. The way he'd looked at me—it was like he'd been searching for me, like finding me was the only thing that mattered.

An hour later, I walk out of the administration building, frustration simmering under my skin. No luck with the class transfer—apparently, there are no openings in any other sections of Algebra 111. I'm stuck with Jaxon Montgomery three days a week for the entire semester.

By the time I make it back to my apartment, I'm exhausted, both physically and emotionally. I drop my bag by the door and collapse on the couch, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes.

"So," Lyla prompts, dropping down beside me and tucking her feet under her. "What happened? Did you get to switch classes?"

I shake my head, taking another sip. "Nope. I'm officially stuck."

"With a hot football player from your past?" She raises an eyebrow, her lips curving into a knowing smile. "Such a hardship."

"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat behind it. "It's more complicated than that."

"Most things worth having are," she says with a shrug, reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear in a surprisingly tender gesture. "You want to talk about it?"

For a split second, I consider telling her everything I left out before. How he was the only guy I ever had real feelings for. How I applied to a college I didn’t even want to go to, just to tag along with my best friend. How I was humiliated when I got the letter saying I hadn’t been accepted to Michigan State, so instead, I stayed in Bella Vista to attend community college before coming to PCU, breaking my own heart in the process.

But the words stick in my throat. Even now, years later, the memory of that night still stings, too vulnerable of a thought to share.

"Not really," I say instead. "But I could use a distraction. Carter invited me to a party at Sigma tonight. You in?"

Lyla's eyes light up. "Hell yes. I'm in, as long as you don’t bail—though I'm not sure a party with your ex-booty-call-turned-friend is really a 'distraction' from your problems."

I roll my eyes. "Carter isn't a problem. He's easy. Uncomplicated."

"If you say so," she says, clearly unconvinced. "But if we're going out, you need to shower. You smell like anxiety and desperation."

I flip her off, but there's a smile playing on my lips. This is what I need right now—Lyla's particular brand of brutal honesty mixed with genuine care. She might be the only person on campus who can pull me out of my own head.

I step out of the shower later that evening, the steam slowly dissipating as I wrap myself in a towel and head to my dresser. I catch my reflection in the mirror, my eyes instantly going to the scars around my left shoulder and collarbone, and suddenly, I’m no longer standing in my bathroom.

The stench of whiskey fills the car, thick and suffocating. It clings to my clothes, burns my nose, makes my stomach churn.

“Dad, slow down.” My voice is tight, barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the tense air like a knife.

He ignores me, gripping the wheel too tight, knuckles white in the glow of the dashboard. The engine growls as he presses the gas harder, sending us flying down the winding back road .

I press myself against the passenger door, fingers digging into the armrest. I should’ve known better than to get in the car with him. I should’ve just let him scream at me from the driveway like all the other times.

“Selfish,” he mutters, slurring the word, his grip tightening. “You think you’re better than me? Just like your mother.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. Don’t engage. Don’t make it worse.

The tires screech as he swerves, barely correcting the wheel in time. My heart lurches into my throat. “Dad, please ? —”

He slams a fist against the dashboard, making me jump. “You don’t tell me what to do, girl.”

The road blurs past us, dark and endless, the headlights barely cutting through the night. We shouldn’t be out here. Not like this. Not when he’s like this.

But he wouldn’t let me leave.

I told him I was going to Jaxon’s, that I wasn’t waiting around for him to start yelling at ghosts again.

He grabbed my wrist and dragged me toward the car, saying if I wanted to leave so badly, fine. He’d drive.

I should’ve fought harder, should’ve run.

The speedometer creeps past 80.

“Dad, stop!” My voice cracks. I reach for the wheel, desperate, but he jerks it away.

“Get your hands off!” His words are thick, mangled. The car sways violently as he swats my arm away, his attention off the road for one second ? —

One second too long.

The headlights catch movement. A sign—sharp curve ahead.

Everything slows.

He sees it too late.

The tires scream as he wrenches the wheel. The car skids, fishtails—my seatbelt locks against my chest.

I throw my hands up, bracing ? —

Impact.

Metal shrieks as the world flips sideways. My head slams against the window. My breath rips from my lungs as gravity twists, tangles, rips me loose. Glass shatters. Pain erupts everywhere at once.

We hit something hard. Everything stops.

Silence.

I can’t move, can’t breathe. My head throbs, my vision swims. Smoke curls through the wreckage. A distant ringing fills my ears. I gasp, sucking in air, lungs burning. Dad.

I turn my head—pain lashes through me. My left side feels as if it’s on fire. My hand trembles as I reach out.

He’s slumped over the wheel, unmoving.

“Dad?” My voice is barely there.

No response.

A gasp leaves me, and I grab the counter hard, almost to the point of pain, to bring me out of the memory of the night I lost my father to the bottle, for good. My glance drops to the faded photographs of Jaxon and me, memories still clinging to the surface like desperate reminders of a past I can't fully escape.

There we are—smiling, carefree, a decade younger, and a world away from the guarded, broken person I am now. The images spark an internal battle: a part of me longs to let someone in, to believe that maybe I'm worthy of happiness and love, yet another part recoils in terror, convinced I could never truly have it.

I start pulling out an outfit for tonight's party, my hands touching one hanger after another. Nothing in my closet is speaking to me, so I settle on my trusty pair of skinny jeans and an oversized shirt I took some scissors to when I was bored one evening. It’s basic but sexy, showing off my body in all the right places but covering enough so I don’t feel self-conscious about my scars from the accident.

Since working out has been the most helpful thing for my mental health, I've been hyper fixated on it for the last couple of years. Now, I have the body high school me could only dream about.

As I finish getting ready, I hear a knock on my bedroom door. It's Lyla, right on time, as usual.

"Hey, girl. You ready?" she calls out.

"Just a sec!" I yell back, hastily applying some mascara and lip gloss.

I open the door to find Lyla looking stunning in a tight red dress and chunky combat boots. She gives me a once-over and grins. "Damn, bitch. You're gonna turn some heads tonight."

I roll my eyes. "Yeah, right. Let's just go and get this over with."

"Not with that attitude," she scolds, stepping into my room and closing the door behind her. "You look hot as hell, but you need to at least pretend you want to be there."

"I don't want to be there," I remind her. "I'm only going because I need a distraction, a good moment of disassociation."

Lyla snorts, leaning against my dresser. “I thought that’s what your book boyfriends were for?” I narrow my eyes, and she sighs, grabbing my favorite body mist before spritzing herself down. "Look, I get seeing Jaxon today threw you for a loop, but this could be a good thing, you know? Maybe it's time you actually deal with whatever happened between you two instead of burying it."

I shoot her a look. "I thought you were my friend, not my therapist."

"I'm both," she says, unphased. "Plus, I’m your buffer tonight, so be nice to me."

Despite myself, a smile tugs at my lips. Lyla's always had a way of piercing through my defenses without making me feel exposed. It's why we've stayed roommates for so long—she pushes me when I need it, but she also knows when to back off.

"Fine," I concede. "But if he's there tonight, promise me you won't try to play matchmaker."

Lyla holds up her hand, three fingers raised in a mock salute. "Scout's honor."

"You were never a Scout."

"Semantics." She waves dismissively before linking her arm through mine. "Now, let's go get drunk so you forget about your newly complicated love life for a few hours."

If I hadn’t brought up the party in the first place, I'd be curled up on the couch in my sweats, binge-watching some comfort show for the hundredth time. Maybe I’d be buried under a blanket with a book, pretending like my mind isn’t racing with thoughts I have no business thinking.

Thoughts about him.

I shove aside the idea before it can take root, before I’m reminded how much easier it was when I could convince myself I didn't care.

Tonight is supposed to be a distraction, a few hours of noise and bodies and forced smiles. A night to stand next to Lyla, nodding along as she flirts, pretending like I don't feel like an imposter in my own skin.

But even as we step out the door, even as I steel myself for the chaos ahead, I already know?—

There's only one set of brown eyes I'll be looking for in that crowd.

And I hate myself for it.