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That must be Hannah—I don’t think anyone else could give Cara that expression.

As she gets closer, I finally see what Hannah Weatherspoon looks like, and wow.

She’s gorgeous. Hannah has the exact figure I would expect from a top hockey forward—tall and strong with broad shoulders and long legs.

She’s wearing black leggings with a purple stripe down the sides and a bulky sweatshirt that says AMHERST COLLEGE on it.

Her wavy blond hair looks like a shampoo commercial, and she has perfect skin.

“There you are,” Hannah says when she reaches us. She kisses Cara senseless, practically lifting her off the ground. When Hannah and Cara finally come up for air, Hannah seems to notice me for the first time.

“Oh. You’re Saba, right?” she asks.

“It’s Sana .” I smile. “Nice to finally meet you, Hannah. Cara, we can talk about the festival later. Have fun tonight!” I wave and start heading down the street. I can do some preliminary research on my own—clearly Cara would rather be with the love of her life.

It looks like it might rain, so I inhale deeply.

I adore the smell of rain. It’s so… sultry.

It makes me think of spring flowers, moody storms, and of romance.

I wrap my pink houndstooth coat around me and, without really thinking about it, I walk past my apartment instead of going home.

I should go home—but I know Mom will be there, and I don’t really want to see her right now.

Things have been kind of weird since I overheard that conversation between Mom and Jenn.

I haven’t said anything to Mom about it, and of course she hasn’t talked to me about her business struggles.

But I wonder if there have been signs for a while that Mom’s been stressed.

She’s always been such a busy bee. Painting the apartment, canning vegetables, restoring old furniture.

She used to have friends over all the time to work on art projects or make pickles, or even just hang out.

Now she only has Jenn over, and when they are doing a project together, it’s always for either Mom’s or Jenn’s business.

I go to the park, figuring I’ll go sit on my favorite thinking bench.

LOL Park is pretty small, with a parking lot on one side, a playground on the other, and a patch of grass between them.

The playground was put in last year when the city finally agreed that the old one was a bit of a death trap.

The park is empty now. Give it another month or two, and there will be kids in the playgrounds and people walking their dogs on the winding paths at this hour.

I can’t wait—I love people-watching in the park in the summer.

As I walk on the path, I visualize what the festival could look like.

We could have a stage on the grass, some vendors selling things like flower crowns, macarons piped into hearts, and milkshakes with two straws for sharing.

And, of course, we’d get the big art installation sculpture for pictures.

Maybe that could go near the bike racks?

And, honestly, I know I said I wasn’t going to focus on my love life right now, but I can’t help thinking about how a love festival is the perfect place to find love. That would be the most epic story ever. The ultimate meet-cute.

As I get closer to the bike rack, I see a person crouched near the bikes.

Love Street, and LOL Park, are mostly safe, considering they’re smack-dab in the country’s biggest city.

But still. I’m a teenage girl alone in a park when the sun is setting, and the only person here looks like they’re getting ready to pounce on me. I should run away.

Or, more likely, this is the LOL Park bike thief, and they’re in the process of stealing a bike. Well, not on my watch, they aren’t. I’m not going to let anyone terrorize my community. I step forward and start recording the guy.

“Stop what you’re doing right now,” I say. “I’m recording you.” I move closer and zoom in with my phone until the recording is clear enough for me to make out who it is. Blue jeans and a burgundy hoodie. And messy hair.

“Miles, what are you doing? I’m telling Reggie his new bookseller is stealing bikes.”

I’m only a few feet away, so I can see his expression quite clearly as he rolls his eyes at me. “Go away, Sana. I don’t need your snark now.”

I don’t know why I’m surprised he said my first name.

Or surprised he’s pronouncing it correctly…

Sun-a instead of Saa-na the way most people say it.

Still, can’t get distracted here. He’s stealing a bike!

Is this how he got the expensive one April saw him with?

“If you don’t leave, I’m calling 911 to tell them I found the Love Street bike thief!

” I wouldn’t actually call 911, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“I’m not stealing a bike,” he says. “This is mine. I’m…” He sighs. “I’m… trying to inflate the tire with my mind.” He looks pissed. Actually, he looks dejected. Like his already terrible night is only getting worse.

I step closer to Miles. The bike he’s crouching in front of looks new and shiny. Also, the tire is very flat.

“Go ahead. Call the police on me,” he says.

“Why would I do that now? You said it’s your bike.”

“Yeah, but you clearly don’t like me.”

I shake my head. “Dude, you’re Brown. Do you really think I’d turn you over to the police unless I’m absolutely positive you’re actually committing a crime? And even then I might not.”

He huffs a laugh, then looks back down at the tire. After a few seconds, he drops to the ground, his butt falling onto the dirt surrounding the bike rack.

“Are y-you…?” I stutter. “I mean, do you need help?”

“Not unless you have a tire pump in that bag of yours. Actuall…” He stands and briefly brushes the dust off his rear end. And I can’t help it—I look. He’s got a nice rear end. He then leans down to unlock the bike. “Do you know if the gas station on Gerrard has air?”

“That station is, like, miles away. You’re going to walk the bike all the way there?”

He looks at me. “I don’t have much of a choice. I can’t afford a cab.” His statement is punctuated by a loud rumble in the air. Thunder.

So… the rich kid from the suburbs has money troubles?

“It’s going to rain,” I say. I’m not sure why I’m stating the obvious…

I sound like I’m rubbing it in that he’s going to be stuck walking a bike with a flat tire on a busy road during a thunderstorm.

“C’mon,” I say, motioning him toward me.

“My place is about a minute from here. I have a bike pump.”

He looks like he’s about to say no, when another loud thunder rumbles.

“Look, it’s about to rain, so I’m going home. You can come, or not come. I do have a bike pump and a covered balcony.”

He exhales right as the first drop of rain falls. “Okay. Lead the way.”

It’s raining hard by the time we’re at the end of the park. My rayon dress is sticking to my legs, and I can feel my hair getting stringier with each step. I don’t bother to check whether Miles is actually following me when I start running toward the flower shop.

When I get there, he’s right behind me, holding on to his bike and looking like a drowned rat.

His hair is in wavy clumps around his head, and his sweatshirt is so saturated that it looks nearly black.

I motion for him to follow me down the narrow alley between Morgan Ashton Flowers and the empanada shop.

Behind the flower shop is a small car pad where the flower shop delivery van is parked next to the wood stairs up to my balcony.

“Carry your bike up there,” I say loudly. He nods, then effortlessly lifts his bike and climbs the stairs. I follow.

The balcony of our apartment is big—almost as big as the apartment itself.

Well, not really, but it’s at least as big as my bedroom and Mom’s combined.

Mom had a friend who’s into metalworking help her build a corrugated aluminum roof covering about a third of it.

He also built a metalwork grid bolted to the wall.

That’s where Mom and I lock our own bikes to protect them from the elements.

I yell at Miles to put his bike there, then use my key to unlock the back door and motion him into the apartment after me.

The back door opens into the kitchen, which is good, because at least we’re dripping onto the linoleum instead of the wood floors in the rest of the place.

I don’t see Mom. Maybe she went out with friends.

I’m kind of glad she’s not here to see me inviting Miles into our place.

Not that she’d have an issue with me having a boy alone in the apartment, because that’s totally not her style.

But… I don’t know. I don’t want anyone, even my own mother, to have an opinion on what’s happening here.

And what exactly is happening here? The balcony is a little noisy, but it’s dry. I could just pass him the bike pump and leave him to it. But here he is, in my house. I don’t know if my kindness has anything to do with how cute I find him.

But if I think about it more… maybe it’s what he said out there in the park—that he couldn’t afford a cab despite his expensive watch and bike.

There’s clearly more to Miles than what’s on the surface.

And he’s now a part of the Love Street community.

We help out our neighbors here. Even when they’re supremely annoying.

“I hate rain,” he finally says after we’ve been staring at each other awkwardly for several long seconds.

“I love it,” I say.

He smiles kind of fondly. “Why does that not surprise me?”