Page 152 of The Revenge Game

The magnitude of my loss hits me fresh. I will have to spend the rest of my life coping with what I did to him, how I hurt him. Coping without him by my side.

But then he clicks through to the next presentation slide, and his voice cuts through my spiral of self-recrimination.

“Most Likely to Stay Together Forever: Justin Morris and Madeline Birwood.”

On the projector screen, Teenage Justin and Teenage Maddie look like they stepped straight out of a teen movie casting call—the golden quarterback with his arm possessively around the pretty cheerleader’s waist, their matching smiles as practiced as their respective game-day routines. Looking at Teenage Justin’s carefully calculated grin, all I can see is the mask he wore, how hard he must have been working to maintain that picture-perfect facade. It’s like looking at a stranger wearing the face of someone I love.

“This one definitely needs some adjusting,” Justin says, pulling out a digital pen. “Sorry, Maddie, I think you’ve moved on, so I need to change this.”

On his screen, he crosses out Madeline Birwood with a flourish.

But he doesn’t stop there. Instead, in his slanty handwriting, he writes in another name.

Andrew Yates.

My breath leaves me in a rush like someone’s just executed a force-quit on all my vital functions.

Most Likely to Stay Together Forever: Justin Morris and Andrew Yates.

The words are blazed across the projector screen for everyone to see.

My cheeks feel all tingly as carbon dioxide takes over in my blood. I force myself to take a deep breath and then another, desperately pumping oxygen into my body so I don’t black out.

Because I don’t want to miss a second of this moment.

He’s written my name.

He’s forgiving me.

He’s claiming me.

Justin’s eyes find me at the back of the gymnasium. I can’t look at anything but him.

“I love you, Andrew Yates,” he says in his confident, class-president voice.

There’s shuffling in the crowd as people turn to look at me. I’m not sure what they see. A guy on the verge of fainting, probably.

But I don’t care what they see. Because that’s not important. What’s important is what Justin sees when he looks at me.

And Justin is on the move now, leaving the podium and heading down the stairs of the stage, his eyes not leaving mine.

The crowd parts like the Red Sea. Well, if the Red Sea was wearing varying degrees of business casual and filming everything on their phones.

I stand there, seeing him walk toward me like I’m watching a moment from someone else’s life unfold in slow motion.

And Justin is right in front of me now, all soft cream sweater and those gorgeous eyes that don’t leave mine.

“I love you,” he says again.

My legs are weak, and I lock my knees to stay upright. The fluorescent gym lights suddenly seem too bright, too sharp, like someone’s cranked up the contrast on reality.

“I love you too,” I manage to say shakily.

And apparently, a public declaration of love is not enough for Justin because he’s moving forward to place his lips on mine.

It’s our first kiss since he found out who I really am.

It’s a kiss that feels like both an apology and a promise.