Chapter 1: Secrets in the Halls of Maple Heights

At seventeen, I kept my biggest secret folded in the back pocket of my jeans—a crush so fierce it made my hands sweat every time he looked my way.

It was the kind of crush you hide like a wrinkled note tucked behind a movie stub, safe and silly, never meant for sunlight. Every time I spotted him in the Maple Heights hallways—hair a mess like he’d just rolled out of bed, all sleepy swagger—my chest would clench tight, and it felt like the whole world shrank to just us.

We always shopped the clearance rack at Walmart, and Christmas meant socks and a box of Little Debbie cakes. To buy him a birthday present, I saved up for an entire year.

Every Saturday, while the other kids blew cash on Dairy Queen Blizzards or movie tickets, I’d sneak my crumpled dollar bills into an old mason jar under my bed. No after-school slushies, no vending machine Cokes—just brown-bag PB&Js and careful counting at month’s end. Each saved dime felt like a wish, like maybe giving him something real would finally make me matter.

The day something happened to my mom, I left school early.

It was one of those thick, gray Ohio afternoons, the sky pressing down like wet wool. The school office reeked of disinfectant and old gym shoes as I grabbed my backpack, ready to bolt home—never expecting what I’d hear on the way out.

By chance, I caught Matt’s voice echoing from around the corner: “This thing? Even a third-place prize from a burger joint is better than this, right?”

My knees locked, breath snagging in my chest as if the words had punched straight through me. Their laughter carried down the tiled hallway—careless, too loud. It felt like tripping over an invisible crack, the shock knocking the air from my lungs. I hugged my books tighter, trying to steady myself, but everything sounded hollow.

His friend cackled. “I know Matt doesn’t like it. If you don’t want it, give it to me. I could sell it and get a few more hours at the arcade!”

The Route 8 arcade—everyone knew the neon-lit spot where high scores and dollar bills traded hands. They talked about my gift like it meant less than a handful of tokens. My cheeks burned, but I stood rooted, listening as they made light of something that had cost me so much.

“If you want it, take it,” Matt said, tossing the watch to him. His eyes flicked up and, for a heartbeat, met mine.

Time seemed to warp. The careless flick of his wrist, the cheap metal glinting as it spun through the air, and then those blue eyes—landing right on me. I felt stripped bare, caught eavesdropping, caught caring.

Later, at a class reunion, I heard Matt had been looking for me for eight years.

That memory stuck like a scar. People grow up, drift apart, but sometimes a rumor or a barroom whisper yanks you straight back to the day everything broke.