LOVELORNED

: Chapter One The Boy in the Rain The first time I saw Caleb Reed, he was ruining a perfectly good letterman jacket. It was October. Chicago cold. The kind of rain that doesn’t fall, it stings. Everyone else was running to their cars in the Ridgewood High parking lot. He was sitting on the curb. Alone. Hoodie soaked through. Head in his hands. Shoulders shaking. Caleb Reed. Football captain. 4.0 GPA. The boy whose face was on every "Homecoming King" poster. Crying like nobody was watching. I should’ve kept walking. That’s what Ridgewood taught us. Don’t get involved. Don’t be the weird new girl. But my sister Lily used to say, “Maya, if you see someone drowning, you throw them a rope. Even if you’re tired.” Lily wasn’t here anymore to throw ropes. So I did it for her. I opened my umbrella. The stupid one with the red target on it that my mom said was "too loud." And I sat down next to him. Two feet of space between us. The rain hit the umbrella and made this sound like drums. He didn’t look at me. “Go away,” he muttered. His voice was rough, like he’d been screaming. “No,” I said. “Are you deaf?” “Probably. My sister used to say I only hear what I want to.” That made him look up. Green eyes. Red. Swollen. He was beautiful in the way broken things are beautiful. Like a cracked vase that still holds water. “Who are you?” he asked. “Maya Johnson. I’m new.” “I know.” He wiped his face with his sleeve. “You’re the girl whose sister died.” Oh. Right. News travels fast in a small town. “Yeah,” I said. “And you’re the boy who has everything.” A bitter laugh. “Doesn’t feel like it.” We sat there for 20 minutes. We didn’t talk. The rain did the talking for us. When it slowed down, he finally stood. Water dripped off him. “Thanks,” he said. “For not leaving.” “Thanks for not telling me to leave again,” I said. He almost smiled. Almost. Then he walked away. Into the parking lot. Into the crowd. Like it never happened. I thought that would be it. I was wrong. The next day, there was an envelope in my locker. Green. No name. Just my locker number written in messy handwriting. Inside was one sentence, written in black ink: Meet me at the curb. 3:15. Please. And that’s how I met the boy who would break me. And maybe... save me too. TO BE CONTINUED...