Melinda’s POV
We agreed to meet at a park.
Neutral ground.
No school.
No house.
Just a bench under a jacaranda tree, shade falling soft and purple around the edges.
River wore black jeans, a gray hoodie, and headphones pushed back around their neck. They looked both younger and older than twelve — that strange, in-between place where childhood and defiance live side by side.
They stood before I did.
Hands in pockets.
Expression unreadable.
“You’re Melinda Holt,” they said.
I nodded. “And you’re River.”
They gave a small shrug. “Today I am.”
I smiled.
We sat.
There was a beat of silence.
Then River said, “I Googled you.”
I laughed softly. “Did you like what you found?”
“No.”
That stopped me.
They didn’t say it with spite.
Or judgment.
Just honesty.
“I don’t like stori
