Chapter 1
My first impression of Elaine Carter was on an afternoon in our senior year.
It was the day I'd planned to confess.
I'd liked Dean Wright for two years. He'd been sitting in front of me since our first year.
Every time he turned around to borrow an eraser, my heart would start racing. When he played basketball, I brought him water. When he was on duty, I helped out. When he got sick, I'd sneak cold medicine into his desk.
It was for two years. Over four hundred days. I never actually said I liked him, but I thought he knew.
Or so I assumed.
On that day, I finally worked up the nerve. I wrote him a letter, folded it into a heart, stuffed it in my pocket, planning to slip it to him after school.
Then I saw Elaine.
She was standing at the end of the corridor, leaning against the railing, half-turned. Sunlight hit her face just right and she looked like she'd stepped straight out of a magazine.
She was watching Dean.
I recognized that look at once.
I saw it in the mirror every single day.
*****
I stood there, frozen, my hand in my pocket, my fingers nervously rubbing the corner of the love letter.
Elaine was the grade's heartthrob, beautiful, wealthy, and top of the class. Guys would gossip about her, and girls secretly tried to imitate her style.
Her desk was always overflowing with love letters. She got chocolates every week. And on Valentine's Day, her seat was buried in gifts.
I'd never talked to her.
It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to her. I simply never had the chance. She was the moon high above, and I was nothing but mud beneath her feet.
But I never imagined the moon would fall for the same guy I did.
That afternoon, I stood at one end of the hallway for ages, watching her at the other end. Her eyes were gentle as she looked at Dean.
Then I turned and walked away.
I tore up the love letter.
*****
A week later, Dean confessed.
But it wasn't to me.
It was to Elaine.
During the class break, Dean stood outside their classroom, holding a bouquet of flowers, and told her he liked her in front of everyone.
I stood by the stairwell, watching from across the hallway. I saw the bouquet, his flushed face, and her surprised expression.
Elaine took the bouquet from Dean, accepting his confession.
She smiled and said, "Thank you."
The crowd burst into cheers. There were whistles, applause, and shouts of "Be together!"
I turned away and made my way down to the track, starting to run laps.
By the time I hit my third lap, tears were streaming down my face.
It wasn't that Dean didn't like me. What hurt was that I was the one who came first.
I was the one who liked Dean first. I was the one who brought him water. I was the one who slipped cold medicine under his desk.
How come Elaine got everything without doing anything?
From that day on, I started pretending Elaine didn't exist.
It wasn't hate. I was being salty.
I was salty that she didn't have to do anything, and people would still hand her the whole world. I was bitter that even though she already had everything, she still had to steal the last bit of light from me.
I dodged her all through senior year.
If I saw her coming during breaks, I'd go out of my way to avoid her. If she was behind me in the cafeteria, I'd bail. On graduation photo day, she was front and center, and I was way in the back, off to the side. When the photographer yelled "cheese," I didn't crack a smile.
I figured after graduation, we'd go our own ways and I'd never have to see her again.
But I was wrong.
After graduation, I ended up at a local college and started working in ops at a tech company.
My desk was by the window, looking out over the eternally jammed Blanchard Avenue. I was barely scraping by, with rent eating up half my paycheck. And on nights when I worked late, I'd just crash on the office floor.
Life was neither sweet nor bitter, just bland.
I'd muted the class group chat ages ago, but sometimes I'd peek in. Someone was getting married, someone got a promotion, someone bought a house. I'd quietly exit the chat and go back to fiddling with my PowerPoint.
Elaine was in the group chat too.
Her profile picture was still that same side profile, sunlight falling across her face. She looked like she could be on a magazine cover.
Every so often, someone would tag her, asking: [Elaine, how have you been?], [Elaine, are you back yet?], [Elaine, when are we meeting up?]
She'd reply once in a while, always polite, never saying much.
I never tagged her.
It wasn't that I disliked her. I simply never knew what to say.
She was everyone's favorite, and I was invisible. Five years out of school, nothing about that had changed.
Sometimes, after working late and dragging myself back to my 1500-dollars-a-month shoebox, I'd lie there and my mind would drift back to that afternoon years ago.
She stood at the end of the hallway, sunlight washing over her face, her gaze as gentle.
She was watching Dean.
She liked Dean.
She had it all, but she still had to steal the guy I liked.
Every time that thought crossed my mind, I'd put my phone face down and turn over to sleep.
*****
The class reunion invite came from the class president, Charles Poole.
It was on a Saturday night, at a pizza spot on Blanchard Avenue.
I stared at the message, debating for ages whether I should go.
I didn't want to go.
But Charles DM'd me three times: [Come on, it's been ages. Everyone wants to see you.]
After a pause, I replied, [Okay.]
Saturday night at 6:30, I walked in wearing my company hoodie and the canvas bag I'd carried for three years, pushing open the door to the private room at the pizza spot.
The room was already full of people, all sitting in a circle.
I spotted Elaine instantly.