Chapter 4: Penny

The classroom’s already almost full by the time I slip inside.

The buzz of half-awake conversations, the scrape of chairs on tile, the thud of overstuffed backpacks hitting the floor—none of it slows down for me. I tug the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder and scan for an open seat.

There’s only one.

Middle row, second from the end.

Next to a guy who looks familiar in the way most of Tyler’s teammates do—broad shoulders, school sweatshirt, ball cap turned backward like he came straight from some heroic sports montage.

Jonathan, I think.

Maybe.

I slide into the seat, trying not to make a sound. He glances up from his notebook, gives me a quick, easy smile—the kind that says hey, I’m a nice person, you can sit here without regretting it—then turns back to whatever he’s halfheartedly scribbling.

No mockery. No Rebecca-level sneers. No drama.

It’s… weirdly disarming.

I stare at the front of the room, where the professor’s already launching into an explanation about comparative essays like we’re all desperate to know. My notebook stays closed on my desk. My pen stays unused. My brain refuses to click into gear.

I hate this feeling.

I hate when my day starts bad.

I can never quite turn it around. It’s like getting shoved off balance first thing and then tripping over everything else for the next twelve hours. I want to focus. I want to forget Rebecca and Zoe and the weird, prickling disappointment still sticking to my ribs after talking to Tyler.

I shouldn’t be mad at Tyler.

I know that.

He was just trying to help Zoe. He didn’t ask her to stand there and laugh at me. He didn’t know.

Still.

Still.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and focus hard on a spot on the wall, willing the memories to come softer this time.

Tyler.

When we first met, it had been easy.

Stupidly easy.

He moved into the neighborhood just before spring semester last year. His parents bought the old white house three streets over, the one with the broken porch swing and the peeling blue shutters. I remember biking past it and seeing the boxes stacked on the lawn, the way his mom stood on the porch shouting instructions at the movers like a general.

And Tyler.

Leaning against the doorframe, baseball cap pulled low, headphones tangled around his neck, a little sunburnt like he hadn’t figured out the Florida sun wasn’t a joke.

He smiled when he caught me staring.

Not the cocky kind of smile. Not the practiced one I’d learned to avoid in boys.

Something softer.

Almost shy.

It didn’t take long after that. A few “accidental” run-ins at the grocery store, a few bike rides to nowhere, and then it just… happened.

We started hanging out the way people start breathing after being underwater too long.

At first, he didn’t know anyone. It was just him and me and the sleepy sidewalks of our neighborhood stretching out like they were built for us.

But it didn’t stay that way.

Tyler made friends fast. Coaches practically climbed over each other to get him on their teams. Soccer, football, basketball—anything with a ball and a scoreboard, he crushed it without trying.

And the girls noticed, too.

I noticed them noticing.

The way they laughed a little too loud around him. The way they tugged their sleeves down when he passed. The way they touched his arm when they didn’t need to.

I hated it.

Still do.

But Tyler never gave me a reason to doubt him. He always came back to me. Always picked me first.

He was my first kiss.

My first real boyfriend.

My first everything, really.

And I loved him.

I think.

I mean—what else could this be? The way my chest feels lighter when he’s around. The way I still get nervous before I see him, even after all this time. The way I still want him to see me—really see me—when I land a new routine or when I laugh at one of his stupid jokes.

It’s love.

It has to be.

Right?

I tap the end of my pen against the desk, trying to shake it off.

It doesn’t work.

Jonathan—Jo?—scratches something in the margins of his notebook. I catch a glimpse.

A terrible doodle of a dog. Or a horse. Or a deeply cursed llama.

Before I can second-guess myself, I nudge my elbow into his arm and whisper, "Is that supposed to be a dog? Or are you making a statement about evolution?"

He glances at me, startled.

Then he laughs.

Not a fake laugh. Not a polite one.

A real, low, startled laugh that makes a few people turn around in their seats.

He grins and flips the notebook toward me, revealing an even worse drawing underneath—a stick figure riding the mystery animal, holding a coffee cup like a sword.

"Art," he says seriously. "You wouldn’t understand."

I snort under my breath. "You’re right. True genius is always misunderstood in its time."

He chuckles again, shakes his head, and turns back to face the professor, still grinning.

And just like that, the tightness in my chest loosens a little.

Not completely. But enough.

Enough to remember that not everyone in this building hates me. Enough to remember that sometimes, a dumb drawing and a dumber joke are enough to make a terrible morning feel a little less permanent.

The rest of class blurs by faster than I expect.

I jot down a few half-coherent notes. Mostly doodles of my own. A stick ballerina facing off against a stick horse-monster with a tiny flag that says help.

Jo catches me once, raises an eyebrow, and smirks.

I smirk back.

It’s nothing.

It’s not important.

But it’s something.

The professor dismisses us early—a rare miracle—and I shove my stuff into my bag with more energy than I started with. Jonathan stands too, slinging his backpack over one shoulder.

I’m halfway out the door with him when I see Tyler.

He’s leaning against the wall across the hall, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes scanning the crowd.

The second he spots me, he straightens.

His face shifts into that familiar smile—the one that used to unravel me without even trying.

“Hey,” he says, pushing off the wall and weaving through the stragglers to reach me. His eyes flick briefly to Jonathan, then settle back on me.

I feel Jo glance between us, and for a split second, the air feels... heavier.

"See you around, Vale," Jo says, casual, giving me a quick salute with two fingers.

I manage a small smile. "Later, Picasso."

He laughs under his breath and disappears down the hall, leaving me alone with Tyler.

Ty steps closer, hands still in his pockets, shoulders a little hunched like he’s trying to look smaller than he is.

“Wanted to walk you to lunch,” he says. “If that’s okay.”

It is.

It should be.

I nod. “Yeah. Of course.”