Chapter 1

chapter

one

ADDIE

Present day…

Karma is a relentless bitch with an excellent memory.

That has to be the only reason I'm currently being tortured.

I must've done many things karma deems awful, because I barely had time to finish my shower.

I snagged the sleeve of my sweater on a nail sticking out of my porch railing.

And I was only able to inhale half my dinner, during which, I nearly choked.

It's all because of karma—and Owen freaking Conrad.

My foot twitches on the gas pedal as I fight my natural instincts, begging them to let me drive over the speed limit.

It's homecoming week—aka one of the busiest times of the year for us as high school teachers—and I have to get to the float site to chaperone the sophomores. We can't leave the students to their own devices, not with tools at play, per the rules of our educational system. I follow and respect the rules.

It's why I agreed to fill in for Owen, the flake who doesn't take his professional duties seriously.

We're all hands on deck around the clock until next weekend. This requires hours outside of the classroom. This requires dedication and focus, and we must access the responsible parts of our brains to make this a success.

But clearly, Owen doesn't comprehend any of that. He doesn't seem to care about the importance of this at all. He wouldn't catch a care if it was hurled at him from his beloved pitcher's mound.

The irritating former baseball player, in a twist of fate, is now my frustrating co-worker.

I clutch the steering wheel as my tires roll to a stop in front of a dated barn with fading red paint on the outside.

I hop out of my car with a huff and race through the open sliding barn door, where I school my features against the oncoming grimace from the faint smell of must and a few other substances I don't care to identify.

"I'm here," I say, my breathless voice on edge as I tuck the dripping strands of hair behind my ear.

Gemma rushes up to me, her purse slung over her shoulder and eyes wide. "Thank you for coming so quickly. I don't know what happened to Owen. He texted to let me know he's running late, but that was twenty minutes ago."

"He's probably drooling over a baseball game, or distracted by a butterfly," I toss back. It might be a cheap shot behind his back, but then again, it's no different than the jabs I make to his face, which most around town consider to be quite handsome.

I might be the last living woman in Sapphire Creek who's immune to his charms, and it's a hill I'll proudly die on.

"See you at school tomorrow." Gemma ducks out of the barn to pick up her kid from her mother's, leaving me alone with thirteen teenagers.

And a harmonica.

"What the…" I mutter as a few distinct notes of a bluesy song drift above the chatter of the sophomores.

I hug my arms around my midsection, blinking and taking stock of the students milling about the open space until I find the source of the music. A lanky kid with curly black hair is hunched onto his heels in one corner with a harmonica perched on a holder around his neck like headgear.

While playing perfectly, he also never misses a beat in stapling the chicken wire to the boards set up around the perimeter. I like this multitasking kid.

A trailer sits in the middle of the room like a centerpiece on a table. Built onto it is a grand float decked in our school colors of black and gold. We're playing the Badgers next weekend for homecoming, so the sophomores had the idea to decorate a badger trapped in a kennel to amp up excitement for a win.

I didn't need to assist in their creative process, either, not like I have for other classes. I'm happy to help, though; it's what I do.

It's why I'm here tonight.

Since I became an English teacher at Sapphire Creek High School, I've been called on a lot to lend a hand, and I'm usually stoked to be the go-to girl. I just prefer to dry my hair before being thrust into chaos.

The sophomores currently alternate between stuffing tissue paper into chicken wire and each other's noses. I'd speak up to halt the nonsense, but they're making such great progress this far in advance. I'll let them have their fun for just a little while longer.

I step outside and suck back a healthy breath, enjoying the early evening air as the sun slowly sets, a stretch of fields between me and the horizon. Bursts of yellows, oranges, and pinks paint the sky, and the kid's harmonica from inside pauses just long enough for me to hear the crickets singing their own tune.

But that's not all I hear.

Sniffling sounds from my right, and I strain to follow its trail. The harmonica starts up again, nearly drowning out the crying altogether. I keep walking around the barn until I find a young girl crouched against the side of it between two barrels. There's no telling what the brown stains on the outsides of them are, and I have no desire to think too hard about it.

The girl glances up as she draws her knees to her chest and wraps her arms around them. "Who are you?"

"I'm Miss Lockhart, the junior English teacher. I'm filling in for Ow—I mean, Mr. Conrad." It's been only a month of working together, and I'm still getting used to calling him by anything formal. It so doesn't fit him. "What's your name?" I ask, clearing my throat.

"Beth."

A whiff of whatever animal must have died in these barrels assaults my nostrils. I mask my features with a brave face and lower myself next to the girl, wedging myself into the mix like peanut butter smashed between two crackers.

"I'm fine," she mumbles and picks at her cuticles. It's an all too familiar move.

"If that were true, you wouldn't be out here all alone."

"Am I in trouble or something?"

"No."

We stay silent for a minute as I mentally conjure my fifteen-year-old self and all the emotions that came along with it. Whenever I felt like this, it was because a boy I liked had crushed my little heart, or because the mean girls were doing what they did best. Either way, I didn't want to talk about it until I was ready.

So, I give Beth the space she might need.

A few seconds pass before she takes a deep, shaky breath and peeks over at me. "I ran into the door of the cafeteria today. Everyone saw, and I've been the butt of every joke for hours. There's actually a meme of it going viral as we speak. It's brutally embarrassing."

I purse my lips and sink farther onto the ground, the cool breeze drifting through the damp strands of my hair and causing a shiver down my spine.

"Please don't tell me this will pass by tomorrow when they get distracted by something else or that they're only making fun of me to ignore their own insecurities. My big sister's already tried. She thinks I'm crazy dramatic for my ‘high school drama.'" She throws up air quotes, then swipes under her eyes. "She just graduated from college a few months ago, and suddenly, she's the queen of everything."

"Well, your sister is wise and also pretty right about this. The first part, anyway." I sigh. "It doesn't mean this sucks any less. In fact, it sucks a lot."

Beth releases a watery exhale bordering on a laugh.

"I served as a punching bag for other kids' insecurities plenty of times," I say honestly, although the words are difficult, even after all these years. "If they weren't picking on me for my lopsided braids, it was my nasally voice or my two left feet. I don't know how many times I tripped just standing upright. I wasn't very balanced in any sense of the word." I shake my head as I recall how hard it was to navigate my mom's cooky ways, my dad's new life, plus the never-ending "high school drama."

One side of Beth's lips tilts upward. "How did you deal?"

"My stepmom convinced me to sign up for dance classes before high school started."

"And it helped?" She tilts her head to the side, her skepticism as clear as the red paint on her nails.

I nod. "With enough practice over time, I became rather graceful on my feet. Didn't trip over any rugs or table legs. Not as often, anyway. I'm still human, of course."

This earns me a soft but unmistakable giggle.

I dip my head, my chest lighter than before as I add, "But mostly, it helped me with my confidence. The kids at the studio were supportive and encouraging, and they opened up a whole world for me. I stopped caring so much about the jokes and comments at school, but again, that's not to say it didn't suck."

"It feels like I'm alone. Even my own friends abandoned me today."

"I'm sorry, Beth." I frown. I had my fair share of run-ins with the evil twins, but I don't know how I would've gotten through any of it without my friends. "We can stay out here as long as you'd like, but I think it'd make a bigger statement if you held your shoulders back and your chin up while you marched in there to show them you're not made of glass. You're stronger than that."

"I don't think I am."

"Just takes a little practice." I wink, and a hint of a smile makes her lips twitch. "What do you say? Should we practice?"

She blows out one more breath, then nods.

"Good, because showing them they don't bother you is the best kind of revenge."

"What's another kind? I'm open to options." Her attempt at a full grin falters before it reaches her eyes, but I appreciate the effort. It helps me know I'm alleviating the suck factor of her situation at least a fraction.

My answer comes out quickly—a little too quickly, in fact. "The other kind is waiting for your bullies to grow up, marry for money and status instead of love, and miserably stomp around town with permanent frowns on their Botoxed faces."

She blinks. "Weirdly specific, but I like it. I think."

I smile, thankful she doesn't push the topic so I don't accidentally tell her that's exactly what happened to Emmy Salinger, who's Emily Winchester now. "Let's get inside, because this smell is going to make me pass out. How are you not getting sick over this?"

"I'm used to it. I live on a farm." With a shrug, she follows me around the corner of the weary structure toward the sliding door, where she pauses to dry the last of her tears on her cheeks with the end of her shirtsleeve.

My heart cracks, but the way she raises her head high keeps it from breaking altogether.

"Ready?" I ask.

"Only one way to find out." She plasters on a smile, and I wave for her to lead the way inside.

"Alonso, stop it already!" One of the kids shooshes the harmonica player. She then taps on her phone and shifts a Bluetooth speaker to the side, which plays even louder music than the harmonica.

"Walk much?" One of the guys snickers as Beth inches by, and the kid next to him joins in on the laughter.

Beth's steps falter only slightly, but she doesn't crumble. She makes a beeline for an open spot on the other side of the trailer and dives into the work.

As hard as it is to get through this phase, I find comfort in knowing she'll be okay, because I was.

"Let's keep it at a reasonable volume," I call out.

This grabs their attention. It's safe to assume they hadn't noticed my arrival before this moment, given how wide their eyes grow.

"I thought Mr. Conrad was going to be here tonight," one says, but it's more of a question. It's laced with disappointment too.

"He told us he'd bring his cornhole set for us to play," another student chimes in and nudges the first boy with his elbow. "I was going to show Ray what's up."

Irritation pinches my nerve endings, and my eye twitches. I'm exhausted and flustered to the hundredth degree, but I'm the one who showed up—the second-rate, non-fun adult compared to the cool guy who acts and talks just like them.

"Mr. Conrad couldn't be here tonight, unfortunately. Last-minute obligation," I say through gritted teeth. What I truly want to tell them is that they idolize the wrong teacher. They don't know me yet, as they won't have me in English until next year, but they should learn now that Owen's the wrong teacher.

But I'm a professional. I'm above childish antics and drama.

I'm responsible, and some day, when these teens grow up, they'll appreciate me.

"But if you work really hard over the next hour, you can leave early," I chirp, and it seems I speak their language.

The group dips their heads practically in sync, and they don't make much of a peep for the next hour. The snickering boys don't even make another crack at Beth. Not one that I hear, anyway, and I do strain to listen.

With the music turned down and the tissue paper dedicated once again to the actual float instead of their nostrils, I dig my phone out of my massive tote and call Owen for the third time tonight. But just as the previous two times, I'm greeted by his voicemail.

And my blood pressure rises, as if it's not high enough already.

I'm the one who loses sleep over school functions.

I'm the one who takes my job, this community's traditions, and general human decency seriously.

I'm the one who… I peer down, and my jaw drops to my chest in horror as I fold my arms across my unsupported breasts.

In my efforts to arrive as quickly as possible to relieve Gemma, I forgot to put a bra on.

Owen Conrad is going to fucking pay for this.