Page 11 of Come Break My Heart Again

And of course, there were the juvie rumors, which swirl around all of the Twos. Stereotyping at its finest. Living in a mobile home doesn’t make you a criminal.

Wherever Ryder ended up, that’s probably where he still is.

But the wrinkle remains. I blow out an exasperated sigh, then grab the pass off the counter and head back to homeroom. The bell signaling first period rings right as I walk into the classroom.

“See you at lunch,” Juliet says, passing by as I grab my backpack from the spot on the floor where I left it.

I nod in response.

“What wing are you headed to?” Keira asks as I smooth my dress flat.

“G,” I answer.

“Cool. Me too. Economics.”

I nod again. I barely drank half of my coffee before painting the parking lot with it, but I feel wired and jittery. Unfocused and unsure.

I’m mostly convinced Maddie must be wrong. But what if she’sright? That slim possibility has my every sense on high alert.

Keira is still ignorant to my distracted state as we head toward the social studies wing, talking about the party set to take place on Friday night. It’s an annual back-to-school bash, but this year’s will be special for the obvious reason that it’sthe last one. Next year, we’ll be scattered at universities across the country. I mostlymmhmmalong as she runs through outfit options until we reach the door of the AP European History class I have first period.

“Elle!”

I glance over one shoulder at an approaching Kinsley Henderson. She’s the vice to my president on student council.

“See you at lunch,” Keira tells me, then continues walking.

“See ya,” I say, pausing for Kinsley to catch up.

I haven’t seen her all summer. We’re more school friends than close confidants.

“Hi! How was your summer?” Kinsley asks, pushing her tortoiseshell-rimmed glasses up closer to the bridge of her nose.

“It was great,” I reply. “How was yours?”

“Busy. Lots of college visits.”

“That’s—”

“You’re blocking the door,” a male voice interrupts.

I freeze. My muscles lock, and my stomach drops with an unpleasant lurch.

Maddie Peterson was right.

Kinsley is staring, wide-eyed, over my shoulder. I spin around slowly, taking advantage of every possible second before I have to face him. But I can’t postpone the inevitable forever. Part of me doesn’t want to. Has waited—hoped—for this moment for two years.

Flinty gray eyes meet mine, higher than I expected.

At fourteen, Ryder James gave me butterflies.

At seventeen, I can only hope I’m not visibly drooling.

His eyes are the exact same. Everything else is different. His brown hair is darker and shaved short so none of his face is hidden. He’s sporting a dark tan that makes me think maybe the rumor about Florida was true. But the biggest change is his height. He was the tallest freshman, but he must be over sixfeet now. Not only that, but he’s also got muscles that make him look a lot older than seventeen. The tendons in his forearm and biceps contract as he grips the strap of the backpack slung over one shoulder.

He’s still the hottest guy I’ve ever seen. And holding eye contact with him still feels like standing at the edge of a cliff on a windy day, anticipating a fall.

“You’re back.” I make sure the two words don’t hold any indication of my feelings about his return.

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