By Monday morning, Roxie had become very good at choosing what to remember.

After Saturday night, Zac had taken her home with him Sunday morning. She had meant to stay only long enough to breathe. Somehow, that turned into soup, movies, bad singing, and sleeping through Sunday night in a house where every window locked.

She did not remember the window.

She did not remember Steve’s hand on the frame.

She did not remember her mother standing in the doorway and looking at Zac like he was the problem.

Absolutely not.

Roxie Jones had survived the weekend by editing her own brain like a group photo.

Crop out the ugly parts.

Zoom in on Zac Prescott sitting beside her on his ridiculous couch while some action movie exploded across a screen bigger than her bedroom wall.

Zoom in on his hand resting near hers on the blanket, not touching at first, just there. Warm. Close. Annoying. Then touching because she moved her pinky first, which was humiliating and would be denied under oath.

Zoom in on dinner in the Prescott kitchen, where he heated soup from a container his mother had apparently labeled in perfect handwriting.

Then he had sung.

That part was the problem.

Some stupid song came on during the movie, and Zac Prescott, quarterback, school-wide disease, walking sports scholarship, had started singing under his breath like he did not know she could hear him. Low and off-key and way too comfortable in his own house.

Roxie had looked at him.

He had looked back.

"What?" he’d asked.

"You sing?"

"No."

"You’re literally singing."

"I was breathing with rhythm."

"That’s embarrassing."

"You’re watching the movie wrong."

"You’re singing it wrong."

Then he sang louder just to annoy her.

And Roxie had laughed.

Not the pretty laugh girls did when boys said average things. A real one. The kind that made her chest hurt after because she had forgotten she could still make that sound.

So Monday morning, sitting in Zac’s truck two blocks away from Briarwick, Roxie focused on that.

The movies.

The talks.

The stories they shared.

His hand over hers in the dark room, thumb brushing once across her knuckles like he was checking if she was still there.

That was safer.

That was easier.

That was the memory she chose.

"Stop here," she said.

Zac looked at the road ahead. "We’re not even at school."

"Exactly."

He slowed but did not pull over. "Roxie."

"Do not Roxie me. You know my reputation will be smeared if I’m seen with you."

"Me? The quarterback?"

She scrunched her nose at him. "You are too full of yourself."

"Maybe. But I can drop you off at the entrance too."

"No, you cannot."

"I’m already driving."

"And I’m already being reasonable."

He gave her a look.

Roxie pointed toward the curb. "There. Before the bakery."

"The bakery is three blocks away."

"Excellent. Walking is healthy."

He finally pulled over, jaw tight, one hand on the wheel. His injured hand was wrapped now, because Roxie had made him sit at his bathroom counter Sunday afternoon while she cleaned it. He had hissed once when the antiseptic touched his split knuckles, and she had called him dramatic even though her hands were shaking the whole time.

He looked at her now like he wanted to argue.

She looked back like she would jump out of the moving truck if necessary.

"People will see," she said.

"So?"

The word was too easy for him.

Roxie hated that. Zac could walk into school with blood on his hand, a girl in his truck, and half the student body would probably clap. Roxie walked in with one thing wrong and everyone started sniffing for scandal.

"So," she said, "I am not showing up on Monday morning in your truck."

His mouth twitched. "What’s wrong with that?"

"Everything is. We can’t add more to the rumors."

He rubbed his thumb against the steering wheel, still watching her.

"You sure you’re okay?"

Roxie’s chest tightened.

The question she had been dodging all weekend. He had asked it softly, never pushing, never making her answer. Which was rude, honestly. Pushing would have given her something to fight.

Softness made her want to crack open.

She reached for the door handle. "I’m at school. That counts."

"That’s not what I asked."

"It’s the answer you’re getting."

"Roxie."

She paused.

His voice did something to her now. Her name sounded different after the weekend. Less like flirting. More like his hand on her back when she woke up from a nightmare and tried to pretend she had not made any noise. More like him sitting on the floor beside the bed because she could not sleep unless she could see him.

Disgusting.

She was absolutely not becoming the kind of girl who melted because a boy said one syllable.

She was simply tired.

And traumatized.

And maybe a little emotionally compromised by bad singing.

"Zac," she said, forcing herself to look at him.

He waited.

She hated him for waiting.

"I’m okay right now."

His expression shifted like he understood the limit she had placed around those words.

He nodded.

"Text me when you get inside."

"I’m walking three blocks."

"Text me."

"You’re bossy."

"You like it."

She stared at him.

He stared back.

Then she got hot all over, which was unfair because he did not even smile.

She climbed out before her face got worse.

The truck door shut behind her.

She walked away without looking back because looking back would be pathetic.

She made it seven steps.

Then she looked back.

Zac was still there, truck idling by the curb, watching her like he would sit there until she physically entered the building.

Her stomach did a stupid little flip. This was a full internal cheer squad doing illegal stunts in her rib cage.

Roxie turned around fast.

"Idiot," she muttered.

School smelled like floor polish, cheap perfume, and Monday misery.

The lobby was already loud. Lockers slammed. Football guys clustered near the trophy case, laughing too hard for eight in the morning. Cheer girls moved in packs, ponytails swinging, coffee cups in hand, acting like they had not spent the weekend stalking each other’s stories.

Normal.

Everything was normal.

Roxie adjusted her hoodie sleeve over her wrist and walked in like she had not spent Friday night in a corner with a knife.

Angela spotted her first.

"Oh my God," she said.

Roxie stopped at her locker. "What?"

Karen turned from her own locker, eyes narrowing.

Angela stepped closer, looking Roxie up and down with the kind of focus that belonged in crime shows. "Something happened."

Roxie opened her locker. "A lot happens. Weather. Traffic. Capitalism."

"No." Angela pointed at her face. "This."

"My face?"

"Yes. Your whole face."

Karen leaned against the locker beside them. "She means your aura."

Roxie stared. "My what?"

"Your aura," Angela said, completely serious. "It was like a light bulb that turned off for weeks, and now someone plugged it back in."

"That is the worst description of a person I’ve ever heard."

Karen tilted her head. "It’s accurate, though."

"It is not."

"You’re glowing."

"I’m tired."

"Tired people don’t glow," Angela said. "They decay."

Karen nodded. "Slowly, in public."

"Thank you, Wednesday Addams."

Angela gasped. "It’s Zac."

Roxie almost hit her head on the locker door.

"What?"

Karen’s mouth curved.

Angela looked at Karen.

Karen looked at Angela.

The two of them smiled like they had just solved a murder and found the body wearing a football jersey.

Roxie pointed between them. "Stop doing that."

"Doing what?" Angela asked.

"That silent girl telepathy thing."

"It’s not telepathy if your face is screaming," Karen said.

"My face has been through enough."

Angela softened for half a second.

Too quick for anyone else to notice.

But Roxie noticed.

Then Angela’s expression went bright again, probably because she knew Roxie would bolt if she got too gentle.

"So," Angela said, dragging out the word. "Did he text you all weekend?"

"No."

Karen hummed. "Lie."

"Did he call you?"

"No."

Angela’s eyes widened. "Bigger lie."

"Did he come over?" Karen asked.

Roxie shut her locker too hard.

Both girls froze.

That was the problem with almost-normal. One wrong movement and the ugly thing underneath showed through.

Roxie forced a smile.

"Can we maybe not interrogate me before chemistry?"

Angela’s expression shifted again, more careful this time. "Okay."

Karen nodded. "For now."

"For forever."

"Cute dream," Karen said.

They started walking.

Roxie made herself breathe.

She felt Angela glance at her once, then look away. Karen did it too, which was somehow worse because Karen usually stared at people until they confessed or died.

By the time they reached chemistry, Roxie had fixed her face.

Mostly.

Mr. Callahan was writing something on the board while half the class pretended to be alive.

Zac’s hair was still damp like he had showered fast. His hand was tucked under the desk, but she saw the edge of the bandage near his wrist. When he looked at her, his expression did not change much, but his shoulders dropped a little.

Like he had been waiting to see her walk in.

Roxie looked away before her face betrayed national secrets.

Angela made a tiny strangled sound beside her.

Roxie hissed, "Don’t."

Angela whispered, "Love is in the air."

Karen dropped into her seat. "So is formaldehyde."

Angela smiled at her sweetly. "Karen, shut your depressing aura for one romantic second."

Karen blinked. "My aura?"

"Yes. It’s gray and emotionally starved."

Roxie choked.

Karen stared at her. "Wow."

Angela patted Roxie’s shoulder like she had not just committed violence. "Ignore her. Her longest relationship was a month. If we’re being generous."

"It was thirty-two days," Karen said.

"Exactly. Charity."

Roxie put her face in her hands. "I hate both of you."

Angela beamed. "No, you love us."

Mr. Callahan cleared his throat.

The class settled.

Kind of.

Roxie tried to focus on the lesson. Something about reaction rates, catalysts, and how temperature made particles collide faster.

Terrible topic, honestly.

Her skin already felt too warm.

She could feel Zac behind her without looking.

Which was dramatic and stupid because he was at least two rows back and probably doing nothing except pretending to listen. Still, she felt him there. Her body had learned him over the weekend in tiny pieces. The way he breathed when he was trying not to fall asleep. The way his fingers tapped when he was thinking. The way he went still whenever she flinched.

She wrote catalyst in her notebook.

Then, under it, by accident, she wrote Zac.

Roxie stared at it.

Angela leaned over.

Roxie slapped her hand over the page.

Angela’s eyes went huge.

Karen saw Angela’s face and immediately leaned too.

Roxie slammed the notebook shut.

Mr. Callahan looked over. "Everything okay back there?"

"Perfect," Roxie said too fast.

Karen coughed into her fist.

Angela made a noise that sounded like she was dying spiritually.

After class, the powderpuff announcement came over the speaker.

"Attention, Briarwick students. Homecoming Week events begin next week. Powderpuff sign-up sheets will be posted outside the gym by lunch. Junior and senior girls interested in playing must sign up by Wednesday. Football players volunteering as coaches should report to Coach Hayes after practice."

The room reacted like someone had thrown sugar into a beehive.

Girls started talking at once.

Mason whooped from the back. "Let’s go!"

Angela turned to Roxie, eyes shining. "Powderpuff."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"You’re cheer captain."

"I cheer for football. I do not become football."

Karen packed her bag. "That distinction feels fragile."

Angela grabbed Roxie’s arm. "You have to play."

"I absolutely do not."

"You’re fast. You’re bossy. You already yell like a coach."

"Again, thank you for the emotional profile."

Angela leaned closer. "Also, Zac coaching you?"

Roxie’s eyes cut to her.

Angela smiled sweetly.

"Say less," Karen said. "Actually, say nothing. Your face did all the paperwork."

Roxie stood, grabbing her books. "I’m going to the bathroom."

Angela called after her, "To blush privately?"

Roxie flipped her off without turning around.

The hallway was crowded, but she moved through it fast. Too fast maybe. Her pulse had kicked up again, but this time it was not all fear.

Powderpuff.

Zac coaching.

His hands on her waist maybe, correcting a stance. His voice low near her ear. His stupid face when she threw a terrible pass and blamed the ball.

No.

Absolutely not.

She pushed into the girls’ bathroom and went straight into the last stall.

She locked it, leaned against the door, and breathed.

Her face was hot.

Her chest felt weird.

She was not thinking about the window.

She was thinking about Zac singing badly on his couch.

She was thinking about him saying, Nobody’s getting near you.

She was thinking about his hand resting over hers at dinner, warm and careful and there.

It was embarrassing.

It was also the first time since Friday that her brain had picked something soft without being forced.

The bathroom door opened.

Roxie went still.

Two girls came in, laughing. "Roxie Jones? She’s reaching."