The Storm Between us

Chapter 1 - Ava

The air smells like wet pavement and cheap perfume. First day of senior year, and it already feels wrong.

Too quiet. Too clean. Like the school got scrubbed of all bad memories over summer break.  But bad memories don't fade they just wait.

I push open the front doors and step into the hallway. Kids are everywhere, showing off new haircuts, hugging like they haven't seen each other in decades. I slip through them like a ghost. I don't do hugs, or small talks.

I just want to get through this year, graduate, and leave simple.

Then I see him.

Jace Rivera, leaning against the lockers like it's his personal runway. Same black hoodie, same stupid slouch, same eyes that act like they don't care about anything. Except I know that's not true.

I know he cares. About something. About my life.

I keep walking. Maybe he won't say anything this time.

Nope.

"You cut your hair," he says.

I stop. Turn slowly. "You remembered what it looked like before?"

He shrugs like it means nothing, like / mean nothing, "You used to wear it big. Now it's tied up. Tighter."

I don't answer. He steps forward not close, but enough to make the space between us feel sharp.

"You still mad at me?" he asks.

I rise an eyebrow. "You think I ever not be mad at you."

He smiles like it's a challenge. "So that's a yes."

I roll my eyes and turn back towards my locker. Don't talk to me, Rivera."

He leans against the metal next to mine. Of course it's the same row. "Wasn't planning on it. Just wanted to say hi to your shadow."

"My what?"

"Your attitude. It shows up before you do."

I slam my locker shut. The sound echoes down the hallway.

"You  think this funny," I say, stepping closer. "You think you're clever, walking around like you didn't drop a grenade into my life two years ago."

His face twitches  like something cracks under the cool.

"I didn't ask to be part of your life, Ava."

"No, you just are, whether I want you there or not."

We stare at each other. Neither of us moves

Then he says, softer than before: "Tell your mom am sorry."

My heart stutters.

"What?" I breathe. 

He shakes his head, like he didn't mean to say it out loud. "Forget it."

"No," I say, stepping in. "What did you say about my mom?"

But he's already walking away.

That night, I can't stop replaying it.

The look on his face. The way he said sorry. Like he knew something.

So I go digging.

My mom's boxes. The ones she told me never to touch. I don't care. I rip through old bills, photos, letters-

And I find it.

An envelope. No stamp. No return address. Just three letters written in my dad's handwriting:

J.R.

Jace Rivera

I don't know what game he's playing. But I'm done waiting.

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