Veronica woke up to birdsong and the kind of sunshine that made everything feel cinematic. Her room was still, curtains fluttering with the early spring breeze. It smelled like lilacs and vanilla and the faintest hint of yesterday's perfume.
But she didn't care about any of it.
She cared about the text that hadn't come—not because he forgot her, but because Scott had promised to give her space until she was ready.
He wasn't like the others. And that, in itself, terrified her.
Downstairs, her mom was already rushing around the kitchen, preparing for her book club meeting. The scent of blueberry muffins filled the house, and jazz music played softly in the background.
"You look different," her mom noted without turning from the oven.
Veronica grabbed a mug from the shelf. "Different how?"
"You look… lighter." She glanced over her shoulder, eyeing her daughter. "Did something happen?"
Veronica hesitated. "Maybe."
Her mom raised an eyebrow. "Scott Rivers?"
Veronica blinked. "How did you—?"
"I'm your mother," she said simply, sliding the muffins out of the oven. "We know things. We sense things. We remember what love looks like—even when you try to pretend it's not happening."
Veronica laughed under her breath. "It's not love."
Her mom shrugged. "Not yet."
---
Meanwhile, Penelope sat in her room, knee-deep in memories she wasn't ready to sort through. Marc had been... different.
Dangerous, mysterious, magnetic in a way that pulled at her curiosity. But it was Julian who had always held her steady. The boy who saw her when she wanted to disappear.
She looked out the window and saw Marc across the street. Sitting on the hood of a black motorcycle, head tilted back toward the sun like he owned the entire sky.
She hated how cool he looked.
As if sensing her gaze, he looked up. Smirked. Then winked.
Penelope shut the curtains, cheeks flushed. She didn't want to be intrigued by him. She wanted things to stay simple.
But the heart rarely listened to logic.
---
Veronica arrived at school that Monday and everything felt different.
Scott didn't approach her like he owned her. He didn't hover. He just smiled from across the hallway. A soft, silent "I'm still here."
The simplicity of it made her heart ache.
Penelope met her at her locker. "So... spill."
Veronica smiled, clutching her books to her chest. "I think I like him. I mean, really like him."
"No games?"
"No games."
Penelope's eyes sparkled. "I'm so happy for you."
They walked to homeroom together, and for once, everything felt right.
But right never lasted long in Blackridge.
---
At lunch, Penelope's peace shattered.
Marc sat at her table. Surrounded by half the female student body, he leaned back in his chair like a movie villain, tossing peanuts into his mouth and laughing at something one of the cheerleaders said.
"Why is he at our table?" Penelope hissed.
Julian, sitting across from her, frowned. "Because he can."
Marc caught her glare and grinned. "Missed me, sweet pea?"
"Don't flatter yourself."
"I don't need to," he said, reaching for her apple and taking a bite. "You already think about me enough for the both of us."
Penelope grabbed the apple from him and chucked it in the nearest trash bin. "You're impossible."
"And you're beautiful when you're mad," he replied, softer now, the smirk fading into something almost sincere.
Julian watched the exchange with quiet tension. "Maybe you should go sit somewhere else," he said to Marc, voice sharp.
"Maybe I should," Marc said slowly, standing. "But where's the fun in that?"
Before Penelope could respond, Veronica grabbed her hand. "Let's go."
Outside, the wind was cool and the courtyard nearly empty.
Penelope slumped onto a bench. "He's driving me insane."
"Julian looked ready to deck him," Veronica said, laughing.
"Julian hates drama."
"But he likes you."
Penelope paused. "I know."
"And?"
"And I like him too. I do. But when I'm around Marc…"
"You forget how to breathe," Veronica finished.
"Yes," Penelope whispered.
Veronica leaned back. "It's okay to feel more than one thing. Hearts are messy."
They sat in silence until the bell rang.
---
That evening, Scott found Veronica waiting by the riverbank, under the old iron bridge.
"Thought you said you wanted space," he said, hands in his jacket pockets.
"I did."
"And now?"
Veronica stepped closer. "Now I want to hear your secrets."
He looked at her for a long moment, then slowly reached into his coat. He pulled out a worn notebook and handed it to her.
"What is this?"
"My mom died when I was twelve," he said. "This is the only thing she left me. She used to write little messages in it. Encouragements. Dreams. She believed in soulmates. Wrote letters to mine, for when I found her."
Veronica opened to a random page.
> "To the girl who'll one day love my son: he's stubborn, but kind. Be patient with him. He loves harder than most."
Her throat tightened.
"She wrote those for her?" Veronica whispered.
"For you," he corrected.
She looked up at him, tears threatening to spill. "Why are you giving this to me?"
"Because I think you're her."
Then he kissed her.
It wasn't rushed or desperate. It was a promise. A vow. A moment etched into both their timelines.
Later, Veronica would write in that notebook too. Words she was too afraid to say out loud.
> "Maybe heartbreak was just life preparing me for the right kind of love. Yours."