Chapter 1: The Punchline Couple’s Secret

In high society, everyone knew us as the punchline couple—yeah, that was us.

It was the sort of thing whispered at charity galas and over cocktails at the country club. Our names always got a smirk or a raised eyebrow, like we were a running joke that never quite got old. Funny, in a twisted way, how fast stories spread when you’re part of the uptown crowd—especially among the old money set.

He chased after his first love. Tried to catch her train. Got into a car accident. Lost the use of his legs. I remember thinking—God, what a way for a story to go sideways.

People talked about that night for months. People built up a whole mythology around it: the screech of tires, the rain-soaked street, the desperate sprint through the station. The kind of story that, in another life, would’ve made a great scene in a movie—except this was real, and the ending was cruel. His legs never worked the same again. Sometimes, at parties, I’d catch people glancing at his wheelchair, then quickly looking away.

I’d been secretly in love with my childhood best friend for a decade, but I could never work up the nerve to tell him.

It’s embarrassing, really, how long I carried that torch. I could recite every inside joke, every summer afternoon we spent sprawled in my backyard—the way he’d smile at me like we were the only two people in the world. I always told myself tomorrow would be the day. But every tomorrow turned into another excuse. Sometimes I wondered if I was just waiting for the universe to do it for me. Spoiler: it never was.

After we got married, we bickered. Every single day.

Our house echoed with snarky comments and slammed doors. Sometimes, I wondered if our neighbors had a running bet on who’d get the last word that day. It was exhausting, but weirdly comforting too. At least we were honest—brutally, embarrassingly honest, even if it meant fighting about everything from takeout orders to the thermostat.

I’d tease him. Sometimes too much. “You can’t even stand up, and you still think you can win your wife back like everyone else?”

My words came out sharp, but there was always a little smile hiding at the corner of my mouth, just daring him to snap back. I’d nudge his wheelchair just enough to get a rise out of him. It was our twisted version of flirting, I guess.

He’d fire right back: “At least I’m not too chicken to confess my feelings.”

He’d lean back in his chair, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk on his face. Sometimes he’d arch an eyebrow, just to rub it in. It was like he knew exactly where to poke so it’d sting, and he never missed his mark. Sometimes, I wanted to throw a pillow at him just to wipe that look off his face.

Then, one morning—

I opened my eyes and found myself back in high school.

It was the strangest sensation. Like waking up from a bad dream, only to find yourself somewhere achingly familiar... and impossibly far away. My room looked the same as it did a decade ago, right down to the faded posters on the wall and the stack of SAT prep books on my desk. For a second, I just stared, wide-eyed, almost laughing at how surreal it felt.

This time. I promised myself—no more running. I’d get up the courage to confess to my childhood friend.

No more hiding behind excuses or what-ifs. I swore, right then and there, I’d tell him how I felt. Maybe I’d get my heart broken. Maybe not. But I was done living with regret.

That night, the boy with perfectly healthy legs stared at me. Red-eyed. Pinning me against the wall. “If you’re really set on being with him, just pretend I don’t exist.”

His voice trembled, but his eyes burned with something fierce and desperate. For a second, the world narrowed down to just us. And the shadows dancing on the wall. I could feel his breath, hot and uneven, like he’d just run a mile. My heart pounded so loud I was sure he could hear it, too.

One day, scrolling through TikTok, I watched a video of some sweet, innocent high school heartthrob confessing to his childhood sweetheart in front of everyone.

The video had that hazy, sunlit glow—two kids in matching varsity jackets, the boy holding a hand-lettered sign. There was a beat where the camera lingered, and then the girl covered her mouth in shock. It was the kind of pure, wide-eyed moment that made you believe in happily ever after, at least for a few seconds.

Giddy, I hugged my tablet and started smashing the like button. My cheeks hurt from grinning.

I even squealed a little, kicking my feet under the blanket. I know, it was stupid, but I couldn’t help it. The comments section was full of hearts and crying emojis. I felt like I was fourteen again, watching a rom-com with a bowl of popcorn in my lap.

“Ugh, childhood friends forever!”

I typed it out without thinking, adding a string of heart emojis for good measure.

My inner teenager was alive and well, apparently.

“When I turn 19, I want a love like this too!” Yeah, right.

I scrolled through the comments, grinning at all the hopeless romantics out there. For a second, it felt like everyone was rooting for love.

Across the living room, Lucas Ellery, sitting in his wheelchair, closed his laptop and rubbed his brow, looking annoyed.

He looked like he’d just finished a twelve-hour shift at the hospital instead of answering work emails. His forehead creased as he watched me fangirl over strangers online. Sometimes, I wondered if he even remembered what it was like to be young and reckless.

“Savannah, can you chill out a little?”

His tone was half-exasperated, half-amused. He tried to act annoyed, but I caught the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. It was the kind of look that said, "I can't believe I'm married to this woman," but not in a bad way.

Then, as if remembering something, he smirked. “Back then, you didn’t even have the guts to confess. How could you ever get a boyfriend?”

He said it like it was just a fact, but there was an edge in his voice. It stung more than I expected.