Chapter 1: The Storm Breaks

To Rachel—the new girl with the thrift-store backpack—Ethan Miller was the first person in this small Ohio town who made her feel seen.

I remember the way folks looked at Rachel when she walked into homeroom that first week—her thrift-store backpack, her anxious hands smoothing down her faded hoodie. She carried the weight of her world on her shoulders, and for some reason, Ethan, with his easy confidence and Miller family good looks, noticed her right away. There was something almost magnetic about his quiet protectiveness, especially for someone who never needed rescuing himself.

Because I had publicly accused her of stealing the class fundraiser money, the girl's self-esteem was deeply wounded.

I still hear the hush that fell over the cafeteria when I stood up, voice trembling with accusation. Looking back, I wish I'd waited, wished I'd talked to Rachel one-on-one instead of putting her on the spot. My heart hammered against my ribs. I caught Ethan’s eyes across the room—he looked away. I wanted to disappear, to take the words back, but it was too late. It wasn't just the words; it was the fact that everyone saw her shame. Even now, I wonder if that moment will always echo inside me.

She left in tears, but in her distress, she slipped on the stairs and hurt her leg.

I saw her through the glass doors, hurrying out with her head down. The next thing I knew, there was a gasp from the hall, the wet smack of sneakers on linoleum, and Rachel was on the floor, clutching her knee. A teacher helped her up, but she wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

To vent his anger, Ethan locked me outside in the pouring rain that night.

It was the kind of Midwest thunderstorm that rattles the windows and turns the front lawn into a muddy lake. Lightning split the sky, lighting up the flooded yard. My sneakers squished with every step, the smell of wet earth and cut grass clinging to the air. Ethan's jaw was set when he told me to go outside—he didn't shout, but there was something final about the way he closed the door behind me, the bolt sliding home. I stood there, stunned, as the world turned gray with rain.

He looked down at me from the porch, his voice full of reproach.

He hovered just behind the screen door, his silhouette outlined by the porch light. The rain spattered off the gutter above, but his voice came through clear, cold as a January wind. "Seriously, Maddie, who gave you the right to drag Rachel like that in front of everyone?"

If it weren't for your engagement to me, do you think you could have left small-town Ohio and been taken in by my family?"

His words felt like a slap. I could barely see his eyes through the sheets of rain, but I knew they were sharp with disappointment.

I stood in the rain all night, soaked to the bone, and ended up sick for three days.

The hours bled together as my shoes squelched in the mud and the world narrowed to the shiver running through my bones. I didn't remember crawling onto the porch swing, just the thrum of thunder and the way my hands shook so hard I could barely grip my phone. By morning, Mrs. Carter found me curled up, half-conscious, and helped me inside. Fever set in by lunchtime, and I drifted through the next three days like a ghost.

To make it up to me, Ethan's mom suggested we get engaged as soon as we graduated.

Mrs. Miller, always practical, thought the best way to put things right was to lock down the future. Around here, people talk. Mrs. Miller figured a ring would shut down the gossip and make everything look tidy—at least on paper. She sat me down in the kitchen, her hands wrapped around a chipped coffee mug, and said, "Let’s not drag this out. Once you two are engaged, all this drama will settle."

But this time, before Ethan could refuse, I took the initiative to decline.

I shook my head before Ethan could even draw breath. "Thank you, Mrs. Miller, but I think it's better to wait." My voice came out steadier than I felt, surprising even myself.

Ethan was stunned.

He just stood there, mouth half open, as if he'd forgotten how to argue. It was the first time I'd seen him truly at a loss for words.

He didn't know that the first thing I did when I woke up was apply for a transfer.

I’d barely propped myself up in bed that morning when I sent off an email to the guidance counselor, heart pounding. If I could just get out—start fresh somewhere else—I might finally breathe again.