The Monday morning bell was a physical blow, a flat metallic clang that shattered the quiet of Johnny’s skull. He stood at his locker, the combination a series of muscle-memory twists, and the smell of industrial cleaner and old textbooks hit him like a wall. The weekend—the quiet apartment, the slow dance, the feel of Paige asleep on his chest—felt like a dream someone else had told him.
He slammed the locker shut. The noise echoed down the crowded hall. A year. It had been over a year since that first time in the van. The thought landed, solid and strange. He’d never kept anything for a year before. Not a bike, not a favorite jacket, certainly not a person.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a math problem with your face.”
Her voice came from his left, low and amused. He turned. Paige leaned against the lockers, her books clutched to her chest. She wore a tight black sweater and a plaid skirt that ended high on her thighs. Her dark eyes were bright, clear, no trace of the sleepy vulnerability from the sofa. She was back in her armor. But she was looking at him like she knew the math problem, and the answer was her.
“Just remembering how to be here,” he said.
“It’s gross, right?” She fell into step beside him as he started toward his first period. “Like we got a three-day pass to somewhere else and now we’re back in jail.”
“Your family’s house is jail?”
“Compared to your cousin’s couch?” She bumped her shoulder against his arm. “Maximum security, baby.”
He let himself smile. The hall was a river of denim and flannel, shouts and slamming lockers, the overwhelming normalcy of it all. But beside him, Paige was a live wire. Her presence changed the current in the air. He could feel other guys looking, their eyes sliding over her and then to him, a quick calculation. A year ago, those looks would have tightened his shoulders. Now, they just felt like background noise. She was his. The realization, which had been a quiet hum all weekend, buzzed louder here, in the fluorescent light of Bonita Valle High. His whole family had sat across from her at a table. His dad had passed her the mashed potatoes.
“You’re doing it again,” she said.
“What?”
“The face thing. The thinking.” She stopped outside her classroom door. People flowed around them. “What’s in there?”
He looked down at her. The top of her head came to his chin. “Christmas is in, like, three weeks.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You planning my present already? It better be good.”
“No. I mean, yeah. But that’s not…” He shook his head. “It’s just been a year. That’s all.”
She went very still. The chatter of the hallway seemed to recede. Her gaze searched his face, the teasing light in her eyes softening into something more serious, more private. “A year since what?” she asked, her voice dropping.
“Since the van.”
A slow smile touched her mouth. Not the wide, performative one she used on other people. This one was smaller, real, just for him. “Huh,” she said. She looked away, down the hall, then back up at him. “We should do something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. Something that isn’t school.” She shifted her books. “Meet me at the lot after last period. The back one.”
“Why?”
“Because I said so.” The tease was back, but it was warm now. “Don’t be late.” She turned and disappeared into the classroom before he could answer.
The day stretched, an endless desert of droning teachers and ticking clocks. In History, Mr. Greeley’s monotone lecture about the Treaty of Versailles became a soundtrack to the memory of Paige’s heartbeat under his ear. In Algebra, the quadratic formula on the board blurred into the pattern of freckles across her shoulders. The normal world was a thin veneer, and underneath it, the weekend thrummed, a secret engine. His family accepted her. The thought returned, a wave of warmth each time. It wasn’t just that they tolerated her. His mom had asked Paige about her favorite Christmas cookies. His dad, who barely spoke to anyone before his second coffee, had joked with her about the 7-10 split. Jim had stared, of course, but Jim stared at everything with breasts. It was more than that. They’d made room for her. They’d folded her into the noise and the chaos of a McHale holiday without a second thought, and she’d fit. She’d laughed at his dad’s bad jokes and helped his mom clear the plates. She belonged.
The final bell was a release. Johnny shouldered his backpack and moved against the tide of students rushing for the buses. He cut through the side exit, the metal door groaning shut behind him, and stepped into the flat, white light of the Arizona afternoon.
The empty lot behind Bonita Valle was a forgotten square of cracked asphalt and stubborn, dry weeds. It smelled of hot tar and dust, the only sound the distant, constant hum of the freeway. A chain-link fence, sagging in places, separated it from the baseball field. It was where kids came to smoke when they didn’t have anywhere else to go.
Paige was already there. She sat on the hood of a beat-up silver Toyota Corolla that Johnny recognized as belonging to Marla’s older sister. Her legs dangled over the bumper, her skirt riding up. She had a cigarette pinched between her fingers, but she wasn’t smoking it. She was just watching the smoke curl up into the still air.
“You’re late,” she said without looking at him.
“Bell just rang.”
“I’ve been here.” She finally glanced over, took him in. “You look like you ran.”
He walked over, the asphalt crunching under his sneakers. He dropped his backpack in the dust. “Whose car?”
“Marla’s sister’s. She’s at cheer practice. Keys were in her bag.” Paige tapped ash onto the ground. “Get up here.”
He hoisted himself onto the hood beside her. The metal was warm through his jeans. The car was old, the paint faded and pocked with rust. It felt like the kind of car things happened in. He looked at her profile. “So what’s the plan?”
“No plan.” She took a drag, held it, let the smoke stream out her nose. “Just wanted to be somewhere that isn’t my house. Or school. With you.” She handed him the cigarette.
He took it, his fingers brushing hers. He wasn’t a smoker, but sometimes, with her, he did. It tasted like her lip gloss and ash. He passed it back. “A year,” he said again, the words feeling more solid out here.
“A year,” she echoed. She leaned back on her hands, tilting her face to the sun. “You know what I was thinking about in Bio today? That first time. In the van.”
His pulse jumped. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. How you smelled like bowling alley fries and Dial soap. And how you kissed me like you were trying to win a fight.” A small smile played on her lips. “And how you came in, like, two minutes.”
He felt his ears get hot. “It was not two minutes.”
“It was fast.” She looked at him, her eyes dancing. “It was really fast, Johnny. But it was also… I don’t know. Perfect.”
The word hung between them. Perfect. For a clumsy, frantic, virgin fumble in the back of a rented minivan with their families fifty feet away. But she meant it. He could see she meant it.
“It hurt,” she said softly, looking back at the sky. “I didn’t tell you that. It hurt a lot, actually. But I liked that, too. That it left a mark. That I could feel it the next day when I walked. Proof.”
He didn’t know what to say. The honesty was a blade, sharp and clean. He’d been so inside his own head, his own panic and wonder, he’d never really asked. He reached over and took her hand. Her fingers were cool. She laced them through his, tight.
“My mom asked about you this morning,” she said, her tone shifting, going lighter, though her grip didn’t loosen. “Said you were ‘polite.’”
“Polite’s bad?”
“From her? It’s a death sentence. It means you’re boring.” She grinned. “I told her you fuck me in your cousin’s bed on Thanksgiving, so not that boring.”
He choked on air. “You did not.”
“I did. The look on her face. Priceless.” She laughed, the sound bright and brittle in the empty lot. But the laugh died quickly. She squeezed his hand. “She’s already planning Christmas Eve. The whole big, stupid thing. The aunts, the uncles, the screaming, the lasagna at midnight. I already want to peel my skin off.”
“You could come to our thing,” he said. The offer was out before he’d fully formed the thought. “It’s just us. And my grandma. We get Chinese food and watch that movie where the guy’s home alone.”
She was quiet for a long moment. She brought his hand to her mouth and kissed his knuckles, a quick, hard press of her lips. “Maybe,” she whispered. Then she let go of his hand and stubbed the cigarette out on the hood of the car, leaving a small black scar. “Okay. Get in the car.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m bored of sitting out here.” She slid off the hood, her skirt catching on the rust for a second before she tugged it free. She walked around to the driver’s side door and pulled it open. The interior was a mess of fast-food wrappers and scrunchies. “Come on.”
He got in the passenger side. The car smelled like strawberry air freshener and old McDonald’s. Paige got behind the wheel. She was too short to see over it properly, so she sat up straight, peering through the steering wheel. She found the keys in her pocket and jammed one into the ignition. The engine turned over with a reluctant groan.
“You can’t drive,” he said.
“I know how.” She put the car in reverse and jerked it backward, the tires spitting gravel. “Marla’s sister lets me practice sometimes.”
She managed to get the car pointed toward the lot’s exit, a broken part of the chain-link fence that led to a service road. She drove with intense concentration, her hands at ten and two, her body rigid. They bumped onto the road, the suspension squealing in protest.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“Nowhere. Just driving.” She accelerated, the engine whining. They passed the back of the school, the dumpsters, the loading dock. The world outside was a blur of beige stucco and dusty palms. She reached over without looking and found his thigh. Her hand was warm through his jeans. She squeezed. “A year,” she said, almost to herself.
He covered her hand with his. He watched her profile—the determined set of her jaw, the dark curl of her lashes against her cheek. The wild child, steering a stolen car down a back road, her hand on his leg. His beautiful, crazy Italian girl. The warmth in his chest expanded, becoming a fierce, protective ache. He wanted to give her something. Something as permanent as the mark she said he’d left on her.
“Pull over,” he said.
“What?”
“Here. Just pull over.”
She glanced at him, then steered the car onto the narrow shoulder of the road, kicking up a cloud of dust. They were behind a long, windowless building that might have been a warehouse. No other cars. She put the car in park but left the engine running. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.” He unclipped his seatbelt. The vinyl creaked under him. “Get in the back.”
Her eyes widened. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face. “Why, Johnny McHale,” she drawled, the tease back in full force. “What’s in the back?”
“You wanna find out?”
The old line, from the very beginning. It landed between them like a struck match. Her smile vanished, replaced by a look of pure, hot want. She killed the engine. The sudden silence was thick, broken only by the tick of the cooling metal.
She scrambled between the seats, knees knocking the gearshift, and tumbled into the back. He followed. The backseat of the Corolla was even smaller than the van’s had been, a cramped cave of stained upholstery and discarded clothes. The strawberry air freshener swung from the rearview mirror, casting a sickly-sweet shadow.
They faced each other on the bench seat, knees touching. The space was so small their breath mingled instantly. Paige’s eyes were dark pools, fixed on his. She reached for the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head in one swift motion. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her breasts were full and pale in the dim light, her nipples already tight. The sight of her, bare and waiting in this stolen, grimy car, made his cock harden instantly, straining against his zipper.
“A year,” she whispered, and it was a challenge, an invitation, a prayer.
He kissed her. It wasn’t like the van, frantic and desperate. This was slower, deeper, a claiming. He tasted the cigarette and her cherry lip balm. His hands came up to cup her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples. She gasped into his mouth, her back arching, pushing herself into his palms.
She broke the kiss, her breath coming in short pants. “My skirt,” she said, her voice rough. “Get it off.”
He fumbled with the side zipper, his fingers clumsy. He got it down, and she wriggled, helping him push the tight fabric over her hips and down her legs. She kicked it away into the footwell. She was wearing plain white cotton panties. They were already damp, a dark patch visible in the center. He hooked his fingers in the waistband and pulled them down. She lifted her hips to help him, and then she was naked from the waist down, splayed on the backseat of a stranger’s car, her skin glowing against the dirty gray upholstery.
“You too,” she breathed, her hands going to his belt.
He stood up awkwardly, cracking his head on the low ceiling. “Shit.”
She giggled, a nervous, excited sound. He undid his jeans, shoved them and his boxers down to his knees. His cock sprang free, fully hard, the tip already wet. The air in the car was cool on his heated skin.
He knelt on the floor of the backseat, between her spread legs. The position was awkward, cramped. His knees pressed into the worn carpet. He looked at her, really looked. The thatch of dark curls between her thighs, the glistening pink folds already parted for him. The smell of her, musky and sweet, filled the small space. It was the most intimate thing he’d ever seen.
“Johnny,” she whispered. Her hand found his hair, her fingers tangling in the red waves. “Please.”
He didn’t use his fingers first. He didn’t tease. He leaned forward and put his mouth on her.
Her taste exploded on his tongue—salt, musk, a faint tang that was purely her. She cried out, her hips jerking off the seat. He held her thighs down, his hands spanning her hip bones, and licked her, slow and firm, tracing the shape of her. He found the hard little nub of her clit and circled it with the flat of his tongue.
“Oh, god,” she moaned, her head thrashing against the seat. “Oh, fuck, Johnny.”
He sucked her gently, then harder, learning the rhythm that made her thighs tremble. He slid a finger inside her, then two. She was so wet, so hot, her inner muscles clenching around his digits. He curled them, searching, and she screamed, a short, sharp sound that was swallowed by the car’s interior.
“I’m gonna come,” she gasped, her voice strangled. “Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t—”
He didn’t stop. He fucked her with his fingers and sucked her clit, and he felt her orgasm hit. Her whole body went rigid, a silent scream on her lips, then she shattered, convulsing around his fingers, her cunt pulsing in wet, rhythmic clenches. A gush of wetness soaked his hand and chin. He kept his mouth on her, gentling his touch, drinking her in, until the last tremor subsided and she went boneless against the seat, her chest heaving.
He pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His cock was throbbing, a painful, urgent ache. He looked at her, her eyes closed, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and upper lip. She looked wrecked. Beautiful.
Her eyes fluttered open. They were hazy, unfocused. Then they cleared, locking on his. She reached for him, her hand wrapping around his cock. Her touch was electric. She stroked him once, twice, her thumb smearing the bead of pre-cum over his sensitive head.
“Now,” she said. Her voice was raw, used. “I want you inside me. Now.”
He moved up, his knees protesting on the hard floor. He positioned himself over her, the head of his cock nudging against her slick entrance. She was so wet from her orgasm, he slid against her easily. He looked down, watching as the broad tip of him pressed into her, stretching her open. He pushed, an inch, then two. Her heat enveloped him, tight and perfect. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders.
“More,” she breathed. “All of it.”
He sank the rest of the way in, a slow, inexorable slide until his hips were flush against hers, until he was buried to the hilt inside her. They both went still. The feeling was overwhelming. The tight, wet clutch of her cunt around his cock. The smell of sex and sweat and strawberry air freshener. The dust motes dancing in a sliver of sunlight cutting through the rear window. Her eyes, wide and dark, staring up at him.
“A year,” she whispered again, her lips brushing his.
He began to move. Slow, at first, shallow thrusts that made her whimper. Then deeper, harder. The car rocked on its suspension, the springs creaking in time with his thrusts. The sound was obscene—the wet slap of skin, their ragged breaths, the squeak of vinyl. He braced one hand on the seatback above her head, the other gripping her hip, holding her still as he drove into her.
“Yes,” she chanted, her eyes squeezed shut. “Yes, yes, fuck, right there, Johnny, please—”
He could feel his own climax building, a tight coil at the base of his spine. He was losing rhythm, his thrusts becoming frantic, desperate. He was going to come. He was going to come inside her, in the back of this stolen car, and the thought made it even more inevitable.
“Look at me,” he gritted out.
Her eyes flew open. They were glazed with pleasure, but she focused on him.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned her, his voice a rough scrape.
“Do it,” she begged. “Come in me. Fill me up. I want it.”
Her words tipped him over the edge. With a groan that was ripped from his chest, he thrust deep and held there, his body locking as his orgasm tore through him. He felt his cock pulse, once, twice, a hot rush spilling into her, flooding her. He kept his eyes open, watching her face as he emptied himself inside her. She was watching him too, her expression one of awe, of fierce possession.
The pulses subsided. He collapsed on top of her, his weight driving her deeper into the seat. They were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged unison. He was still inside her, softening now, but he didn’t want to pull out. He buried his face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the scent of her skin and their sex.
Her arms came around him, holding him tight. Her fingers traced the knobs of his spine. They lay like that for a long time, the only sound their slowing breaths and the distant, ever-present hum of the freeway.
Finally, he had to move. He shifted, pulling out of her gently. A trickle of his cum leaked out onto the seat between her thighs. The sight of it, the evidence of what they’d just done, sent a fresh jolt through him.
He slumped back onto the floor, his back against the door. Paige didn’t move. She lay on the seat, legs still spread, staring at the stained fabric of the car’s ceiling. A slow smile spread across her face.
“We’re gonna have to steal a lot of cars,” she said, her voice hoarse.
He laughed, a short, breathless sound. He reached for his jeans, pulled them up over his hips without buttoning them. He found her panties in the tangle of clothes and handed them to her. She sat up slowly, wincing a little, and pulled them on. She didn’t put her skirt back on. She just pulled her sweater over her head, covering herself, and then she curled into his side on the floor, her head on his shoulder.
“My turn to ask a truth,” she murmured into his neck.
“Okay.”
She was quiet for a moment. “Are you scared?”
“Of what?”
“Of this. Of it being a year. Of… Christmas. Of next year.”
He thought about it. The fear was there, a cold little stone in his gut. Fear of her family, of college, of money, of everything that waited outside this stolen car. But it was distant. The warmth of her body against his was more immediate. The smell of her in his nose. The feel of his own spend, sticky on his thigh where it had leaked from her.
“No,” he said. It wasn’t entirely true, but in this moment, it was the truest thing he knew.
She lifted her head and kissed him, a soft, closed-mouth press of her lips. “Good,” she said. She rested her head back on his shoulder. “Me neither.”
They sat in the quiet, gathering dusk. The warehouse wall outside the window turned from beige to gold in the dying light. Johnny watched the shadows lengthen across the cracked asphalt of the lot. He held Paige, feeling the steady rise and fall of her breath. The car was a mess. They were a mess. And for the first time in a long time, the future, with its Christmas lights and its unknowns, didn’t feel like a threat waiting in the wings. It felt like something they might just get to keep.
He whispered it into her hair, the promise a secret between her curls and his mouth. "I'm gonna get you something for Christmas. Something real."
She didn't lift her head from his shoulder. "You already did." Her fingers traced the line of his collarbone through his t-shirt. "This. A year of this."
"Not enough."
She was quiet for a long moment. The light through the window was fading from gold to a deep, bruised purple. "My mom gives me jewelry. My dad gives me checks. They're in separate envelopes."
Johnny felt the words land, a dull weight in his chest. He tightened his arm around her. "What do you want?"
"Something that doesn't fit in an envelope."
He kissed the top of her head. The sweater she wore was soft, smelling of her shampoo and, faintly, of sex. "Okay."
They sat until the purple turned to black, until the warehouse wall was just a darker shape against the night sky. The freeway hum was a constant, like blood in their ears. Finally, Paige stirred. "We should go. Marla's sister will kill her if this car is gone too long."
He helped her up. She found her skirt in the dark, stepping into it and zipping it up. She smoothed the sweater down. In the gloom, she looked like any other girl leaving a friend's house. Only he knew what was underneath—the damp panties, the slickness between her thighs that was partly his.
He buttoned his jeans, tucked in his shirt. The stickiness on his thigh had dried, pulling at his skin with every movement. He gathered the empty soda cans and the chip bag, a pathetic attempt at cleaning up a crime scene.
Paige slid into the driver's seat. The engine coughed to life, the headlights cutting two white tunnels through the dark lot. She backed up slowly, the tires crunching over gravel. Neither of them spoke as she navigated back onto the surface streets, heading toward the school.
The streets of Bonita Valle were quiet, just the occasional porch light, the blue glow of a television behind a curtain. It was a school night. Normal kids were doing homework, watching TV, getting ready for bed. Johnny looked at Paige's profile, lit by the dashboard glow. Her jaw was set, her hands at ten and two on the wheel. She drove with a concentration that was almost severe.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Just thinking."
"About?"
"What you're gonna get me." A small smile touched her lips. "Better be good, McHale."
The tease was back in her voice, but it was softer now. Worn at the edges. He reached over, his hand covering hers on the gearshift. She turned her palm up, lacing her fingers through his.
She parked the car exactly where she'd found it, behind the science wing where the streetlight was burned out. The lot was empty, just a few teacher cars far away. The school itself was a hulking shadow, all dark windows and locked doors.
They sat for a minute, listening to the engine tick as it cooled. The silence felt heavier here, charged with the return to reality. Their weekend bubble had officially popped.
"I have to get the keys back to Marla," Paige said, not letting go of his hand.
"Where is she?"
"Library. Study group. She covers for me."
Johnny nodded. The system. He knew it well. He squeezed her hand once, then let go. "I'll walk you."
They got out, the doors thudding shut with a finality that echoed in the quiet lot. The air was cold now, a sharp contrast to the sweat-damp heat of the car. Paige hugged herself, her breath making little clouds in the dark.
They cut across the football field, their shoes sinking into the soft turf. The stadium lights were off, the bleachers just skeletal rows. From the library windows on the second floor of the main building, a warm yellow glow spilled out.
At the side door, Paige stopped. She turned to him, her face pale in the ambient light. "So. Tomorrow."
"Tomorrow," he echoed.
"We just… go to class."
"Yeah."
"And at lunch, we sit together."
"We always sit together."
She bit her lip. "But it's different now. After… everything." She gestured vaguely, a sweep of her hand that took in the weekend, the car, the year.
He understood. The return to routine felt like a betrayal of the intimacy they'd just carved out. Like putting a costume back on. "It's still us," he said, though he wasn't sure he believed it.
She stepped closer, rising on her toes to kiss him. It was a quick, hard press of her lips, a stamp. "Okay." She pulled a key from her skirt pocket. "Wait here. I'll be right back."
She slipped inside the door. He leaned against the cold brick wall, shoving his hands in his pockets. He could hear the distant murmur of a teacher's voice from an open window upstairs, the squeak of a marker on a whiteboard. The normal world, grinding on.
The door opened again a few minutes later. It wasn't Paige. It was Marla Jensen, bundled in a puffy coat, her blonde hair spilling out from a knitted hat. She stopped short when she saw him.
"Oh. Hey, Johnny." Her eyes were wide, flicking from him to the door behind her.
"Hey."
"Paige is just… talking to Mrs. Albright about a makeup quiz. She said to tell you she'll be a sec." The lie was clumsy, delivered in a rushed, high-pitched tone. Her cheeks were pink, and she wouldn't meet his eyes.
"Right."
Marla shifted her weight, hugging a textbook to her chest. "So. You guys had a good weekend?"
It was pure, awkward small talk. The kind you make when you know exactly what someone was just doing and are trying desperately not to acknowledge it. "Yeah. It was good."
"Cool." She nodded too vigorously. "My weekend was… yeah. Bowling."
The word hung in the air between them, charged with a history that felt ancient. The van. The locked doors. Her being kicked out. Johnny felt a strange surge of gratitude toward her, for her part in that first, clumsy collision. "Bowling's fun," he said, because he had to say something.
Marla's eyes finally met his, and for a second, he saw it—the knowledge, the gossipy curiosity, a hint of something like envy. Then she looked away, down at her Keds. "Yeah. Well. I gotta go. My mom's picking me up at the circle."
"See you, Marla."
"Bye, Johnny." She scurried off across the dark lawn, a flash of blonde hair disappearing into the shadows.
The door opened again. Paige emerged, looking relieved. She held up the car keys, then tucked them into her own pocket. "All clear. Sister none the wiser."
"Ran into Marla."
Paige rolled her eyes. "She's so bad at lying. Her ears get red." She linked her arm through his. "Come on. Walk me to my bus stop. It's cold."
They walked around the front of the school, past the flagpole, toward the row of streetlights that marked the student pickup zone. The buses were long gone, just a few cars idling at the curb. One of them was a familiar sedan. Jim was slumped in the passenger seat, his forehead against the window.
Mitchell McHale saw them first. He waved, then rolled down the driver's side window. "Johnny! There you are. Your mom said you had a project."
Johnny felt Paige's arm tense in his. He gave her a quick squeeze before letting go and walking to the car. "Yeah. Just finishing up."
His dad's eyes flicked to Paige, who had hung back a few steps. He smiled, a warm, easy thing. "Hi, Paige. Need a ride?"
"My mom's coming," she said, her voice shifting into its polite, daughterly register. "But thank you, Mr. McHale."
"You kids and your projects." Mitchell shook his head, but he was still smiling. "Get in, son. Your brother's half asleep already."
Johnny turned back to Paige. This was the goodbye. In front of his dad, his brother, under the harsh fluorescent streetlight. No kiss. No long embrace. Just two kids after school.
"See you tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," she echoed. Her eyes held his, and in them, he saw the entire afternoon—the warehouse, the dust motes, the way she'd chanted his name. A secret, glowing between them in the mundane light.
He got in the car. The interior smelled of french fries and his dad's aftershave. Jim mumbled something incoherent without opening his eyes.
As his dad pulled away from the curb, Johnny looked back. Paige was still standing there, a small, solitary figure under the light, watching them go. She lifted a hand in a faint wave.
He waved back.
"She's a nice girl," his dad said, merging into traffic.
"Yeah."
"You two spending a lot of time together." It wasn't a question. It was an observation, delivered with a neutral tone that Johnny couldn't decipher.
"I guess."
Mitchell nodded, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of a classic rock song on the radio. "Just remember, son. You've got college apps. SATs. This is the home stretch."
The words were a gentle pressure, a reminder of the track he was on. The track that led away from here. "I know."
"I'm not saying don't have fun. Just… keep your eye on the prize." His dad reached over and ruffled his hair, a gesture that hadn't changed since Johnny was ten. "You're a smart kid. You'll figure it out."
Johnny looked out the window at the passing houses, their Christmas lights already starting to appear—strings of multicolored bulbs along rooftops, a few inflatable snowmen on lawns. The prize. A scholarship. A dorm room. A future. It felt abstract, a series of boxes to check. The concrete thing was the smell of Paige's skin, the weight of her head on his shoulder, the promise he'd whispered into her hair.
When they got home, the house was warm, smelling of the meatloaf his mom had made for dinner. Karen was at the kitchen table, grading papers. She looked up, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. "There are my boys. How was the project?"
"Fine," Johnny said, dropping his backpack by the stairs.
"You eat?"
"I'm not hungry."
She gave him a look, the mom look that saw through everything. "There's leftovers in the fridge. Heat some up before you go to bed."
He nodded, heading for the stairs. Jim was already halfway up, dragging his feet.
In his room, Johnny closed the door. The silence was immediate, a blanket. He shrugged off his jacket, the scent of Paige—strawberry shampoo, sweat, sex—rising from the collar. He didn't hang it up. He dropped it on his desk chair.
He lay on his bed, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars stuck to his ceiling from when he was nine. They didn't glow anymore. They were just faded green stickers.
His body felt heavy, spent, but his mind was racing. Christmas. Three weeks away. He had maybe forty bucks saved from helping his uncle move furniture last month. Forty bucks didn't buy "something real." It bought a sweater. A CD. Something that fit in an envelope.
He thought about her house, the big one on the hill with the columns. The checks. The separate envelopes. His promise felt stupid now, a kid's boast. What could he possibly give her that would matter in that world?
He rolled over, punching his pillow. The frustration was a physical ache, right beside the lingering, pleasant soreness in his thighs from the afternoon. He wanted to give her something that would erase the checks, the jewelry, the lonely echo of her house. Something that would say, *I see you. I know you. You are mine.*
He must have fallen asleep, because the next thing he knew, his door was cracking open, spilling a wedge of hallway light into the room. His mom peeked in. "Johnny? You awake?"
"Yeah."
She came in, sitting on the edge of his bed. She was still in her teaching clothes, a soft sweater and slacks. She put a hand on his forehead, like she used to when he was sick. "You feeling okay?"
"Just tired."
"Mmm." She smoothed his hair back. Her hand was cool. "Dad said he saw Paige tonight."
"Yeah."
"She's over here so much, she's practically part of the furniture." His mom's voice was gentle, teasing. "I like her. She's got spirit."
Johnny felt a lump form in his throat. He stared at the ceiling. "Mom?"
"Honey?"
"What did you get Dad for Christmas when you were my age?"
She was quiet for a moment. He could hear her thinking. "We weren't dating at your age. We were just friends. But… the first Christmas after we started dating, I was a senior. He was a freshman in college, broke as a joke." She smiled in the dark. "I made him a mix tape. Songs that reminded me of him. And I baked about a thousand cookies because I thought boys liked that."
"Did he?"
"He ate maybe three. Gave the rest to his dorm. But he kept the tape. Played it until it wore out." She patted his leg. "Why? You stumped on what to get her?"
"Something like that."
"It doesn't have to be expensive, Johnny. It just has to be from you. That's what matters." She stood up, leaning over to kiss his forehead. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow's Monday."
After she left, he lay in the dark, thinking about a mix tape. A worn-out cassette. It wasn't enough. Not for Paige. A tape could break. A cookie could crumble.
He wanted to give her something permanent. A landmark. Proof they were here.
He got out of bed, went to his desk, and turned on the lamp. He pulled a blank sheet of notebook paper from a binder. At the top, he wrote, in his careful block print: CHRISTMAS.
He stared at the word. Then he drew a line through it. Beneath it, he wrote: FOR PAIGE.
He tapped the pencil against the paper. Ideas came, stupid ones. A necklace? Too much like her mom. Concert tickets? He couldn't afford them. A poem? He wasn't a poet.
His eyes landed on his jacket slung over the chair. He got up, went to it, and felt in the pockets. His fingers closed around a small, smooth object. He pulled it out.
It was a flat, grey stone, about the size of a quarter. He'd picked it up at the canyon turnout weeks ago, when they'd fought and then fucked and then found their way back to each other. He'd put it in his pocket and forgotten about it.
He held it in his palm. It was just a rock. Weathered smooth by time and water. Nothing special.
But it was from a place that was theirs. A coordinate.
He sat back down at the desk, the stone cool in his hand. He looked at the blank page. FOR PAIGE.
He didn't write anything else. He just put the stone in the center of the page and left it there, a silent, solid promise in the pool of lamplight.