Chapter 2

Savannah looks different from my side of town. Sure, we’ve got the same moss-covered trees and warm Georgia sunsets, but everything here feels… grittier. The streets are cracked, the paint on the houses is peeling, and the air carries a heaviness that reminds you life isn’t handed to you on a silver platter.

I’d be lying if I said I hated it, though. It’s home.

My family isn’t rich—not by a long shot. My dad’s been a mechanic since before I was born, running his shop out on Whitaker Street. I’ve been working there after school ever since I was old enough to hold a wrench.

“Luke, hand me the socket wrench,” Dad called from under the hood of a busted-up pickup.

“Got it,” I said, grabbing the tool and passing it over.

He grunted in thanks and kept working. Dad’s not much for conversation, but we’ve always understood each other. Fixing cars is like our own secret language—a way to say everything without saying anything.

By the time we finished for the day, the sun was starting to dip below the horizon. I wiped the grease off my hands and headed inside. Mom was at the kitchen table, sorting through a stack of bills. Her face was tight, like it always was when money was on her mind.

“Everything okay, Mom?” I asked, grabbing a glass of water.

“Same as usual,” she said, managing a small smile. “How was the shop today?”

“Busy,” I said, sitting down across from her. “Couple of tourists came in with a flat, and we had to fix that old Chevy again.”

“That thing’s a piece of junk,” she said, shaking her head.

“Yeah, but it keeps us busy,” I said with a shrug.

After dinner, I headed to my room. It wasn’t much—just a bed, a desk, and a few posters on the walls—but it was mine. I flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling, thinking about the same thing I thought about most nights: how to get out of here.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family, but I’ve always wanted more than this. More than the same old routine, the same streets, the same struggles.

That’s when my phone buzzed.

Dylan: Party at my place Friday. You in?

I snorted. Dylan Jacobs lived in the fancy part of town, the kind of place where people threw parties just because they could. I’d been to one or two before, usually dragged along by my buddy Charlie, who always had a knack for getting us invited to things we didn’t belong at.

Me: Maybe. What’s the occasion?

Dylan: Does it matter? Just show up. Bring Charlie.

I tossed the phone onto my bed and stared out the window. A party sounded like a nice distraction, but I wasn’t sure I was in the mood for fake smiles and overpriced beer. Still, it beat sitting around here all night.

The next day at school, Charlie was already talking about it.

“You going to Dylan’s?” he asked as we walked through the crowded hallway.

“Thinking about it,” I said, dodging a group of freshmen.

“You should. His parties are insane. Last time, someone drove a golf cart into the pool,” Charlie said, grinning.

“Yeah, sounds real classy,” I said, rolling my eyes.

Charlie nudged me. “Come on, man. When’s the last time you had any fun?”

I shrugged. “I have fun.”

“No, you fix cars and brood. That’s not the same thing,” he said, slinging an arm around my shoulders.

“I don’t brood,” I said, shoving him off.

“You totally do. And besides, Dylan’s parties are where all the rich kids hang out. You never know who you’ll meet,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

“Yeah, because I’m sure the rich kids are just dying to hang out with me,” I said, shoving a book into my locker.

“You’d be surprised,” Charlie said with a smirk.