Chapter 8

Elle

The hallways were as chaotic as ever on a Monday morning. I kept my head down, weaving through the crowd with my bag slung over my shoulder. After the weekend I’d had, I wanted nothing more than to disappear into the background.

“Elle!” Jasmine’s voice rang out above the noise, and I spotted her practically sprinting down the hall.

She dodged a group of freshmen, skidded to a stop in front of me, and rested her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. “Where have you been?” she asked, straightening up. “I’ve been texting you all weekend!”

I blinked at her, confused. “What do you mean? We tallied remember! You didn’t answer any of my messages after the party.”

Her face fell, and her usual teasing demeanor slipped away for a moment. “Oh, uh… sorry about that, I was a little drunk so I don’t remember anything.” she muttered, fidgeting with the strap of her bag. “My mom grounded me after the party. I didn’t get home until 3 o’clock in the morning.”

“Grounded?!” I pressed, narrowing my eyes at her. “Jas, I was worried. You were gone after the party, and no one knew where you went.

She avoided my gaze, her lips pressing into a thin line. “It’s nothing, E. Just stop stressing about it, at the end of the day we’re both alive right?”

I studied her for a moment, but the look on her face told me I wouldn’t get anything out of her right now. “Fine,” I said with a sigh. “But you’re telling me everything later.”

“Deal,” Jasmine said quickly, her grin returning as if nothing had happened. “Now, can we please talk about you? You still haven’t told me what happened with Luke O’Connor.”

My face immediately flushed, and I rolled my eyes as I turned to open my locker. “There’s nothing to tell, Jas. My car broke down, he happened to be there, and he gave me a ride. That’s it.”

“Uh-huh,” she said, her tone dripping with disbelief. “So you’re telling me you spent all that time with Luke—the brooding, mysterious, blue-collar hottie—and nothing happened?”

“Exactly,” I said, grabbing my books. “Nothing happened.”

Jasmine looked like she wanted to press the issue, but thankfully, the warning bell rang, cutting her off. “We’re not done with this conversation,” she said as we headed toward homeroom.

I groaned internally, knowing that Jasmine wouldn’t let this go anytime soon. But as much as I hated to admit it, my thoughts weren’t entirely free of Luke, either. The way he’d looked at me, the way he’d spoken so gently when he said, “I just wanted to help”—it was all stuck in my head, no matter how hard I tried to push it away.

The rest of the day was a blur. Classes came and went, but I was too distracted to focus on anything. Between Jasmine’s strange behavior, the memory of Luke, and Dylan’s sudden attention, I felt like my life was spinning out of control.

By the time lunch rolled around, I was exhausted. Jasmine and I grabbed our usual seats, and she launched into a story about some drama she’d heard over the weekend. I tried to pay attention, but my mind kept wandering.

“Elle?” Jasmine’s voice snapped me back to reality. “Are you even listening?”

“Sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “What were you saying?”

She gave me a suspicious look but didn’t press me. “I was talking about Dylan. Did you see how he was looking at you in homeroom?”

“No, because he wasn’t looking at me,” I said flatly.

Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s totally into you, Elle. It’s so obvious.”

“Can we not talk about this right now?” I said, pushing my food around on my plate. “I have enough on my mind.”

“Fine,” Jasmine said, leaning back in her chair. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you when Dylan finally makes his move.”

I groaned, but the truth was, Jasmine’s words stuck with me for the rest of the day. Dylan had always been friendly, but now I didn’t want to worry about that but I guess that’s what happens when someone has a crush on you. Go figure.

It was too much. Everything was too much.

After school, I headed out to the parking lot, dreading the drive home. My dad had already arranged for me to get the car checked out at a shop, but the idea of dealing with mechanics and explanations was not appealing.

The drive to the repair shop felt like a countdown to disaster. My car’s engine sputtered and whined the entire way, and I was sure it was going to give out before I even made it. But somehow, it held on, and I pulled into the parking lot of OC Auto—a modest but busy shop with cars lined up and workers moving purposefully between them.

The sign over the entrance was faded, the edges of the lettering weathered by years of sun and rain. I parked and climbed out of the car, clutching my bag nervously. The smell of motor oil and grease was heavy in the air, and I hesitated for a moment before heading inside.

The front office was small but clean, with a desk piled high with paperwork and a little radio playing old country music in the background. Behind the desk stood a man who looked to be in his late forties or early fifties, with graying hair and kind, familiar eyes. His smile was warm as he looked up and saw me.

“You must be Elle Sinclair,” he said, his Southern drawl soft but distinct.

I blinked, startled. “Uh, yes. That’s me sir. How did you—?”

“Your dad called ahead,” he explained, chuckling as he reached for a clipboard. “Said his daughter’s car was acting up and needed some attention. I told him we’d take care of you.”

I nodded, relaxing slightly. “Thank you. It’s been giving me trouble since Saturday night, and I don’t think it can go much longer.”

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” the man said, his grin widening. “We’ll have you fixed up in no time. Go ahead and fill out this paperwork while one of my boys grabs your keys.”

As I sat down in the waiting area and started filling out the forms, I couldn’t shake the nagging feeling that I knew the man from somewhere. His face, his voice—it all felt oddly familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Maybe he reminded me of someone I’d seen before?

A few minutes later, I heard the sound of boots on the tiled floor. I glanced up and immediately froze.

Standing there, clipboard in hand, was Luke O’Connor. His hair was messy, his shirt slightly smeared with grease, and his expression was one of pure shock as his eyes met mine.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.