Prologue

Prologue

“My heart’s been borrowed and yours has been blue,”

– Lover, Taylor Swift

I love Levi Coldwell. I’m in love with Levi Coldwell. My best friend of four years and counting.

It wasn’t love at first sight when we met freshman year. Especially when we both had braces and hormonal acne that changed location on our faces every day. The first day of high school, we found ourselves in two of the same classes, one we were each struggling with.

One audible sigh from Levi as he tried threading a needle in Sewing, and a C- on my first English assignment, was all it took to start helping one another.

I taught him how to sew and he helped me edit my essays. It was exclusively a business transaction two days a week, until we started talking about things that weren’t sewing or writing.

We had a list of adorations in common: our love for films, dedication to academics, loyalty to family, and the grief we went through—we were going through. We both had experiences with losing a father, and I think that’s what bonded us first.

When I had met him freshman year, my dad had passed three

months prior, while Mr. Coldwell had already been gone for two years.

Levi still carried grief with him like an empty wine bottle.

Fast forward four years and we were the best of friends, about to graduate high school together.

Years of texting every day, spending Saturday nights watching movies, and eating school lunches together had become habitual. They were my equivalent to having a morning routine or praying at night.

Months of seeing him in the stands as he cheered me on at my softball games while I hit foul balls, and nights full of tripping on that one cracked sidewalk on the way to each other’s houses.

I’ve witnessed him bake cupcakes for his sisters’ school functions, pulled their hair into ponytails, and sat still as they painted our nails. Those moments revealed every aspect of a person. And God, have I enjoyed every single one of his aspects.

We had become the type of best friends who came over for dinner every week and whose Moms knew each other’s most recent drama, gossiping over gift shop cups of coffee on the porch.

He lived down the street from me, so I’d walk over and have dinner with his family on Sunday nights, laughing as Trish recalled old stories and his sisters threw chips at each other across the table.

But it changed when junior year rolled around.

Levi had finally returned from being away with his family in Vermont during Christmas break. I had been bored all December waiting for him. So the day he returned, I rushed through the hall to the second locker on the left from our English class to see him.

Only to find him kissing someone.

My stomach clenched spotting him kissing Jennifer O’Brien. I was blindsided seeing him pressed up against that locker with Jennifer’s hands crawling across his body like she was etching a sonnet into his skin. I couldn’t remember how long I stared; I couldn’t stop. It was like catching your celebrity crush in person. My throat dried up, my eyes filled with tears, and my feet refused to move until someone bumped into me, forcing me out of the way.

I had seen Vi—Levi—leave for dates and go to prom with other girls and I was always completely fine! There were always twinges of jealousy, but I brushed it off as protectiveness for my best friend. But I had never seen him kiss anyone before. That…that felt wrong—intrusive actually.

And when I saw Jennifer taking his lips in hers, I regretted it instantly, because every emotion I didn’t know existed rose to the surface.

It’s been almost a year since it happened, and I still couldn’t erase the memory. But it was Senior Prom tonight and graduation tomorrow, and I couldn’t put this off any longer.

Scrapbooking didn’t work; watching endless romance films didn’t work; embroidering and quilting didn’t work; and writing a list of all of his cons definitely didn’t work because he had none.

The only con I could come up with was that he didn’t try to kiss me after the homecoming football game in September. We had been sitting in his car outside my house, and I had glanced at his lips at least twice.

Anyways, none of it worked. I still loved him. And I couldn’t pretend anymore like my heart didn’t hit my ribcage when he winked at me in class or brushed my hand—and especially

not when

he twirled strands of my hair when we sat across from each other. I couldn’t pretend that my throat didn’t resemble the tightness of a twisted towel when girls flirted with him at parties. I couldn’t pretend like it meant nothing anymore.

I had to tell him, tonight, before we graduated tomorrow and left for college at the end of the summer. I couldn’t suffer another summer and then wonder what if when he went to college and possibly met the love of his life.

The problem was: tonight was here now and I was terrified. I spent hours fixing and retailoring my dress so it fit perfectly, but

now it was too tight as I downed my second glass of spiked soda—courtesy of the hockey team that brought vodka—under the twinkly lights hanging around the overpriced prom venue.

Please don’t let that affect your opinion of me though because this wasn’t me. Drinking was not something I found pleasing by any means, and I definitely wasn’t someone who was known by the hockey team.

I saw Molly Ringwald do this in a film once for confidence so

I thought it couldn’t hurt. But as I watched Levi from a distance talking to a few friends, my stomach still clenched and pinched with anxiety. His dark grey suit clung to his long legs and made his dark hair and eyes look edgier than usual. He always had this cool look about him with his brown, curling hair, tall posture, and captivating hazel eyes.

My gaze must’ve been heavy because he glanced at me, catching me in the act. My heart stopped in panic, but he simply mouthed, hey

punk, and winked at me, continuing on with his conversation.

Pushing my hand out to the concerningly mature-looking

hockey player for another drink, I swallowed it all before my mind could register the taste. I did come here with a (platonic) date by the name of Jeremiah. He was helping me figure out what to say to Levi tonight, resulting in an incredulously long note on my phone. Speaking of, where was he? The last time I had seen my phone, it was in his hand.

Crap, crap, crap. I couldn’t do this without him or the phone.

Why was my face wet? Running my hand across my cheek, I realized that I was crying. Of course I wasn’t a relieved, happy drunk, but a sad, anxious drunk.

Clutching my dress to avoid tripping, I rushed into one of the side hallways to pull myself together. Once I found privacy, my body relaxed and my tears flowed. Where was Jeremiah with my phone?

Tap, tap, tap. The tears in my eyes blur my vision enough that I couldn’t see the person approaching me, just the sound of their

shoes. Squeezing my eyes shut, I pray they just keep walking. Maybe if I closed my eyes, it’ll be as if no one sees the embarrassing mess sitting on the floor.

“Hey, hey, hey, what’s wrong, Daisy?”

Only three people in my life referred to me by my middle name, and only one of them was here.

My eyes opened on command at the sound of Levi’s voice, watching him crouch down on the floor in front of me with urgency. His hands immediately cupped my face, tilting it up, forcing me to meet his eyes, where I found that his own face looked distressed. My heart pounded harder in my chest, warming my cheeks at the feeling of his palms on my face.

This was too close; he was too close. Could he see my love for him painted across my face? Could he tell from the way I

shuddered when he touched me, that every fiber of my being was made to be touched by him?

How did we go from friends to this?

Tears refused to reel themselves in. But when I registered the absolute devastation on his face, my heart refilled with the hope that he may feel the same way.

Ten minutes later, he broke my heart. And I didn’t see him for four years.

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