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Milo is worth more to me than all of them put together.
With that morally questionable thought firmly planted in my head, I start the car and make my way toward Fairhope High, hoping to find him before Sienna does.
By the time I pull into the school parking lot, a wave of nostalgia hits me so hard that I almost forget why I’m here in the first place.
The building has changed considerably since I last walked through its doors. The old red-brick exterior has been given a facelift, with a modern glass entrance replacing the heavy wooden doors I remember from my teenage years. A new wing now sits on the east side, and the landscaping looks suspiciously expensive for a town that spent most of my childhood complaining about budget cuts.
Still, underneath all those shiny improvements, the bones are still the same.
The same long corridors. The same rows of lockers lining the walls.
Even the faint smell of floor polish and cafeteria food seems to have survived the renovation.
I make my way through the entrance, following the distant sound of music toward the gymnasium, all while pretending not to notice the stares being thrown my way.
Talk about a trip down memory lane. Some things really do never change.
Just like back in high school, the Fairhope rumor mill has once again decided that I’m persona non grata. Only this time, instead of being the poor little gutter rat who dared to fall in love with the wrong boy, I’m apparently a cold-blooded murderer who’s been picking off her former classmates for sport.
Quite the promotion, if you ask me.
I catch a couple of women whispering as I pass them, their eyes following me until I turn the corner. Another former classmate actually stops talking mid-sentence when he sees me approaching, only to resume his conversation once I’m safely out of earshot.
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
You’d think after all this time, these people would’ve found something better to do with their lives than gossip about me.
But whatever. This is my last night in Fairhope, provided Chief Neptune finally pulls his head out of his ass and lets me leave tomorrow. After that, I won’t have to see any of these people ever again unless I actually want to.
Believe me, the list of people I’d willingly come back for is painfully short.
The moment I step into the gym, I’m greeted by a blast of music and enough decorations to make me wonder if the reunion committee spent the entire budget on tonight’s party.
The basketball court has been transformed into a dance floor, with round tables arranged along the sidelines and strings of fairy lights hanging from the rafters. The basketball hoops have been raised out of the way, and a makeshift bar has been set up near the bleachers, where a few familiar faces are already helping themselves to what I assume are very generous pours.
A DJ is stationed beneath the scoreboard, playing a mix of songs popular during our senior year, while a massive projection screen above the far wall displays photographs from our time at Fairhope High.
Most of them, of course, feature the Reds.
One shows Peyton and her little entourage posing at football games. The rest are more of the same. Accepting some ridiculous award. Being crowned prom queen. Standing in the middle of the cheerleading squad, grinning like she owns the entire fucking school.
Which, to be fair, she pretty much did.
But every now and then, different faces appear. Friends I haven’t thought about in years, but whose memory still makes my chest ache.
I see one with Paige laughing at something just outside the frame. Another with Dylan and Kody posing in their football uniforms. A third one with Brandon looking thoroughly unimpressed with whoever decided to take his picture.
And then there’s Milo.
My heart gives a familiar little squeeze when a photograph of him flashes across the screen, his arm slung around Dylan’s shoulders, that devastating grin of his lighting up his entire face.
God, he was beautiful.
I stare at the photograph for longer than I should, wondering where he is tonight and whether he’s even planning to show up.
“Oh, sorry,” I mutter when I accidentally bump into someone while making my way through the crowd.
“Watch where you’re going,” a familiar voice snaps.
