Chapter 2

Jessa

I tiptoe down the hallway, holding my breath. If Jackson’s awake, he’ll have some comment locked and loaded about my clothes, my hair, or just… me. I’d rather start the day without it.

Too late. His bedroom door creaks open, and there he is—my twin, my other half, my betrayer—all six feet of cocky quarterback standing in my way.

“Morning, Jess,” he says, eyes flicking over my shirt. “Nice… tent.”

I don’t even answer. I just shoulder past him, my cheeks heating.

“Aw, come on, don’t be so sensitive,” he calls after me.

Sensitive. That’s what he calls me when his words cut deep, like it’s my fault for feeling anything.

By the time I make it to the kitchen, Mom’s already gone. She leaves early most mornings, and I can’t decide if I’m grateful or jealous. Grateful that she doesn’t see me like this, jealous that she never has time for us.

Jackson grabs a protein shake from the fridge and downs it like he’s in some athlete commercial. I butter a piece of toast, trying to look invisible.

And then, of course, the devil himself arrives.

Noah Carter.

He strolls right into our kitchen like he owns it, helmet tucked under his arm, hair still damp from his shower, all six-foot-two of golden-boy arrogance. He’s wearing his jersey, number 14, stretched across broad shoulders like it was custom made for him.

And because I’m apparently a glutton for punishment, my stupid brain notices the curve of his jaw, the way his damp hair curls at the edges, the clean soap-and-sweat smell that clings to him. I hate myself for noticing.

“Morning, sunshine,” he smirks at me.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t call me that.”

“What? Thought you’d like a nickname.” His grin widens, like he knows exactly how to get under my skin.

Jackson laughs and bumps fists with him. “Ignore her, bro. Ready for practice?”

“Always,” Noah says. He glances at my toast, eyebrows lifting. “Extra butter again?”

I slam the knife down. “Seriously? Do you ever get tired of commenting on what I eat?”

Jackson snorts. “Don’t mind him, Jess.”

But I mind. God, I mind so much.

The two of them head out to the truck, leaving me with a cold piece of toast and the familiar ache in my chest. It’s the same ache I’ve had since I was ten years old.

The ache of realizing my twin—my best friend—chose someone else.

At school, it doesn’t get better. It never does.

The minute I step into the hallway, eyes flick my way. Whispers. Snickers. The same crap I’ve been hearing since middle school.

“Damn, she’s bigger than the linebackers.”

“Bet she eats more than the team.”

I keep walking, head down, pretending the words don’t stab me. But they do. Every single one leaves another scar I can’t cover with oversized clothes.

Jackson doesn’t notice, or maybe he does and just doesn’t care. He’s too busy soaking in the glory of being the starting quarterback. Too busy laughing with Noah and the rest of the team.

Noah. Always Noah.

The worst part is that when he laughs, it’s this deep, warm sound that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. When he smiles, girls melt into puddles. And when his hazel eyes catch the light, they almost glow.

I hate that I’ve noticed all of that.

I hate that part of me gets why the entire female population of Crestwood High would kill for a chance with him.

I hate that part of me, some twisted little part buried deep down, remembers what it felt like to have a crush on him before he turned into my tormentor.

Mariah finds me by my locker. Thank God for her. She’s the one good thing that came out of all this—the girl who saw me breaking at the movies three years ago and decided not to let me stand alone.

“You look like you’re ready to murder someone,” she says, tucking a strand of her blonde hair behind her ear.

“Noah,” I mutter. “As usual.”

She makes a face. “Ugh. You’d think after all these years he’d get bored.”

“He doesn’t. It’s like tormenting me is his favorite sport, right after football.”

Mariah sighs. “Well, senior year, right? Almost done.”

Almost. But almost feels like forever.

Lunch is the worst. Always has been.

I sit with Mariah at the edge of the cafeteria, away from the football table. But no matter how far away I am, Noah still finds me with his eyes. I feel them, sharp as daggers, hot as a spotlight.

Today’s no different. I’m halfway through my sandwich when I hear him across the room.

“Hey, Jackson! Better hide your food or Jess will eat it all before you blink.”

Laughter erupts from the table. Jackson doesn’t defend me. He never does.

I keep my head down, cheeks burning, praying no one else joins in. But of course they do.

“She could be the team mascot,” someone says. “Put her in pads, she’ll bulldoze the defense!”

The guys howl with laughter.

Mariah leans across the table, her eyes flashing. “Ignore them. They’re idiots.”

But ignoring doesn’t make it stop.

I grip my sandwich so tightly my knuckles turn white. In my head, I imagine standing up, marching over there, and telling Noah exactly what he is—a bully. A coward. A pathetic jerk who gets off on tearing me down.

But I don’t move.

Because I know what would happen if I did. He’d smirk. He’d say something sharper. And Jackson would laugh right alongside him.

Just like always.

That night, lying in bed, I stare at the ceiling.

This is my last year. One more year of Noah Carter. One more year of Jackson pretending I don’t exist except when it’s convenient. One more year of being “the fat twin,” the joke, the nobody.

After graduation, I’ll be free. College will be my reset button. Nobody will know me as Jackson’s sister or Noah’s favorite target. Nobody will remember the locker full of trash bags or the jokes about butter.

It’ll just be me.

But even as I tell myself that, my brain betrays me. Because it’s not Noah’s insults that replay behind my eyes. It’s his face. His stupidly perfect, sharp-jawed, broad-shouldered, movie-star face.

And I hate myself for it.

The next morning, the cycle repeats. Jackson teasing, Mom absent, me shrinking into myself.

But when Noah shows up, there’s a shift. Not big, not obvious—just a flicker.

He catches me staring.

I don’t mean to. Honest. I’m just zoning out, and my gaze lands on him, on the way his T-shirt stretches across his chest, on the strong line of his throat as he tilts his head back to laugh at something Jackson says.

And then his hazel eyes lock on mine.

For a second, I can’t breathe.

There’s no smirk, no insult, no sharp edge. Just Noah looking at me like… like he sees me.

Then he blinks, and it’s gone. Replaced by the same cocky grin I know too well.

“Like what you see, Sunshine?”

My face burns. “In your dreams.”

But that flicker stays with me all day.

And it terrifies me more than all his insults combined. Because what if—just what if—the boy who’s made my life hell for years is the one I can’t stop noticing?

What if the one I hate most is the one I’m secretly drawn to? And what if he knows it?