My Bestfriend's Boy

AVA'S POV

The first day of spring semester always carried this particular energy—like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. I’d felt it since I walked through the main doors of Westbrook High, the familiar smell of floor wax and old books wrapping around me like a worn coat.

What I didn’t know was that something was about to happen. Something that would rearrange my entire world.

I slid into my usual seat in third-period English by the window where the afternoon light made everything look softer.

Mr. Henderson was already at his desk, shuffling papers with the distracted air of a man who’d been teaching the same curriculum for twenty years and had stopped being surprised by anything.

Mia was late, which was unusual. She was usually perched on the edge of my desk by now, filling the air with whatever gossip had surfaced during first period. I pulled out my copy of The Great Gatsby—we’d been dissecting it for three weeks, and I’d grown to hate the green light almost as much as I loved the prose—and tried to focus on the notes I’d taken the day before.

The door opened, and I looked up automatically.

It wasn’t Mia.

A boy walked in, and the room’s ambient noise dimmed by a few decibels. He was tall, with dark hair that fell across his forehead in a way that looked deliberate but probably wasn’t. His jaw was sharp, his cheekbones high, and he moved with an easy confidence that didn’t seem forced. He wore a plain black hoodie and carried a single notebook, like he’d decided school wasn’t worth the effort of a bag.

Mr. Henderson looked up, blinked, then consulted a piece of paper on his desk. “Ah. You must be Ethan Blake. Everyone, this is Ethan. He’ll be joining us for the remainder of the semester. Ethan, find a seat, asap.”

There was an empty desk two rows ahead of me, but Ethan’s gaze swept the room and landed somewhere else. It landed on me.

I felt a jolt, like static electricity, and quickly looked down at my book. When I glanced up again, he’d taken the desk beside the empty one—the desk Mia usually occupied.

Great. Now I’d have to deal with her commentary about him for the rest of the week.

Class dragged. I tried to pay attention to Mr. Henderson’s lecture on symbolism, but my eyes kept drifting to the back of Ethan’s head. He took notes without looking at his paper, his handwriting neat and slanted. He never once turned around.

When the bell rang, I packed my bag slowly, waiting for Mia to appear. She came bounding through the door a moment later, breathless, her curls escaping from her ponytail.

“Sorry, sorry, I was talking to Ms. Alvarez about the history project—oh!” She stopped mid‑sentence, spotting Ethan as he stood to leave. “Ethan! I didn’t know you were in this class.”

He turned, and his expression shifted from distant to warm. “Mia. Hey.”

She threw her arms around him in a hug that he returned with a kind of fond resignation. “You’re really here. I can’t believe you’re really here.”

“My aunt’s place is fifteen minutes away. Where else was I going to go to school?”

“I know, but still.” She pulled back, grinning. “Everyone, this is Ethan. He’s a family friend—our moms do book club together. He’s basically a genius. Early admission to Northwood.”

I’d heard of Northwood. It was one of the best universities in the state, maybe the country. I tried not to look impressed.

Mia grabbed my arm and tugged me forward. “Ethan, this is my best friend, Ava. Ava, Ethan.”

I offered a small smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” His eyes held mine for a moment longer than necessary, and I felt that jolt again.

“We’re going to lunch,” Mia announced, already linking her arm through his. “You’re sitting with us.”

“Am I?”

“Yes. Non‑negotiable.” She turned to me, her expression conspiratorial. “You’re cool with that, right?”

“Of course,” I said, because what else was I supposed to say?

Lunch that day was the loudest it had ever been.

Our usual table was in the corner of the cafeteria, the one with the good sightline to the courtyard. I’d claimed it at the beginning of freshman year and had defended it ever since. Today, it felt smaller than usual, because Ethan took the seat directly across from me and suddenly the space between us seemed charged.

Mia did most of the talking, which was typical. She told Ethan about the teachers, the best places to get coffee off‑campus, the unspoken rules of the senior parking lot. He listened, nodded, asked occasional questions, but every so often his gaze would flick to me, and I’d quickly look away.

“So, Ava,” he said during a lull, and I was startled by the sound of my own name. “What’s your take on Westbrook? Mia’s making it sound like a prison.”

I glanced at Mia, who was grinning. “It’s not a prison. It’s just… a place.”

“That’s the most non‑answer I’ve ever heard.”

“I’m saving my opinions for when I know you better.” I meant it as a joke, but his lips curved into a slow smile that made my stomach flip.

“Fair enough.”

Mia watched the exchange with barely contained glee. When Ethan excused himself to throw away his trash, she leaned across the table and hissed, “He likes you.”

“He just met me.”

“I have a sixth sense about these things. He’s never looked at anyone like that.”

I rolled my eyes, but my face was warm. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not. Just wait.”

The “just wait” turned out to be approximately two weeks.

It started small. Ethan began walking me to English after third period, even though his next class was on the other side of the building. He’d fall into step beside me in the hallway, his hands in his pockets, and ask me what I thought about whatever we’d discussed in class.

“You actually do the reading,” he said one afternoon, sounding genuinely surprised. “Most people just skim the summaries.”

“I like reading,” I said, hugging my books to my chest. “Is that weird?”

“No. It’s refreshing.”

Then came the texts. He sent me a meme about Mr. Henderson’s obsession with Gatsby, and I replied with a laughing emoji. Then he sent a song he thought I’d like. I sent one back. Within days, the texts became a constant thread running through my days—good morning, what did you think of the history test, did you see the sunset tonight, are you awake?

By the end of the first month, I was staying up past midnight just to keep the conversation going. I’d lie in bed with my phone pressed to my chest, smiling at the ceiling, feeling like I was floating.

Mia noticed, of course. She noticed everything.

“You’re gone,” she announced one afternoon, sitting on my bed while I tried—and failed—to focus on my chemistry homework. “Completely, utterly gone.”

“I’m right here.”

“Your body is. Your brain is somewhere else.” She grabbed my phone off the nightstand before I could stop her. “Let’s see what’s so interesting.”

“Mia!”

She held it out of reach, scrolling. “Oh my God. You texted him at 1:00 AM. Last night.”

“I was awake.”

“You were talking to him.” She dropped the phone and grabbed my shoulders, her face inches from mine. “Ava Monroe. Do you like Ethan Blake?”

I opened my mouth to deny it, but nothing came out. Because denying it would be a lie, and Mia would know. She always knew.

“Yes,” I admitted, the word barely a whisper.

She squealed so loudly my mom called up the stairs to ask if everything was okay.

The night Ethan asked me to be his girlfriend, the air was warm for April, and the sky was scattered with stars that you could actually see if you got far enough from the main roads.

He’d texted me to meet him at the park near my house. When I got there, he was sitting on the swings, his long legs pushing him back and forth in a lazy rhythm. The streetlights painted his hair in shades of blue and black.

“You came,” he said, like he was surprised.

“You asked.”

He stopped the swing with his feet and turned to face me. In the dim light, I could see he was nervous. Ethan Blake, who walked into a new school like he owned it, who never seemed to sweat a test or a social situation, looked nervous.

“I’ve been wanting to say something,” he started, “but I didn’t want to mess it up.”

“Mess what up?”

“This.” He gestured between us. “Whatever this is.”

I sat on the swing next to him, keeping my voice light. “I thought it was just talking.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “Yeah. That’s what I told myself too. But it’s not. It hasn’t been for a while.”

I looked down at my hands, gripping the chains. My palms were sweating.

“Ava.” He waited until I looked up. “I like you. Like, really like you. And I know I’m only here for a few more months, and I know I’ll be leaving for school in the fall, but I don’t want to pretend I don’t feel this. So I’m asking—do you want to be my girlfriend?”

The world seemed to hold its breath.

I thought about all the reasons to say no. The timing. The distance that was already written into our future. The fact that he’d be gone, and I’d be here, and nothing this good ever lasted.

Then I looked at his face—open, hopeful, nothing like the cool, untouchable guy who’d walked into English class—and I felt all those reasons crumble.

“Yes,” I said.

He smiled. It was the kind of smile that made you believe in happy endings.

Then he leaned over, his hand finding mine on the swing chain, and kissed me for the first time. Soft, tentative, like I was something precious.

When we pulled apart, he was still smiling. “Good.”

“Yeah,” I whispered. “Good.”