The next day, Owen woke up in a state of high-voltage anxiety. He'd barely slept, his brain cycling through every possible disaster scenario like a malfunctioning supercomputer. After changing his shirt three times, he settled on his favorite faded charcoal hoodie and headed out the front door.
He froze on the porch.
"There you are," Amy said with a smile that could have powered a small city.
"Amy? When did you get here? And how do you know where I li—"
She stepped forward, crossing the distance between them in two clicks of her designer boots, and put a finger on his lips. "Trade secret," she whispered, her voice like silk.
She withdrew her finger, but the ghost of the touch lingered on Owen's lips, making them tingle. "Actually, I just asked Chloe, who asked Marcus, who knows your brother. The social grapevine is faster than light, Owen. Didn't you know?"
She leaned against her car—a pristine, white convertible that looked like a fallen cloud against the cracked pavement of his driveway. She was wearing a coordinated cream-colored outfit that probably cost more than Owen's entire guitar setup, her sunglasses perched perfectly atop her head.
Owen's brain felt like it had short-circuited. He looked from her car to his own house, where he was ninety percent sure Thomas was currently peering through the blinds of the upstairs window, probably recording this for the family group chat.
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"I... I was going to take the bus," Owen stammered, his backpack feeling like it was stuffed with lead weights. "Or, you know, walk. It's only six blocks."
Amy let out a musical little laugh, the kind that sounded like it had been rehearsed in front of a mirror until it was pitch-perfect. She reached out and straightened the collar of his hoodie, her manicured nails grazing his neck. Owen felt a shiver travel down his spine that had nothing to do with the morning chill.
"The bus? Owen, honey, you're with me now," she said, sliding into the driver's seat. The leather groaned expensively. "Get in. We have an image to maintain, and 'The Physics Kid on the Number 4 Bus' isn't exactly the vibe we're going for."
Owen climbed into the passenger seat, feeling like an ant that had wandered into a jewelry box. The interior smelled like expensive vanilla and "new car"—a sharp contrast to his own room's scent of old paper and solder.
As she pulled out of the driveway, Owen saw the curtain in the upstairs window flutter. Thomas wasn't just watching; he was definitely texting.
"So," Amy said, her eyes hidden behind her designer shades as she navigated the suburban streets with aggressive grace. "I was thinking. Since we're official now, we should probably establish some ground rules. For the public."
Owen gripped the door handle as she took a corner a little too fast. "Ground rules? Like... what?"
"Like, you sit with me at lunch. Every day. And you have to walk me to my locker between third and fourth period. Oh, and no more of these graphic tees with the punny science jokes, okay? I stopped by the mall this morning and grabbed you a few things. They're in the back seat."
Owen glanced into the back. Resting on the pristine leather were several minimalist shopping bags from brands he usually only saw in magazines at the dentist's office. The "Schrödinger's Cat" shirt he was currently wearing suddenly felt like a neon sign flashing LOSER.
"You... bought me clothes?" Owen asked, his voice hitching.
"Consider it a premiere gift," Amy said, her eyes fixed on the road. "Like when a movie studio gives an actor a wardrobe for a press tour. We're a brand now, Owen. 'Amy and the Indie Guy.' It's a very specific aesthetic. Moody, intellectual, but, you know... elevated."
Owen looked at his hands. He felt a strange pang of guilt, like he was erasing a part of himself before the first bell even rang. But then Amy reached over and briefly squeezed his hand. Her skin was incredibly soft, and for a second, his heart rate went supernova.
"I just want you to look as good as I know you are," she added, her voice dropping into that soft, intimate register that made his brain go fuzzy.
They pulled into the Vatlan High parking lot just as the morning rush was hitting its peak. Usually, Owen slipped in through the side door by the gym to avoid the "Gauntlet"—the main walkway where the social elite gathered to judge everyone's existence.
Amy didn't go toward the side door. She drove straight to the front, pulling her white convertible into a spot marked Reserved for Dance Team Captain right at the entrance.
"Ready?" she asked, clicking her seatbelt open.
"Not really," Owen muttered.
As they stepped out of the car, the atmosphere on the sidewalk shifted. It was like a ripple in spacetime. Heads turned. Conversations died mid-sentence. Marcus, who was leaning against a brick wall, actually dropped the bagel he was eating.
Amy didn't even look at them. She walked around the hood of the car, tucked her arm firmly through Owen's, and leaned her head slightly toward his shoulder.
"Smile, Owen," she hissed under her breath, her dazzling "Queen Bee" grin already locked in place for the crowd. "You're the luckiest guy in school, remember?"
They began the walk toward the double doors. To Owen, it felt like a slow-motion execution. He could see Chloe and Madison standing by the entrance, their phones already out, their thumbs flying. He caught a glimpse of Chloe's face—she wasn't smiling. She was watching him with a look of predatory curiosity, like a scientist observing a lab rat.
"Hey, Amy!" a guy from the varsity soccer team shouted, leaning over the railing. "Who's the nobody?"
Amy didn't miss a beat. "He's not a nobody, Jackson. He's my boyfriend now. So back off."
The "Oohs" and whistles followed them into the hallway. Owen felt ten feet tall and two inches small all at the same time. He was terrified, but the heat of Amy's arm linked with his was like a drug.
As they reached her locker, she turned to him, her back to her friends so they couldn't see her eyes. For a split second, the mask slipped. The warmth vanished, replaced by a cold, clinical appraisal. She adjusted his hoodie again, but this time it felt less like a caress and more like she was fixing a crooked picture frame.
"Lunch is at 12:15," she said, her voice turning sharp. "Don't be late. And Owen? Put on the black sweater I bought you during study hall. The cat shirt has to go. It's... distracting."
She leaned in, planting a dry, lingering kiss on his cheek—right where everyone could see—before turning to her friends and walking away.
Owen stood there, the scent of her vanilla perfume suffocating him. He touched his cheek. He should have felt like a king. Instead, as he watched her disappear into a swarm of designer bags and high-pitched laughter, he felt like a planet that had just been knocked out of its orbit, spinning into a cold, dark void he didn't understand.