Chapter 1: Friday Night Lights

The roar of the marching band filled the Friday night air, echoing off the aluminum bleachers as I sat shivering in my varsity jacket. From my spot, I watched Natalie—her laughter ringing out as she leaned close to Tyler by the edge of the field, the glow of the stadium lights turning her hair gold. The scent of kettle corn mixed with the sharp tang of autumn leaves, and for a second, the world shrank to the space between them and me.

Looking back, those nights in small-town Illinois felt like the whole universe—cornfields stretching beyond the goalposts, the Mustangs’ mascot painted on every surface, and the only thing that mattered was who you were seen with when the lights went down. Secrets stuck like gum under the bleachers, and everything seemed both permanent and fragile.

Tyler, the bad boy with a smirk, took Natalie out to skip class, taught her how to smoke menthols bought from the Shell station on Route 9, and poured cheap vodka into Coke bottles. Her grades, always a struggle, tanked hard.

I still remember the first time she stumbled home, her breath thick with smoke and something sharp, her laugh suddenly jagged—like the old Natalie had been swapped for a stranger chasing trouble. I caught her at a house party once, a cigarette between her fingers, her eyes flicking away when she noticed me staring. That was the first crack in everything I thought I knew.

Watching her fall apart hurt more than I could stand. So when her parents asked me what was going on, I told them everything—even though it meant betraying the girl who used to build blanket forts with me in my living room. I thought honesty might save her, even if it meant she’d never forgive me.

After that, her parents went full lockdown: a security alarm on the windows, an ancient baby monitor outside her door, and nightly phone checks that made her bedroom feel like a holding cell.

The night she tried to run off with Tyler, her parents caught her. She was trapped. That same night, Tyler died in a wreck on Route 9—his motorcycle twisted and broken, red and blue lights flashing in the cornfield dark. Sometimes, I still see that scene in my dreams, the sound of sirens and heartbreak pressing down on me.

Afterward, our families pushed us together. We had a church wedding—her in her mom’s lace dress, me sweating through a rented tux, our parents grinning like everything would finally be okay.

Then came the car accident. I threw myself in front of her and our daughter, barely thinking, just reacting. Headlights, screeching brakes, the metallic taste of fear—I did what I always did: tried to protect her.

But as I faded out, she leaned in, her voice low and cold: “That daughter isn’t yours. I never loved you. Marrying you was just revenge.”

Her words hit me harder than the crash. As the world went black, her voice echoed in my head, sharp as lake ice in January.

I died under her resentful gaze, the fluorescent ambulance lights flickering above me. The last thing I saw was the flat, hard look in her eyes—like I was just one more mistake to erase.

Then, suddenly, I woke up in my senior year—the day Tyler first asked Natalie out. My heart hammered in my chest, the bell ringing, the smell of floor cleaner and greasy pizza filling the halls. Everything was exactly as it had been. Was this really a second chance?

“Derek, Tyler asked me to go out with him tonight. Do you think I should go?”

Natalie’s face was right in front of me, lips glossy, her ponytail bouncing as she waited for my answer. For a second, I could only blink, déjà vu settling over me like a weighted blanket.

I realized, in a dizzy rush, that I’d been given another shot—right back to the moment where everything began. My palms sweated against the cold plastic of my desk.

Natalie waved a hand in front of my face. “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

Her voice snapped me out of it. She always had that effect—drawing my focus, making the world narrow to just her.

Natalie was my childhood sweetheart—the girl next door, literally. We grew up catching fireflies in the same backyard, carving our initials into the old oak behind my house.

She studied dance, aiming for the arts track. She’d practice pirouettes in my garage, spinning until she fell over laughing, her giggle echoing down the block.

Slim, striking, a star at every recital—parents would whisper, “That Grant girl’s got it,” and I’d feel a private pride, like I’d discovered her first.

But put a math test in front of her? Disaster. She could memorize a dance in seconds, but algebra made her eyes glaze over.

I was in AP Honors—the Stanford crowd. My parents had taped a Stanford pennant above my desk, left SAT flashcards under my pillow, and every morning my mom’s voice echoed in my ear: “Don’t waste your shot, Derek.”

At her parents’ request, I spent three nights a week tutoring her, trying to help her chase Juilliard. Those evenings were a blur of cookies from Mrs. Grant and her dad’s grumbling about tuition.

I used to think it was perfect. I’d imagine us in a tiny Brooklyn apartment, her rehearsing, me studying, everything just falling into place. Our future seemed inevitable—just one confession away.

But then Tyler showed up.