Chapter 3: Miles and Mayhem

After hanging up FaceTime, Derek Venmoed me $1,500 as hush money, pleading, “Don’t tell Mom and Dad!”

I accepted the money in silence and shot him a thumbs-up sticker, rolling my eyes. He told me to add Miles Carter’s contact and send my location, so I did.

Miles replied almost instantly, just one word: [Okay.]

His answer was so brief—a tiny blue bubble on my screen. The kind of guy who probably replied to emails in single sentences, too.

I stared into the night, not really wanting Miles to pick me up, but there was no way out now. Bored from waiting, I squatted on the curb playing Candy Crush, glancing up as cars rolled by—tired parents collecting college kids, an occasional driver holding a hand-lettered sign. I hugged my backpack to my chest, shivering between game rounds.

After more than half an hour—

"Natalie Sullivan."

A white Porsche pulled up. Miles looked down at me from the window, a small smile tugging at his lips.

The last time I saw him was in high school. Now, I’d already graduated college. Watching him on FaceTime hadn’t felt real—up close, he was even more intimidating. For some reason, I remembered that post from the Maple Heights High forum: [Maple Heights High’s heartthrob Miles Carter—so handsome it hurts!]

Years later, he’d only gotten more intense.

Seeing me in a daze, Miles asked, "Are your legs asleep?"

I jumped up, opened my mouth, and hesitated. Call his name? Too direct. Call him ‘bro’? Way too weird. My cheeks flushed as I struggled for words.

Miles’s eyes danced with amusement. He probably thought I was hilarious. He chuckled softly and got out of the car. He was tall, all lean muscle and way too much raw morning energy for my fragile nerves. Even his cologne was subtle, not overwhelming.

I instinctively took two steps back. He raised an eyebrow. "Don’t recognize me?"

I stammered, "I—I do!"

Miles smiled and took my suitcase, then opened the passenger door for me. "Hop in. Let me—wouldn’t want you to break a nail on my watch."

In the car, I sat ramrod straight, nerves jangling. Noticing my embarrassment, Miles put on some soft music and started chatting, breaking the tension.

His phone rang—a girl’s name popped up. He didn’t answer. She called again; he put his phone on silent. The air turned a little awkward.

Just then, my best friend sent a flurry of voice messages. At this hour, it had to be big. I tried to transcribe them, but hit the wrong button, and her shrill voice blared through the car:

[Oh my god, how can there be guys who can’t even get it up!]

My cheeks burned, my hands fumbled, and I wished the seat would swallow me whole. The phone dropped at my feet. As soon as one message finished, another began:

"That cold, aloof guy I chased for so long turned out to be useless! Who can understand the pain of getting undressed halfway!"

"What’s the use of being tall and handsome—nice to look at but useless."

"Girl, you gotta try with your hand first when you get a boyfriend, or you’ll end up like me!"

"I’m seriously about to cry, he’s just a pretty face! Three months of attitude, where does he get his confidence from!"

I scrambled, nearly dropping my phone again, frantically trying to silence it. My cheeks burned, my hands shook, and I wished the seat would swallow me whole.

I snuck a glance at Miles, who was quietly driving. His profile was calm, giving me all the dignity an adult could hope for—except for that faint, almost invisible smile at the corner of his lips.

I curled up against the window, not daring to make a sound. Inside, I was screaming: Save me!

At a red light, Miles suddenly asked, "Is your boyfriend still that guy from high school?"

I froze, then shook my head. "No! I don’t have a boyfriend!"

Back in high school, there was a guy who chased me relentlessly. Once, he was dragging me across campus when Derek saw us. Derek sprinted over, yanked the guy away, and demanded, "Who are you?"

"I’m her boyfriend. Who are you? I’m telling you, Natalie Sullivan is mine—don’t even think about hitting on her!"

That line, that attitude, instantly set Derek off. They started fighting. I tried to break them up, tugging at Derek, but he got even angrier—thinking I was siding with the other guy, he flung me away in frustration.

Miles arrived a step late. Seeing I was about to fall, he caught me, holding me in his arms. Derek and the other guy immediately stopped fighting and yelled at Miles together: "Let her go!"

Those embarrassing memories flooded back. I pressed my forehead to the window, willing myself not to blush any harder. The silence in the car now was different—not awkward, just a little heavy with all those memories.

For the rest of the ride, Miles kept the conversation light, never bringing up anything that would embarrass me. When we got home, I nearly bolted from the car, heart pounding, barely remembering to grab my suitcase. I muttered a quick thanks and darted inside, feeling like I was fourteen all over again.