CHAPTER ONE - FAILED CONFESSION

The SUV rattled over another pothole on the gravel road, jolting me hard enough that my sketchbook slipped from my lap onto the floor. I bent to retrieve it, fingers brushing the worn cover where I'd doodled Mr. Ellis's initials in the corner months ago-tiny, secret letters I'd immediately scratched over with pencil so no one would ever see. My chest ached the moment I touched it and a heart wrenching sigh escaped my lips.

My four year sentence at Midtown high school had finally come to an end earlier in the day. I had struggled my entire like to make friends but when I started high school, the issue seemed to multiply exponentially. It didn't help that my appearance as a plain, brown haired, chubby 5'5 girl meant I was easily lost in a crowd. So it really shouldn't come as any surprise that, across my four years in high school, I hadn't managed to garner the any interest from the opposite sex. Maybe that's why Mr. Ellis felt so special.

In my second year, I signed up for my first art class. I suppose initially, I was just hoping to avoid some of the other "Arts" options but mostly Drama class. All that changed when I met Mr. Ellis.
He had the classic "hot teacher" look you always saw in the movies-clean-shaven, lean, with a jaw that could have been carved from the same wood he sometimes used for still-life props. The other girls in my school might have drooled over him for his dreamy appearance, but for me, it was the way he noticed me. How he challenged me to express myself in my work. Like he cared to know ME. The way he'd move up behind me, tilt his head, eyes tracing the lines like he was trying to understand what I hadn't quite managed to say yet.
Four years in high school, no one ever noticed me-not the way people saw Jess, not the way teachers saw the loud kids or the athletic ones. I was background noise. Comfortable wallpaper. And if I'm being honest, I was perfectly okay being the girl who got lost in the crowded hallway. I never craved attention. I never wanted to be in the spotlight or the school play. But Mr. Ellis was different. He would stand beside my easel, asking questions that made my throat tighten: What made you choose that shade of gray? Why did you stop that stroke here instead of carrying it through? He never filled in the silence when I fumbled for an answer. He just waited, patient, like he believed I had something worth saying if I could only find the courage to spit it out.
I soon learned that the only 'wrong' answer was a dishonest one. It was like he knew when I was hiding something. In those moments, he never walked away. Always dug deeper until he found the answer. And quite honestly, sometimes I didn't even know the right answer until he asked the right questions.
Over time my admiration twisted into something deeper, heavier. I started noticing the way his sleeves were rolled to his forearms when the room got warm, the faint ink stains on his fingers, the low timbre of his voice when he spoke just to me after class. I caught myself imagining things I had no right to imagine: his hand steadying mine on a pencil, his breath against my ear as he leaned in to correct a stroke. Shame burned through me every time, but the thoughts kept coming anyway, stubborn and insistent.
I told myself it was harmless. A simple crush. Everyone has them. But deep down I knew it had grown into something more dangerous: hope. The fragile, stupid kind that made me believe-if I could just be good enough, brave enough, bold enough-he might look at me the same way I looked at him.
As senior year wound down, that hope started to feel like panic. The countdown was real now. In a few weeks the art room would belong to someone else. He would belong to a new class of students, someone else's gaze. The thought carved a cold hollow under my ribs. I couldn't just leave without saying anything. I had to try.
I'd rehearsed the words in my head a hundred times while everyone else was signing yearbooks and planning grad parties. I'd stand by his desk after the bell, and say something simple and honest: "Mr. Ellis, I really enjoyed being in your class. You've always made me feel... seen. Thank you for seeing something in me. You have been more than just a mentor to me...and if you feel the same way, I'd be delighted to be more to you."

I pictured his kind eyes softening, maybe a small surprised smile, maybe even-God, the fantasy was pathetic-him saying he'd noticed me too. But when the moment came, on the very last day, I'd walked into the art room with my sketchbook clutched to my chest like armour. He was there, packing up supplies, humming softly under his breath the way he always did when he thought no one was watching. I opened my mouth. Nothing came out. Just a small, strangled sound that might have been "Um." He turned, smiled that gentle smile that had undone me for four years, and asked if I needed anything before I left for the summer.

I shook my head. Mumbled thank you. And walked out.

That was it.

My last chance-gone. Forever.

The only man who'd ever looked at me like my thoughts mattered, like my shaky pencil lines were worth studying, like I even existed, was gone. And I was left with this hollowed-out feeling inside my ribs, like someone had scooped out everything soft and hopeful and left only the quiet ache behind.

I pressed my forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the green fields roll past. The cows in the distance looked peaceful, oblivious. I envied them.

An overly dramatic sigh broke my pity party as my attention was drawn to my older sister in the other back seat. Jess was two years older than me and she was everything I wasn't. She was a couple inches taller, blonde, dazzling blue eyes with kissable lips. Despite her unfortunately large nose, she hid her less desirably features well and was a true artist with a makeup kit. The only thing holding her back was her overly slim physique. Puberty had not been kind to Jess. While my general chubbiness probably helped contrive to the modest B cups on my chest, Jess was flat as a surfboard. She looked like a literal stick from every angle. Not a curve in sight. Despite our hampering genetics however, Jess was the life of the party and seemingly could start up a conversation with anyone. It was this trait which I grew to admire so much about her. Especially given how challenging this aspect of life felt for me.

Jess kicked the back of Dad's driver seat-lightly, but enough to make him glance in the rearview mirror with a warning look.

"Seriously," she muttered, "I can't believe you guys are doing this to us. I just finished my final exams. I was supposed to have a whole summer of freedom before second year."

"Jess," Mom said quietly, "it's a summer job. You're overreacting. Besides, the Thatchers are family friends. They're doing us a favour. This is a great opportunity for the two of you to earn some money and learn some skills."

"Favour," Jess scoffed. "What exactly am I going to learn? How to scoop horse shit and milk cows!?"

Dad's knuckles whitened on the wheel again. He didn't speak. He hadn't spoken much at all lately-not to Mom, not to us. The silence between our parents felt louder than any shouting match I'd overheard through the bedroom wall for the last several months. While they never acknowledged it in front of me, it had become blatantly obvious that my parents were headed for a divorce. I half suspected our 'summer job' was a convenient way to distance Jess and I from the situation as mom and dad finalized the break up. I hadn't told Jess. I couldn't. Not when she was already so angry about everything else. She had barely gotten in the door before we were headed to the farm.

I hugged the sketchbook tighter against my chest as my attention went back to the windows. The gravel road narrowed as a wooden sign appeared ahead, hand-painted in neat black letters: *Thatcher Family Farm*. My stomach twisted-half dread, half something I couldn't name. A new place. New people. No art room. No kind voice asking what I was trying to say. I never felt more isolated.

Dad slowed the SUV and turned into the long driveway. Dust billowed up behind us. The main house came into view-solid red brick, white trim, wide porch shaded by climbing roses. A few cows lowed in the near pasture; the smell of hay and manure drifted through the open windows.

As we rolled to a stop, the front door opened.

Mrs. Thatcher stepped out first, waving both arms like we were long-lost relatives. Her smile was wide and genuine, her round figure moving with surprising lightness down the steps. A floral apron strained across her generous chest and belly, but her face glowed with warmth, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat.

"Welcome, welcome!" she called. "Oh, you girls are even prettier than your mama said!" A bold lie if I ever heard one but it was a kind gesture nonetheless.

Behind her appeared her husband-Mr. Thatcher.

He filled the doorway. Tall, broad, arms corded from years of lifting bales and wrestling steers. Short black hair, neatly trimmed. Jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He didn't wave. He simply stepped onto the porch, hands in the pockets of his worn work jeans, and watched us with steady dark eyes that seemed to take in everything at once-our luggage, our expressions, the tension still clinging to the air between my parents.

"Henry, Sally," Dad said, climbing out to shake hands. His voice sounded too loud after so much silence on the way here.

Henry gave one short nod. "Good to see you, Tom." His voice was low, measured. Every word felt deliberate, no need for any small talk. Just straight and to the point.

Mrs. Thatcher bustled forward, already reaching to pull Mom into a hug. "Come in, come in! I've got fresh lemonade and cookies on the table. You girls must be parched after that long drive from the city."

Jess climbed out slowly, shoulders stiff, clearly unimpressed. I followed, clutching my sketchbook like a shield. My legs felt unsteady on the gravel.

Henry's gaze slid over us-first Jess, then me. It lingered a second longer on me. Not leering. Assessing. Like he was measuring something I didn't understand yet.

A small shiver traced my spine.

I looked down at my sneakers, suddenly aware of every soft inch of myself, the way my thighs touched, the way my plain T-shirt clung slightly from the heat. No one had ever looked at me quite like that before-not even Mr. Ellis.

Mrs. Thatcher was already herding us toward the porch, chattering about rooms and chores and supper. Henry stayed where he was, silent, watchful.

For a brief second, time stood still as I could feel my heart come back to life. A loud thudding in my chest. Nervous...but excited. Alive. This was something new. Out of my comfort zone I'd grown so accustomed to the past four years. It was terrifying... but it was new. And maybe, just maybe, new is what I needed right now.