Veronica's POV
I used to believe I was the main character of my own story. That I could walk into a room and make the lights flicker just by smiling. That every boy who kissed me would write sonnets afterward.
But lately? It's felt more like I'm the moon orbiting someone else's sun.
Penelope.
She doesn't even try, and they fall—like dominoes. Even the ones I liked first. Especially the ones I liked first.
I pulled the sleeves of my oversized cardigan down to my knuckles as I stared out the café window, the rain tracing the glass like tears I didn't let myself cry. Across from me, Scott Rivers sat with his elbows on the table, watching me like he was trying to find the broken pieces.
"I don't hate her, you know," I said suddenly, my voice lower than I meant it to be. "Penelope. I just wish… someone would pick me first."
Scott's gaze didn't waver. His coffee sat untouched between his hands.
"I've been picked second so many times," I continued, staring at the drizzled pavement outside. "Eli. Tyson. Even freaking Marc. They all started with me. And ended with her."
A silence settled between us, thick as the fog pressing against the window.
Then, softly, "Except one," Scott said.
I turned to him, brows furrowing. "What?"
He leaned closer. "One guy didn't end up with her. Because he couldn't take his eyes off you."
There was something in his tone—sincere, rough-edged, not the charming smirk he usually wore. It caught me off guard.
"Scott…" I began, my throat tightening.
But he wasn't done.
"You talk so much, Veronica." His lips quirked. "But you never listen."
My heart did something strange, a stutter in rhythm, like it had skipped a beat and tried to cover it up. I was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly: "I'm scared."
"Of what?" he asked.
"That this is real. That you're not just saying all this to get under my skin."
"I've been under your skin since the tenth grade," he said without blinking.
I snorted, but it turned into a laugh that cracked something inside me. "God, I hate how charming you are."
"Too late for that, Ronnie."
No one had called me Ronnie since my mom. It felt too intimate. Too personal. But from him, it felt like a truth I'd been waiting to hear for years.
"Why now?" I whispered. "Why not before?"
He looked down, thumb running along the rim of his mug. "Because I used to think Penelope was the one. But I was confusing admiration with love. You... You challenge me. You make me want to be better, not just be wanted."
I looked away quickly. "That was unfairly romantic. I wasn't prepared."
His hand reached across the table, fingers brushing mine. "Then prepare yourself, because I'm not done."
I could feel the rain slowing outside. The world quieting down to let the moment stretch. Scott Rivers, the boy with the soft jawline and sharp eyes, was looking at me like I was gravity itself.
Maybe I was.
"You really like me?" I asked, voice barely above a breath.
"No," he said. "I think I've always loved you. I just didn't know how to say it without messing it up."
Everything inside me went still.
And then—
A knock against the glass startled us both. I turned to see Penelope waving through the window, Marc standing beside her. My stomach twisted—but not in the usual way.
Because for the first time… I didn't feel like I was losing anything.
Scott didn't look away from me.
"Let's go," he said, standing up and offering his hand. "Let's show them what they missed."
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