I manage to avoid Blake until the day of my speech. My alarm goes off early – five-thirty on the dot – and I allow myself a brief moment in the shower to replay that night in his basement. The way his lips felt – fleeting but warm – his body under mine as I sat on his lap, and then, even though I have tried to forget it, the way he rejected me.

Still, the last twenty-four hours apart have allowed me to see my indiscretion for what it was, and I'm ready to focus my energy on speech day, which is finally, terrifyingly, here.

As soon as I've showered, I spend a little extra time on styling my hair, curling the ends until it falls in perfect waves. My outfit of choice is a simple cream blouse and fitted black jeans that show I mean business. It's not the same outfit I'd picked out last year, but a toned-down version to make me more relatable. Approachable.

My makeup goes last, and as I sit at the vanity table, applying and reapplying my lipgloss, I tell myself things with Blake don't have to be awkward. It's not like we kissed, so what is there to be embarrassed about? He challenged my spontaneity, and I proved him wrong. That's it. The end. Game over.

With a final look in the mirror, I head to the kitchen for breakfast. My parents spend most of it talking about how great I'll be today and how certain they are that I'll win. Even though they're just trying to support me, it makes me feel worse. What if I'm not great? What if I get up there on that stage and mess it all up? What if this was all for nothing?

"Remember to stand up straight," Mom says as she sips her coffee, "and make eye contact with your audience. Take pauses when speaking so your speech doesn't sound rehearsed."

I nod through the rest of my breakfast while eating my yogurt and berries. I'm not even hungry – if anything, I feel an intense wave of nausea – but as my mother reminds me, the day ahead is only as good as the breakfast you ate that morning.

When I'm ready, I say goodbye to my parents and grab my keys before sliding into the driver's seat of my car. Despite the nerves, I turn up the music and roll down the windows, focusing on breathing in the crisp spring air. But no amount of breathing relaxes me. My body is on high alert, not at the thought of my speech but at seeing Blake. It's ridiculous; one person should not have this effect on me, but he does. He does, and I hate it.

It's hardly been five minutes when the rain starts. It's light at first, a gentle, soothing patter on the windows, but soon it comes harder, forcing me to roll up the window and turn on the wipers. If Pathetic Fallacy were real, this would be an omen.

By the time I pull into the parking lot, my game face is on. My outfit isn't exactly appropriate for the weather, so I grab my bag, hold it over my head to protect my curled hair, and dash across the lawn to the bikesheds. As much as I'd like to avoid Blake forever, he is my campaign captain, and I need to tell him which classroom we were assigned to liaise in before my speech.

He's not there. The day of my speech – the most crucial part of this process thus far – and he's AWOL. I clench my jaw and turn to the school. Of course he isn't here. Why would he be? He doesn't care about this campaign or me. He made that clear from the start.

I push down the disappointment and make my way into school, where the hallways are buzzing with excitement. Principal Mackley likes to make speech day an anticipated affair by offering refreshments and dedicating the entire afternoon to the spirit of our campaigns; in other words, free period.

When the bell rings, I smooth down my hair in my locker's mirror and head to first period. Blake is already in his seat – early for once – and I freeze. I'd already mentally accepted his absence, which means his presence is twice as shocking. His eyes drag to mine as I clutch my bag harder. I pull back my shoulders, head held high as I walk through the tables to get to my own. After slipping into the seat beside him, I spend the next few minutes organizing the pencils on my desk.

"Thought you weren't in today," I say, opening my book, but the truth is, I have never been so relieved to see him.

He glances toward the front, then meets my eyes again. "Thought you were avoiding me."

I give him this death stare that tells him not to even think about mentioning what happened on Monday. I don't need to spend the day of my speech reliving the embarrassment I made out of myself for a boy who clearly hates me. "I wasn't avoiding you; I've been busy preparing for my speech." He smirks but doesn't answer, so I drop my voice, needing to clear the air. "I mean it," I say, "I have no reason to avoid you. I proved you wrong – that's it. Don't convince yourself it was anything else."

"Wasn't planning on it." He looks over. As usual, he doesn't look the least bit concerned. "Anything else?"

"No." I turn back to the front, expecting to feel better, but I don't; I feel worse. Needing to change the subject, I ask, "Why are you early anyway?"

He leans back in his chair and taps his pencil on the table. "Principal Mackley is on my case–" he turns and gives me a suggestive look, "I'm on my best behavior."

My face warms, and when Mr. Charter finally walks in, I turn to the front, relieved that that's it for conversation. We spend the rest of class in silence, but every now and then, his arm will brush mine, and I'll think of that night.

God, I'm pathetic.

When the bell goes, I'm out of my seat before Blake can even blink and head to my next class. At lunch, as an excuse not to go to the bikeshed with Blake or run into Chase in the cafeteria, I go to Mr. Charter's classroom to discuss my campaign. He sits at his desk, quiet as he flips through the later pages of my campaign book. He doesn't want to play favorites, but I can tell he's impressed.

"I have to say," he says, looking up, "you've got a strong case here. I'm looking forward to hearing your speech this afternoon."

I smile as he hands my campaign book back and put it back in my bag. "Thanks, Mr. Charter." Even though it's silly, it's the encouragement I need to get me through the next few hours. Ever since my encounter with Blake, my nerves are at unbearable levels; I just want this day to be over.

When I've finished with Mr. Charter, I gather my things and head to my locker. Another hour and I'll be standing in front of a crowd of students, trying to convince them I'm worthy of senior class president; I just hope it works.

As I'm walking, Keiran, one of the guys I'd met at Blake's party, stops me in the halls to wish me luck for my speech. I smile, too, grateful for the support, and continue down the hallway with a spring in my step. If I can get through the rest of the day unscathed, I think I'll be okay. But then I get to my locker, about to open the door when I see it: a handmade poster stuck to the door with a picture of me kissing Adam. Above it reads, ROSE MATTHEWS. Beneath it: WOULD YOU VOTE FOR A CHEATER?

My lungs stop working. The confidence I'd spent all morning curating up and abandons me. I will myself to rip the poster down, but my body betrays me.

A few others stop to look at the sign and whisper. I'm an hour away from giving my speech, and Chase is running a smear campaign. It's clever, really – everyone had forgotten what happened at the party, or at least that's how it seemed, and this picture will be fresh in their heads as they listen to my speech, ruining my chance at winning.

It's over.

I'm still willing myself to move when Blake walks up behind me and rips down the poster. After scrunching it up, he throws it into the trash can behind us and leans against my locker. Something dangerous twists in my stomach at having him defend me, but it's quickly overruled by the embarrassment of having him witness my humiliation. Before he can speak, I side-step past him, over to the empty classroom I'm supposed to prepare for my speech in, and use it to wallow in self-pity instead.

It's quiet as I stare at my still-trembling hands. Seeing that poster has only reminded me of how the boy who claimed to love me is willing to go to any length possible to take away my dream. No matter what Chase did, I could never be that vindictive toward someone I loved, which means I was right; he couldn't have loved me at all.

It's not long before the door swings open and in walks Blake. He looks over to where I'm perched on a desk and closes the distance between us. "Are you all right?"

"Oh, I'm just peachy."

"Hey," he says, but I don't look at him, "they're just trying to get in your head. Don't let them."

My gaze remains firmly on my hands, but I sense him lean closer, his shoes touching mine. "It's too late for that."

"It's not. People only have as much power as you give them." He leans in closer, mouth near my ear as he tucks back my hair. Voice low, he says, "Don't give them anything, Rose."

I look up slowly, first at his lips and then into his eyes, which stare back protectively. The bell rings, but neither of us makes any effort to move.

There are times when reading him is utterly impossible, where I question if this thing with us is all in my head. But then there are moments that come around like this – moments where he looks at me, eyes dark with concern, and for the first time in my life, someone sees me.

He sees me.

"Okay," I say, my voice even, "I won't."

I mean it. A part of me wishes we could stay here forever, that I could forget about all this and just get on with my life, but conceding means giving Chase power over me – power he doesn't deserve – and I can't allow that.

I won't.

❤️