Lightning Strike

The bleachers stretched above me like a skeleton of aluminum ribs. Friday night football games weren't really my thing, but Bryce had insisted, and honestly, I'd do a lot to sit next to him in the dark.

"You coming?" he asked, bumping my shoulder.

"Yeah," I lied. I had zero intention of freezing my butt off. Total bull, but he didn't know that.

I'd been watching Bryce since September like a total spy. Not in a creepy way — okay, maybe a little creepy. I knew his coffee order (vanilla latte, extra hot), that he wrote poetry in a battered notebook he thought nobody noticed, and that he had a dimple in his left cheek when he smiled.

The problem was Maya. She was gorgeous, confident, the kind of girl who walked through hallways like she owned them. A total fox, according to everyone. And she'd been flirting with Bryce all week.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number: "You should tell him."

I almost dropped it. Who—?

Then I noticed the girl two rows down, staring at me. The one with the rainbow cat beanie. She nodded once, slightly.

Lightning cracked across the sky, followed by thunder that shook the stands. The game paused. Everyone screamed and laughed. Bryce grabbed my hand.

"You okay?" he asked.

His palm was warm. His dimple appeared.

"Yeah," I whispered.

"Good," he said, and didn't let go.

Later, under the lights while rain pelted down, he told me he'd been waiting for me to notice him. Months of watching, spying from afar, and he'd been watching back.

Sometimes the thing you're scared of is exactly what you need. Like how lightning can split open the sky and show you everything you've been too afraid to see.

Also, I never did find out who that girl was. Some mysteries are better left unsolved.