Chapter 1

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The blood on the snow reminded me of crushed strawberries. Like the kind my little brothers would crush between their fingers. The red juice would dribble onto their shirts, leaving bright red stains. It was a strange connection to make, but nothing about this situation was normal.

Actually, the idea of crushed strawberries was probably the most simple thought I had in a long time. I almost wanted to laugh.

"Come on," a voice next to me whispered. Warm fingers brushed over mine. I felt as if I were tied to an anchor keeping me rooted to the spot.

I looked down at my shoes, wet with snow. A dark stain seeping up. My mom bought me these on sale. They were ruined now.

I bent over and threw up.

When I stood up I wiped my mouth with the back of my sleeve.

"Sorry," I said.

"You're okay. Come on," he said again and put his arm around my shoulder. I leaned into his warmth and let him lead me away.

Alexander Grayson was dead.

And I killed him.

One of my aunts once told me that you could never forget your first love. She told me: "If you made your life into a timeline, you would have two pivotal moments: before meeting them and everything after."

Of course, this aunt had a reputation for being good with men. To this day, I don't know if she was referring to her first husband or her fifth.

Jokes aside, she was right. Falling in love changes you. Especially the first time it happens. That first time, you blindly open yourself up to someone that will always have a home in your heart. 

My story starts the summer before my junior year of high school. I was 16 going on 17 and that year was one of the hottest summers on the east coast. Like fry an egg on the sidewalk hot. It was also the summer I was moving to New York to live with my dad.

My mother was a bundle of nerves, making sure everything was ready for my flight.

"Did you grab the paperwork you need to turn in?" My mother asked, coming into my room with a full load of laundry.

"Yes, and—" I continued hoping to ease her nerves. "I packed all my uniforms, my running shorts and running cleats, and three extra pairs of sneakers. So, to summarize, don't worry, mom —I'm set."

My mother sighed and smoothed the baby hairs that crowned my forehead, "I know I sound like a broken record. I am just worried you might forget something. You're already going to be nervous enough as it is. I don't want you to stress out on me."

She hugged me, "I am going to miss you so much," She said and kissed the top of my head.

My mom was nervous about me going off on my own. She wasn't happy to see me go. I was moving to live with my dad who was just starting his medical residency.  It was one thing for your daughter to be home alone in the suburbs. New York City was a whole different animal.

The thing is I had already made up my mind that I had to go. At the time I shared a room with my two brothers. Which was not ideal at my age. They were eight and loud, and I had a lot of homework.

Have you ever seen the movie Jumanji? The 90s one with Robin Williams?

Well, there's a scene where a stampede of wild animals bursts through the board game. That was my 700 sq foot apartment after my brothers were born.

It was annoying because I really liked doing school work. There weren't many things in my life I had control over, but school never let me down. I was top of my class and had built a big part of my identity around that fact.

If my parents could afford therapy, I am sure there would be a lot to say about that, but since they couldn't, they were just proud.

The other reason I was moving was to help out my dad. He had finally become a doctor but had trouble finding a residency opportunities due to his age and thick accent. My dad was in his mid-forties and competing with kids in their early twenties that had a lot more energy and fewer responsibilities. He ended up securing an open spot in the Bronx working in one of the busiest hospital groups in the city.

My dad, while very competent in medicine, could barely pour himself cereal. Actually, the only thing he could do was fry a steak. This ability and our shared trait of internalizing stress made him the proud owner of two heart stents at the young age of 42.

Part of the deal of me making such a big move was helping him out. It was a win-win for us. He got artery-friendly food. I got an empty apartment on most days where I could do my homework and read in peace. 

I also got access to the best school on the east coast. Holy Trinity Prep.

My mom had tried to convince me that I should stay and that it didn't matter where I went to school. It was hard for her to wrap her mind around the education system in the US and the elitism that surrounded certain opportunities.

The day I was leaving, my mother spent the whole morning crying. It made me feel queasy and apprehensive.

My grandmother, who we finally were able to get out of Cuba a year prior, consoled her as we stood on the curb waiting for the taxi to arrive.

"She'll be fine. You went to boarding school at a younger age. At least the government isn't making her work the fields. She's going to be with her father."

My mom visibly calmed down at the gentle logic my grandmother offered. Still, as I got into the cab, she squeezed me tight and whispered, "remember, you don't have to go."

It made the queasy feeling settle back in my belly, heavy like a ball of lead. This feeling stayed with me through the security check and followed me into the waiting area at the airport.

To pass the time and distract myself from my anxiety, I sat on a hard plastic chair and drew eyes on a small sketchbook that I carried everywhere. Last week it was drawing noses. The week before, it was hands. I liked crowded places because they gave a lot of source material to work with.

Right now, I drew inspiration from an older woman with hooded eyes that sat in front of me. She was in a sort of daze, staring out the wide window that let you see into the runway.

She watched anxiously as they got the plane ready, her fingers rolling the small beads of a rosary she had wrapped around her wrist.

Her eyes looked kind and tired. They were a rich brown color that looked almost black. I didn't have any colored pencils with me, but I wished I had packed some in my purse.

When it was time to board the plane, she gave me a small smile, as if she knew she had been my muse for the past half hour.

I nodded and smiled back before looking down at my ticket as a slight shyness swept over me. My ticket told me I sat in the back of the plane. As I made my way through the first-class seats, Trinity's distinct emblem caught my eye.

I had been staring at that emblem for the past few weeks. I had to iron it onto all my sweaters and button-up shirts. A shield with a fleur-de-lys surrounded by two garlands.

This time the emblem was part of a dark green hoodie. The simple emblem was placed on the shoulder and was followed by the words track and field. The girl wearing it was fast asleep and curled up against the window, the hood covering her face from the harsh plane lighting.

I wondered if she was a future teammate or if the sweater belonged to a friend. Regardless, I took that sweater as a positive sign from the universe that this was what I was meant to be doing.

Next to the girl sat a boy who also had decided to take a nap as he waited for the plane to take off. He stretched out in the generous first-class seat. A book with a collection of Pablo Neruda's love poems covered his face. His long legs greedily took up the ample room given to first-class flyers and spilled into the aisle.

I had to maneuver around him to get by, and as I squeezed past him, my carry-on bumped into his leg. The jolt caused me to lose my footing, and I gave a small yelp as I hung onto the seat on the opposite side of the aisle, trying to regain my balance.

The boy sat up startled, the book falling onto his lap.

Dazed, he locked eyes with me trying to understand what just happened. His eyes were stunning. They were a rich green color the same shade as the Australian Pine that grew outside my window in Miami. He had the longest eyelashes, that I could imagine being a source of envy for most girls.

I lost my train of thought for a second, his thick eyebrows furrowed, and he wrinkled his nose. I idly took note of the smattering of freckles that adorned his tanned nose.

"Sorry," I managed to say.

His face twisted into a display of irritation at my disturbance, or maybe it was just that the harsh light he had been trying to avoid was suddenly shining into his eyes. I didn't have much time to contemplate his expression before he spoke, "watch it," he said, his lip curling into a sneer.

The sinking feeling settled itself back into my gut. So much for a positive sign.

When the plane landed, the nap I took managed to calm my nerves, and I was feeling better. My dad was waiting for me at the drop-off area with a sign that said C.E.C.I.L.I.A. No one really called me that anymore. Since I started middle school every one called me Lia. 

Everyone except my dad of course. To him I was always Cecilia, or Ceci if he was feeling lazy. 

My dad was not an affectionate man, yet he gave me a tight hug when I reached him. I could almost feel his relief at having a familiar face. I patted his shoulder awkwardly because I never really knew how to be affectionate with my dad.

He once called me cold. I could say the same about him.

"Hambre?" He asked.

"I could eat. Waffles?" I asked back.

He gave me a disgruntled expression; he hated American food, "sure," he said and led the way to where he parked the car; as we walked out of the airport, I heard my dad let out a slow whistle.

I looked up to see a shiny black car.

"Eso es un Rolls Royce," he said, nodding towards it, "esa gente tiene billete."

I looked up and first saw a man in a suit putting Louis Vuitton luggage into the trunk of the car. Then I saw her again. The girl in the Trinity hoodie. She was leaning casually against the car and holding up her phone, trying to get reception.

The girl was gorgeous, tan skin, dark brown hair that you could see your reflection off of, like the kind of unrealistic hair you see in shampoo commercials. The kind that is highly edited in the commercial's post-production.

There was no other word to describe her other than gorgeous.

I noticed a boy walking into a wheelchair stand, too distracted by her beauty to watch where he was going.

The man carrying her bags turned out to be her chauffeur. I remember thinking, 'Geez. That's the kind of school I'll be going to? One where kids have chauffeurs? Should I even try to fit in?'

My dad, oblivious to my staring and small existential crisis, asked me, "do you want to stop by the apartment first?"

I gave him a distracted mhm before forcing myself to look away. 


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A/N

 Do you remember your first love?

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