Chapter 1: The Swap

On Sycamore Lane, where everybody knows your business before you do, the houses have porch swings, faded flags, and pickup trucks parked out front. That’s where my parents picked out Evan McAllister to be my childhood fiancé.

They always talked about him like he was a once-in-a-lifetime catch—like finding a mint-condition '67 Mustang at a yard sale on Main Street. It sounds like something out of an old storybook, and honestly, it is. But here in Maple Heights, that’s how things get decided: future plans penciled in by people convinced they know what’s best for you.

Evan’s the picture of old-school Southern manners—proper, disciplined, never a hair out of place. His accent is just a trace of Southern, especially when he says "ma’am." He still calls waitresses "ma’am," holds doors open even if it means waiting in the rain, and can iron a shirt straighter than my mom. There’s a quiet dignity about him, like he was born in another era—back when folks wrote thank-you notes by hand and meant it.

I’ve liked him for as long as I can remember.

He was the boy next door who mowed our lawn for twenty bucks, the one I’d spy on through the window in his faded Levi’s, catching glimpses when he thought I wasn’t looking. I’d scribble his name in the margins of my notebook, doodling hearts around his initials, pretending I didn’t care.

But with me, he was always gentle—just never close enough. Trying to reach him was like chasing the breeze on a muggy July night—there, but always out of reach. He’d ruffle my hair, drape his hoodie over my shoulders when the porch got chilly, but there was always a part of him locked away from me.

I tried everything to win him over. Birthday gifts, homemade cookies, even an embarrassing talent show performance—I sang Taylor Swift off-key in front of half the school, hoping he’d notice me. But Evan? He’d just smile that half-smile, thank me politely, and retreat behind his fortress of good manners.

Then my long-lost, pitiful sister Lily Harper blew back into town.

Lily showed up like a summer storm—messy, unpredictable, impossible to ignore. Suddenly, Evan was doing things for her he’d never done for me: secret little getaways, spontaneous coffee runs, inside jokes I was never invited to.

He let her into his world, planned special surprises just for her.

Once, I found a playlist on his phone called “Lily’s Sunshine,” packed with happy, hopeful songs. And the way he looked at her—like she was made of spun glass and rainbows. Not like me.

Every time he had to choose between us, he didn’t even hesitate—he dropped me for her, every single time.

There was never a contest, though I kept pretending. If Lily needed something, Evan dropped everything, no matter what promises he’d made to me.

That’s when it hit me: he’s not cold by nature—he just keeps his warmth on a short leash when it comes to me.

It was a knife twist, that realization. He had so much to give—just not to me. I started counting all the moments he gave Lily what I’d wanted for years.

Finally, I decided it was all meaningless and gave in to their wishes instead.

Ever get so tired you just… stop caring? Like your heart flips a switch and leaves a sticky note that says, "Gone fishing. Don’t wait up." I started running on autopilot, nodding along with my parents’ plans.

So I smiled and told my parents, “Let the wedding go on as planned—just change the bride to Lily Harper.”

I even managed a bright, brittle smile, the kind you wear when you’re signing away the last of your childhood dreams. If they wanted Lily to have everything, why not give her Evan too? Maybe then they’d all finally be happy.