Chapter 1: The Last Girl Standing

Graham Whitaker had just transferred to our school, and before long, he’d dated all the pretty girls.

It was the kind of small-town New England high school where autumn leaves crunched underfoot and everyone knew everyone’s business. The red brick building loomed at the edge of the soccer field, and when Graham showed up—tall, blond, with a smile that could light up the cafeteria—he was the talk of the school. He swept through the halls like a new TikTok trend—sudden, impossible to ignore, and everyone had an opinion. Every week, it seemed, there was a different girl holding his hand.

The reigning homecoming queen, the debate captain with a reputation for leaving rivals in tears, the sweet girl next door who always brought cookies to bake sales…

Each girl had her own squad, and Graham moved through them like he was collecting varsity letters—one after another, as if he was trying to complete a set for his yearbook page. It was almost sitcom-level absurd, the way everyone watched, waiting for the next couple to appear and then fade out.

Finally, maybe because he’d run out of options, he started chasing after me.

I guess I was the last girl standing—at least, the only one who hadn’t been part of his highlight reel. Maybe he thought I was the final boss in his high school dating quest, like beating Bowser in Mario Kart.

I was nothing like any of his previous girlfriends.

Bookworm, goody two-shoes, straight-A student, quirky loner…

That’s how he described me.

He’d say it with a crooked grin, like he was daring me to react, but I just kept my nose in my copy of The Great Gatsby, pretending not to hear. Inside, though, I could feel my cheeks heat up—annoyed, but also a little amused at his persistence.

Later, he cornered me by the lockers and said, “Lauren Merritt, I really love you.”

He delivered it like he was quoting from *10 Things I Hate About You*, with all the swagger of a guy who’d never been turned down. The harsh glow of the overhead lights buzzed, and his cologne—something expensive and just a bit too much—made me wrinkle my nose.

I looked up at him coolly and asked, “So what?”

I could see his friends lingering down the hall, waiting for some epic showdown. But I just shrugged, like he’d asked if I wanted fries with lunch.

Graham Whitaker was instantly popular. Handsome and from a family with a name that carried weight, even the principal of our New England prep school would greet him with a special smile: “Graham, how’s your father doing these days?”

There was always an extra layer of warmth in the principal’s voice, like he was hoping Graham would drop his name at some alumni event. Even the teachers seemed to expect more from him, as if he carried the promise of his family’s reputation in every stride.

Everyone fawned over him—except me. I treated him like any other student, with a practiced indifference.

It wasn’t some act of rebellion; I just didn’t see the point. My world was my own—college applications, SAT prep, science club. Graham was just another face in the hallway, albeit a distractingly good-looking one.

When Graham first set his sights on me, someone whispered, “Oh my god, Lauren, that’s Graham Whitaker! Don’t go too far with this whole hard-to-get thing.”

I remember looking up from my AP Calc notes, genuinely perplexed. The idea that I was playing a game was laughable. I just didn’t get it.

To everyone else, Graham could do no wrong. His attention was the ultimate prize. He was like a Kennedy at a prep school mixer—if he glanced your way, you’d made it.

There was this silent code: if Graham smiled at you, you blushed. If he flirted, you swooned. That was just the way things worked in our school’s social pecking order.

So I was supposed to act bashful, be flattered by his attention, and eventually fall into his arms to become his next girlfriend.

And then, just like the others, become his ex-girlfriend.

Yep, ex-girlfriend. Graham was legendary for being a player. He flirted openly, and within two months of transferring, he’d dated every girl people considered “out of his league.”

Everyone gossiped about it, like it was fantasy football. The latest “score,” the newest breakup—Graham was always the main event, and everyone else just played supporting roles.

The homecoming queen with the perfect pageant wave, the debate captain who could argue her way out of detention, the girl-next-door who made everyone feel seen… His unpredictability was as dazzling as his grin.

Each girl had her fifteen minutes, and then—just like that—she was old news. Graham never lingered, never looked back.

Eventually, when the novelty wore off, someone joked, “If you can win over Lauren Merritt, you’re really something.”

I remember the laughter, the nudges—like I was some grand prize in a contest I never signed up for.

He rolled his eyes with that trademark smirk and said, “What’s so hard about that?”

He said it with the kind of cocky bravado that made everyone else snicker. But I just kept scribbling in my notebook, acting like I hadn’t heard a thing.

And so, he started chasing me.

How do I know all this? Because I was sitting right there, working through SAT practice problems as they talked.

I didn’t even need to look up—their voices carried, and I was used to tuning out the background buzz. But that day, every word landed, and it stuck with me.

I was a legend at school—a legend for academics.

I was the girl who set the curve, the one people whispered about during finals. Teachers used my essays as models, and sometimes even I felt like I was playing a role: Lauren Merritt, the brainiac.

From freshman year on, no matter how tough the class, my GPA never dipped below 4.0. Every time, I came out on top, with second place always a distant memory.

My report cards were the kind parents stuck on the fridge. Guidance counselors pointed me out to touring parents, and even the janitor gave me a knowing nod, like he expected big things.

Other than studying, I didn’t have many hobbies—which is why they made that joke to Graham.

It wasn’t that I was antisocial—I just didn’t have time for drama. My planner was color-coded, my weekends were booked with study groups and science competitions. Romance was a foreign language.

I didn’t get their logic—I just found it all kind of exhausting.

The high school dating scene felt like a rerun I’d seen too many times. I was more interested in solving integrals than decoding mixed signals.

But Graham took it as a personal challenge and really started chasing me.

He was relentless—in that charming, slightly over-the-top way only a guy like him could pull off. It was almost impressive, if it hadn’t been so tiring.

At first, it was Reese’s and Snickers bars slipped into my desk, then little bouquets of sunflowers and wildflowers—stuff he probably picked up at the local grocery store—quietly left on my windowsill, which everyone else thought was super sweet.

Some girls would have melted. There were even whispers in homeroom about which candy he chose and what the flowers “meant.” I just saw it as extra clutter.

There were breakfast sandwiches from the local diner, and occasionally, treats from the town bakery—Boston cream donuts, a Red Sox mug, a scarf with our school colors. I’d find these little gifts arranged neatly, untouched, and just keep walking.

This was probably his go-to move. I ignored it, and he kept it up for a month. I didn’t say a word.

My friends started to think I was made of stone. But honestly, I just didn’t have the patience for drama.

Our first real conversation happened one afternoon. He held a textbook, pointed to a bonus question, and asked how to solve it.

He slid into the seat next to me, his cologne faint but noticeable, and flipped open his AP Calculus book to a page marked with a sticky note. His eyes sparkled, but I could tell he was only half there for the math.

I was always happy to help with schoolwork. While I explained my solution on scrap paper, he sat beside me and suddenly asked, “What do you like?”