Chapter 1: Stealing Biscuit—And His Memory

So, get this—Carter Evans, my sworn enemy, actually got hit by a car and ended up with a brain injury.

Honestly, when Mariah texted me, I almost didn’t believe it, but the whole school was buzzing about it. Carter Evans—Mr. Perfect, the guy I could never one-up, knocked down by the universe itself. Sometimes I think fate just loves a punchline.

I didn’t even hesitate—I rushed straight to his house, determined to finally steal his cat.

I didn’t even bother fixing my hair or grabbing a jacket. My heart was pounding, half nerves, half wild anticipation. No turning back now. This was my moment—the chance to claim what was rightfully mine: Biscuit, the cat who should have been mine from the very start.

"Carter, you’re my simp. You said everything you own is mine."

The words just spilled out the second I saw him, bandaged up and looking a little lost. I couldn’t help myself—old habits die hard, and teasing Carter was basically my second language. Some things never change.

Carter frowned, then, after a beat, he said, "Yeah, I did say that."

He sounded a little confused, but there was something in his eyes—like he was reaching for a memory just out of reach. Weird.

I was speechless.

Wait, did he just admit that?

I blinked, not expecting him to agree so easily. Was his brain really that scrambled? For a second, I almost felt bad. Almost. But not quite.

When I first heard the news about Carter’s accident, I was at the animal shelter, clutching my chest in agony. (Okay, maybe not actual agony, but close.)

I’d just been petting a tabby when my phone buzzed, and my world stopped. I swear, my heart did a somersault. Carter Evans, hit by a car? My mind raced—not with worry for him, but for Biscuit. —Give me back my Biscuit!

My best friend, Mariah Brooks, found out about it and said, bouncing with excitement, "Gracie, this is your chance! Carter not only got hit, but he lost his memory. Biscuit’s practically yours now!"

She was grinning so wide, I thought her face might split. Only Mariah would see a brain injury as the perfect opportunity for feline theft. Good friend. She really gets me.

I was out the door in seconds.

Didn’t even lock up behind me. The adrenaline was real. Mission: Biscuit. Nothing else mattered. I was on a mission, and nothing was going to stop me—not even traffic on Main Street.

Truth is, Carter and I go way back—our families were next-door neighbors in Maple Heights.

We grew up side by side: bike races down Oak Lane, lemonade stands in the summer, fireflies in Mason Park. Our moms even swapped casserole recipes. But this childhood friend was way too perfect, so I, the sweet kid next door, lived in his shadow for years. Let me tell you, it was rough.

It was always the same: "Look at Carter Evans!"

That phrase haunted my middle school years. Carter got straight As, won spelling bees, and played piano at the holiday pageant. Me? I spilled punch on the principal.

And every time I got chewed out, Carter would always be right there.

He’d stand in the doorway, arms crossed, giving me that smug, know-it-all look. Sometimes he’d try to defend me, sometimes he’d just smirk. Who could stand that?

I sighed. I just put up with it.

Mostly because, deep down. I knew he meant well. Even if he was insufferable about it.

And I put up with it for years. Years and years.

Every birthday, every school assembly, every time the Evanses invited us over for backyard BBQs, Carter was there, shining like a golden retriever in human form.

Later, Carter’s parents’ business took off and they moved to one of those fancy gated communities outside the city.

Suddenly, their house was empty, the yard overgrown. I no longer had Carter right next door to measure up against.

Finally, some peace. My mom’s scolding gradually faded.

She still had her moments, but without Carter around, I could finally breathe. Until our family went to my cousin’s wedding. At the wedding, my handsome cousin-in-law confessed his love and shared how they got together.

He even brought their cats—Whiskers and Taffy—onto the stage as their love mascots.

The entire reception hall melted. Aunt Sheila cried, and even my dad got misty-eyed. This really set my mom off. As soon as we got home, she started her non-stop nagging, just like the preacher on Sunday morning.

She followed me from the kitchen to my room, preaching about the magic of love and the necessity of cats. My dear mother only hears what she wants.

They’d been together since college.

They met at a frat party, for crying out loud. Seriously. How could two cats be a matchmaker?

Does that mean if I get a cat, I’ll find a man? Yeah, right.

No use. But my mom just wouldn’t listen.

She even threatened to sign me up for online dating if I didn’t comply. There’s no arguing with my mom.

Backed into a corner, I gave in. I headed to the pet shop near our building, ready to pick out a random cat for my mom.

It was raining, I remember. I ducked under the awning, shoes squeaking. Ready to pick the first kitten that looked at me. At a glance, I saw Biscuit.

In that moment, I knew my career as a poop-scooper was about to begin.

He was curled up in the corner, but when our eyes met, he perked up. Maybe Biscuit and I had a connection, because he came right over.

I felt it. He looked like he wanted a hug.