Evie’s POV
Sunday afternoon I wait outside the police station with Hanna, who's counting crumpled bills for the third time like they might multiply if she touches them enough.
"It's enough," she says, more to herself than me. "Barely, but enough."
We've been here since noon when bail processing opened. It's now three. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, making everything look sickly. Finally, the desk sergeant nods and buzzes us through.
Twenty minutes later, Caleb emerges looking hollow—unshaven, same clothes from Friday now wrinkled and stale, defeat written across his face like a confession. He doesn't speak the entire ride home, just stares out the window while Hanna drives and I hold his hand from the backseat, his knuckles still swollen and scabbed.
At home, while Caleb showers off two days of jail, his phone won't stop buzzing. I see the notifications piling up—missed calls from Coach, Principal Morrison, texts from the basketball team ranging from support to shock.
When he emerges in clean clothes, looking more like himself but still empty around the eyes, I hand him the phone.
"Morrison called six times."
He calls back on speaker. Morrison's voice is cold, professional, nothing like the principal who congratulated him after the winning shot.
"Mr. Voss, given your arrest for assault, you're suspended from school property effective immediately. You cannot attend graduation tomorrow or the Spring Formal tomorrow night. Your diploma will be mailed after successful completion of your remaining assignments."
The line goes dead.
Caleb drops the phone like it burned him.
"You can't come to graduation," I say, the reality sinking in like ice water. "Or prom. We bought tickets, my dress..."
I trail off, seeing his face crumble.
"The hearing's Wednesday," he says quietly. "Lawyer thinks we can get charges reduced to misdemeanor, but the school suspension stands regardless. I'm banned from campus."
Oregon calls while we're sitting in stunned silence. Caleb puts it on speaker—they've officially withdrawn the scholarship offer due to his arrest. Character concerns. Program reputation.
Arizona follows an hour later. Texas that evening.
Each call another nail in the coffin of his future, each coach's voice a mix of disappointment and relief they found out before he arrived on campus.
Sunday evening, I sit on his bed in my pajamas, graduation gown hanging on the door like a ghost of what should have been.
"I'll be walking across that stage alone," I say, trying not to cry. "No one in the audience for me. My father won't come, you can't come. And tomorrow night, everyone will have their dates at prom while I'm..."
"Stop," Caleb says, pulling me against him hard. "Don't be sad ahead of time."
"How can I not be? You literally cannot be there. It's illegal. You'll be arrested again if you show up."
"I'll think of something," he says into my hair, fierce and desperate. "I'll be there somehow."
"Caleb, you're banned from school property—"
"I'll find a way to get to prom no matter what. Just trust me." His voice hardens with determination. "We've been through too much to miss this. I don't care if I have to bribe the janitor or hide in the ceiling. You're not going alone."
"You can't fight the administration—"
"Watch me." His jaw sets. "I've already lost basketball, college, my clean record. They don't get to take this too."
He spends the rest of the evening on the phone—Coach trying to advocate, some school board member his mom knows from driving their kids, even Morrison again. Each call ends the same: rules are rules, suspension means absolutely no school property.
But he keeps trying, getting more creative with each attempt.
"What if I stay in the parking lot? Technically not inside."
Shot down.
"What if I'm there as Hanna's plus-one for graduation?"
Against policy.
"What if Coach supervises me the whole time?"
Liability issue.
Every idea gets rejected with bureaucratic finality.
By 11 PM, I've given up hope.
"It's okay," I lie, the words ash in my mouth. "I'll go to graduation, skip prom. It doesn't matter."
"It does matter," Caleb insists. "You deserve normal high school memories. One perfect night after all the shit we've been through."
"Life isn't a movie, Caleb. Sometimes the bad boy doesn't get to take the girl to prom. Sometimes consequences are real and permanent."
The words come out harsher than intended, sharp enough to cut.
He flinches but doesn't argue. We go to bed in silence, the graduation gown hanging there like evidence of everything he's losing.
"I'm going to fix this," he whispers in the dark. "I don't know how yet, but I will. You won't be alone tomorrow."
"You can't fix everything with determination," I whisper back. "Your arrest is real. The suspension is real. The lost scholarships are real."
"But so is this," he says, taking my hand, lacing our fingers tight. "Us. That's real too. And I'm not letting them take prom from us. From you."
I want to believe him but know better. Tomorrow I'll walk across that stage alone, no one cheering my name. Tomorrow night I'll sit through prom alone while he watches from home, locked out by his own fists.
Another casualty of one moment's violence, one second where anger won over thought.
"Get some sleep," he says, kissing my forehead. "Big day tomorrow."
"Yeah," I agree, but neither of us sleeps.
We lie there holding each other, both thinking about how different this was supposed to be. How we were supposed to prove everyone wrong, show up together triumphant. The bad boy and the good girl who made it work.
Instead, I'll be alone and he'll be legally barred from being there.
Real life doesn't care about our love story.
But still, some small part of me hopes he's right. That somehow, against all logic and rules and consequences, he'll find a way. Because if anyone could figure out how to crash prom while banned from school property, it would be Caleb Voss.
"I trust you," I finally whisper, not sure if he's still awake.
"Good," he whispers back. "Because I'm going to need you to wear that green dress tomorrow night. We're going to have our prom whether they like it or not."
"How?"
"Just trust me. Wear the dress. Be ready at seven."
"Caleb—"
"Promise me."
I sigh, knowing it's impossible but unable to deny him this hope. "I promise."
"Good. Now sleep. Tomorrow's going to be better than you think."
I don't believe him. Can't believe him. But I hold onto him tighter anyway, pretending that love might actually be enough to overcome suspension letters and legal bans.
Sometimes pretending is all you have left.