Chapter 6 First Kiss
Peyton.
Of course it's Peyton.
I stare at the photo on Caleb's phone, my brain refusing to process what I'm seeing. The two of us at the fifty-yard line, caught in a moment that looks intimate and private and like something we should be ashamed of. His face is turned toward mine. My body is angled into his. The gray sky and empty bleachers frame us like we're the only two people in the world.
The caption makes me want to vomit.
Sterling's new cheerleader. #GravyAndTheQB
"Delete it," I say. My voice comes out strange—high and thin, like it belongs to someone else.
"I can't delete it from her phone." Caleb's voice is tight. "She sent it to me. Which means she's already sent it to other people. Or she's about to."
"How did she even get this? We're the only ones here."
He looks around the empty stadium, his eyes scanning the bleachers, the press box, the shadowed corners. "She must have followed you. Or followed me. She knew we'd be here."
"She knew because you told her?"
"No." His jaw clenches. "I haven't spoken to Peyton in three weeks. Not since we broke up."
"Then how—"
"I don't know." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Maybe she's been watching the house. Maybe she's the one who took the pool house photos. Maybe this whole time it wasn't Travis at all."
The possibility settles over me like a cold blanket. Peyton. Perfect, polished Peyton with her golden hair and her golden smile and her golden everything. The girl who has everything and still wants more. The girl who lost Caleb and can't stand that he might be looking at someone like me.
"She hates me," I say quietly. "She's always hated me. Even before you and I ever spoke."
"She doesn't hate you. She doesn't even know you."
"She knows I'm fat. She knows I'm poor. She knows I'm nothing." The words taste bitter in my mouth. "That's enough for girls like her."
Caleb's phone buzzes again. Then again. Then a flood of notifications that makes the device vibrate continuously in his hand.
He looks at the screen, and his face goes pale.
"It's already spreading," he says. "The team group chat. The cheer squad. People are sharing it."
"Show me."
He hesitates. "Maya, you don't need to see—"
"Show me."
He turns the phone toward me. The photo is everywhere. In the football group chat, Travis has responded with a string of laughing emojis. Marcus wrote: Sterling really downgraded lol. Someone else—I don't recognize the name—added: From prom queen to gravy train. Brutal.
The cheer squad chat is worse.
Peyton: Told you all he was slumming it. His mom made him be nice to the help and he caught feelings. Pathetic.
Amber: She literally lives in his pool house. Like a stray dog they took in.
Peyton: Don't insult stray dogs. They're cute. This is just sad.
My eyes burn. I will not cry. I will not give them the satisfaction of tears, even if no one is here to see them.
Caleb takes the phone back. His thumbs move across the screen.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Ending this."
"Caleb—"
Too late. He's typing in the football group chat. I watch over his shoulder as his message appears.
Caleb: The photo is of me and my friend Maya having a private conversation. Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with me directly. Anyone who shares this photo again, or makes another comment about her weight or her family, is off the team. I'll go to Coach myself.
The chat goes silent. No laughing emojis. No snide comments. Just stillness.
Then, a single response from Travis.
Travis: Dude. What are you doing.
Caleb: The right thing. For once.
He switches to the cheer squad chat. Peyton has continued her commentary—something about my clothes and how I probably don't even own a razor—but she stops mid-sentence when Caleb's name appears.
Caleb: Peyton. Delete the photo. Delete every copy. And if I find out you're the one who took the pool house pictures, I'll go to the principal myself. This isn't a game. Leave Maya alone.
The three dots appear. Pulse. Disappear. Appear again.
Peyton: You're choosing her over me? Over everything we had?
Caleb: There is no choice. There's just right and wrong. This is wrong.
He pockets his phone and turns to me. His face is exhausted, drained, but his eyes are clear.
"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I didn't do this sooner. I'm sorry I let any of this happen."
"You just threatened to kick your entire team off the football team. For me."
"They deserved it."
"Caleb." I grab his arm, forcing him to look at me. "You love football. It's the only thing that makes sense to you. You told me that."
"Yeah." He holds my gaze. "But it's not the only thing anymore."
The words hang between us, heavy and terrifying. I don't know what to do with them. I don't know how to be the thing that matters to someone like Caleb Sterling.
"Let's go home," he says. "The twins will be waiting."
\---
The walk back to the Sterling house is quiet.
Not uncomfortable—not exactly—but charged with everything we're not saying. The photo. The comments. The way Caleb defended me in front of everyone who matters in his world. The way he called me his friend.
Friend.
Is that what we are? Is that all we are?
Sophie and Sam are in the living room with Mrs. Sterling when we arrive. She's helping them build something out of magnetic tiles—a castle, maybe, or a spaceship. She looks up when we enter, and her face shifts when she sees our expressions.
"Caleb? Maya? What's wrong?"
Caleb glances at me. I nod. She needs to know.
"There's a situation at school," he says. "Someone's been targeting Maya. Photos. Notes. And now a picture of us together that's spreading around."
Mrs. Sterling's face hardens. "Who?"
"Peyton. Maybe. Or Travis. We're not sure yet." He pulls out his phone and shows her the photo. "This was taken today at the football field. She sent it to everyone."
Mrs. Sterling studies the image. Then she looks at me—not at my body, not at my clothes, but at my face. At the fear I can't quite hide.
"Maya," she says softly. "Are you okay?"
The question breaks something open in me. This woman, who I barely know, who pays my mom to clean her toilets, is asking if I'm okay. Not if I'm causing trouble. Not if I'm embarrassing her family. Just: are you okay.
"No," I admit. "I'm not."
She sets down the magnetic tile and crosses the room. Her hand finds my shoulder—warm, steady, maternal.
"You're safe here," she says. "Whatever is happening at school, this house is safe. Do you understand?"
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"Good." She turns to Caleb. "I want names. Everyone who's been involved. I'll be calling the school tomorrow morning."
"Mom—"
"This is not negotiable, Caleb. Someone photographed Maya through her window. That's illegal. And I will not have it happening under my roof."
Caleb nods slowly. "Okay. I'll make a list."
Mrs. Sterling squeezes my shoulder one more time, then returns to the twins. Sophie immediately demands that the castle needs a "prison tower for bad guys who take pictures without asking." I don't know how much she understood, but the loyalty makes my chest ache.
\---
That night, I can't sleep.
The guest room in the main house is beautiful—soft sheets, a real mattress, curtains that actually block the light. But I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying the day on a loop. The photo. The comments. The way Caleb said it's not the only thing anymore.
At 1:14 AM, there's a soft knock on my door.
I know it's him before I open it.
Caleb stands in the hallway, barefoot, wearing sweatpants and a faded t-shirt. His hair is messy. His eyes are tired. He looks nothing like the quarterback. He looks like a boy.
"I couldn't sleep," he says.
"Me neither."
"I keep thinking about the pool house photos. About someone watching you. About how scared you must have been."
"I'm still scared," I admit. "I don't know who took them. I don't know if they're still out there."
He steps forward, and suddenly the hallway feels very small. The guest room door is still open behind me, spilling soft lamplight into the dark corridor.
"I won't let anything happen to you," he says. "I know I've said that before. I know words don't mean much. But I need you to believe me."
"Why?"
"Because you're the first person who's seen me. Really seen me. Since Drew died." His voice cracks. "Everyone else sees the replacement. The backup. The one who'll never be good enough. You see me. And I'm terrified of losing that."
I reach for his hand. It's shaking.
"You're not going to lose me," I say. "I'm right here."
He looks at our joined hands. Then at my face. Then at my lips.
"Maya," he whispers. "Can I—"
"Yes."
He kisses me.
It's soft at first. Tentative. Like he's afraid I'll shatter. His hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb brushing the curve of my jaw. I lean into him, into the warmth of his chest, into the impossible reality that Caleb Sterling is kissing me in a dark hallway at 1:14 AM.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"That was—" he starts.
"Yeah," I finish.
He laughs—a real laugh, surprised and bright. "I've wanted to do that since the kitchen. Since you called me a dick and ate peanut butter like it was a personal insult."
"I was making a point."
"You made it." His forehead rests against mine. "You make everything feel real, Maya. I don't know how to explain it."
"You don't have to."
We stand there for a long moment, breathing the same air, existing in the same impossible space.
Then his phone buzzes in his pocket.
He ignores it. It buzzes again. And again.
"Check it," I say. "It might be important."
He pulls it out, frowning at the screen. His face changes—the softness replaced by something sharp and cold.
"What?" I ask. "What is it?"
He turns the phone toward me.
It's an email. From an address I don't recognize. No subject line. Just a single sentence and an attachment.
I have more photos. And if you don't want the whole school to see them, you'll do exactly what I say.
The attachment is a thumbnail of another image. I can't see it clearly, but I can make out enough—a dark room, a figure on a bed, the curve of a shoulder.
My room. The pool house. Me.
"They were inside," I whisper. "They were inside the pool house."
Caleb's hand finds mine again. His grip i
s iron.
"Not anymore," he says. "This ends tomorrow. I swear to you."
But as I stare at the email, at the threat, at the violation of my most private space, I realize something terrible.
This isn't ending.
It's just beginning.