Monday mornings are the worst, but since it’s the first school day since we won the county track meet, I manage to drag myself out of bed with a little more enthusiasm than usual.

I yank a blue halter dress from my closet. Tommy loves it when I dress up. When we talked on the phone yesterday, I asked him about his gig at Skinners, but he seemed distracted. A few times, I was sure I could hear him typing in the background, which totally pissed me off. He knows there is nothing I hate more than being digitally two-timed.

Tommy and I met halfway through our junior year when he transferred from a private school in the city. I remember seeing him for the first time and feeling a strange queasiness in my stomach. For a second, I thought I was sick. Then I realized I was just smitten. Tommy had no shortage of girls falling at his feet and, being sort of a jock, I never thought I’d have a chance over the eternally tanned, coiffed, and lip-glossed. But Tommy said he liked my devotion to my sport and my competitive edge. He came to watch me run at every meet that spring. By the time we lost the county championship that year, Tommy and I were inseparable. We spent that whole summer in complete bliss.

Well, almost complete bliss.

The first time Tommy and I argued was a month after we’d started dating and I saw him flirting with Kari Caprice at a pool party. Of course he said he was just chatting with her, but everyone knows Kari’s been crushing on Tommy since he moved here. Then, a few months later, I was on vacation with my family when photos popped up on Facebook of Tommy with his arm around Miranda Hoffman. Once again, he denied that it was anything romantic.

“Baby, it was a picture—don’t you ever put your arm around someone in a picture?”

Which I guess sort of made sense. Not that it made me feel any better. It seems like I’m always chasing after Tommy, demanding an explanation of why he was hanging all over someone who wasn’t me.

So it’s sort of become, like, a challenge to keep Tommy. As a serious competitor, I’m hoping this dress will be another win for me. I mean, he always says I have nothing to worry about, that I’m the only one for him. But still—showing a little skin shouldn’t hurt my cause.

When I come downstairs for breakfast, my parents are standing at the island talking quietly over coffee.

“Honey, you look so nice!” Mom says. I attempt an awkward curtsy.

“I figured that I should greet my fans in my formal wear.”

Dad nods. “Absolutely. You must always dress the part so as not to disappoint your adoring public.”

“I know, right?”

I grab a banana from the fruit bowl and a yogurt from the fridge before pulling my backpack off the hook by the door.

“I’ll see you guys after school.”

“No practice today?”

“Nope. We actually get a break this week.”

“Okay, sweetie. Have a good day,” they say in unison. I shake my head. My parents truly are too cute, like they’ve been carved out of something fluffy and pastel colored. Sometimes they are a little obnoxious in their high-school-sweetheart love. Being the by-product of my parents’ relationship can be a burden too. It’s a lot to live up to when you’re the end result of the world’s most adorable love story.

Tommy’s late picking me up, which isn’t a huge surprise. Since he started driving me to school, I think he’s been on time a total of once—and that was the day I’d asked him to be early. We always make it to school, but my mornings usually include a mad dash to first period and, often, an apologetic smile to Mr. Pearson when I duck in a few seconds late.

In the old days, I probably would’ve texted one of my girlfriends while I was waiting. I used to be the student government secretary, up until last spring, and my old best friend, Courtney, is still the president. But when I had to make a choice of what to commit to as a senior, time with track and Tommy outweighed school fund-raisers and committees. Since then, I just haven’t felt close to Courtney, or any of my old friends, really. Track and Tommy suck up all of my time and energy now. Not to mention school. And my far-too-perfect parents.

I pull up Facebook on my phone and start scrolling through the status updates below my profile. There’s a reminder to the track team about this morning’s plan—we’re all meeting in front of the school so we can walk in together. I glance down the street again, then at my watch. If Tommy is too much later, I’ll miss our grand entrance completely.

I continue scrolling until I see Laura Browning’s tiny profile picture, with comments underneath her status post. I can see her response to a question Tommy must have asked her and his reaction.

Laura Browning: Sure. Anything 4 u, sexy.

Tommy Lawson: ;)

Narrowing my eyes, I press on her status and now I can see the entire conversation.

Tommy Lawson: Hey Laura, could u do me a favor?

Laura Browning: Sure. Whattup?

Tommy Lawson: Could u possibly bring me the calc HW today @ lunch? I’ll be forever in ur debt.

Laura Browning: Sure. Anything 4 u, sexy.

Tommy Lawson: ;)

I can feel the bile rising in my throat. There’s a voice in the back of my head that says, He sent her a wink—not a smile. A wink. What’s up with that?

He’s just showing his appreciation, I think.

But my inner voice sneers in disbelief. Appreciation is saying “thank you.” A wink is full-blown flirting.

Of course, Tommy chooses this moment to peel onto my street and speed up to my driveway. I just stand there, staring at him, as he pulls in behind my dad’s Subaru and hangs his head out of the window.

“Hey champ! C’mon, we’re gonna miss your big entrance!”

Champ. Like what you’d call a little brother or something.

I think “champ” is the exact opposite of a wink.

Numbly, I start walking toward the passenger side of the car. Tommy reaches over and pops the door open. I pull my backpack off my shoulder and grab for the door handle, trying to figure out what I’m going to say to him.

Then I see the dozen long-stemmed red roses in the passenger seat.

“A dozen roses for my track star,” Tommy says softly. He has an earnest smile on his face. I blink several times, looking back and forth between him and the flowers.

“When you walk into school, it’ll be like you’re at the Olympics or something,” he says. “Like you’ve won a gold medal.”

I sigh, trying unsuccessfully to tamp down the smile curling the corners of my mouth.

This is so typical of Tommy. He’ll do something to upset me, to make me question everything about our relationship, and then he’ll find a way to make me see how much he really cares.

Besides, everyone knows what red roses symbolize. And they mean a lot more than a wink does.