Better Than the Movies TikTok made me buy it!

Chapter One CHAPTER ONE "Nobody finds their soul mate when they're ten. I mean, where's the fun in that, right?" -Sweet Home Alabama The day began like any typical day. Mr. Fitzpervert left a hair ball in my slipper, I burned my earlobe with the straightener, and when I opened the door to leave for school, I caught my next-door nemesis suspiciously sprawled across the hood of my car. "Hey!" I slid my sunglasses up my nose, pulled the front door shut behind me, and hightailed it in his direction, careful not to scuff my pretty new floral flats as I basically ran at him. "Get off of my car." Wes jumped down and held up his hands in the universal I'm innocent pose, even though his smirk made him look anything but. Besides, I'd known him since kindergarten; the boy had never been innocent a day in his life. "What's in your hand?" "Nothing." He put the hand in question behind his back. Even though he'd gotten tall and mannish and a tiny bit hot since grade school, Wes was still the same immature boy who'd "accidentally" burned down my mom's rosebush with a firecracker. "You're so paranoid," he said. I stopped in front of him and squinted up at his face. Wes had one of those naughty-boy faces, the kind of face where his dark eyes-surrounded by mile-long thick lashes because life wasn't fair-spoke volumes, even when his mouth said nothing. An eyebrow raise told me just how ridiculous he thought I was. From our many less-than-pleasant encounters, I knew the narrowing of his eyes meant he was sizing me up, and that we were about to throw down about the most recent annoyance he'd brought upon me. And when he was bright-eyed like he was right now, his brown eyes practically freaking twinkling with mischief, I knew I was screwed. Because mischievous Wes always won. I poked him in the chest. "What did you do to my car?" "I didn't do anything to your car, per se." "Per se?" "Whoa. Watch your filthy mouth, Buxbaum." I rolled my eyes, which made his mouth slide into a wicked grin before he said, "This has been fun, and I love your granny shoes, by the way, but I've gotta run." "Wes-" He turned and walked away from me like I hadn't been speaking. Just... walked toward his house in that relaxed, overconfident way of his. When he got to the porch, he opened the screen door and yelled to me over his shoulder, "Have a good day, Liz!" Well, that couldn't be good. Because there was no way he legitimately wanted me to have a good day. I glanced down at my car, apprehensive about even opening the door. See, Wes Bennett and I were enemies in a no-holds-barred, full-on war over the one available parking spot on our end of the street. He usually won, but only because he was a dirty cheater. He thought it was funny to reserve the Spot for himself by leaving things in the space that I wasn't strong enough to move. Iron picnic table, truck motor, monster truck wheels. You get it. (Even though his antics caught the attention of the neighborhood Facebook page-my dad was a group member-and the old gossips frothed with rage at their keyboards over the blights on the neighborhood landscape, not a single person had ever said anything to him or made him stop. How was that even fair?) But I was the one riding the victory wave for once, because yesterday I'd had the brilliant idea to call the city after he'd decided to leave his car in the Spot for three days in a row. Omaha had a twenty-four-hour ordinance, so good old Wesley had earned himself a nice little parking ticket. Not going to lie