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The end of the beginning happens on a Tuesday, and you don't think that you could love Tuesday's any more. You're finally out of high school and you're the teaching assistant of one of the most awarded art history professors in the country- and, as a freshman, that's a big deal. Sure, your luck hasn't always been fantastic, but you have a good feeling about this. It's the end of being treated like a high school child , and the beginning of your very sophisticated life as Maya Penelope Hart, the adult artist.

There's even a cute boy in your first lecture that you're sitting in on, and you indulge yourself by sitting beside him.

' Us freshman have to stick together, no?'

His name is Lucas and it rolls off your tongue deliciously when you tap on his shoulder, scribbling down the notes he's struggling to keep up with. You know them well enough considering that you helped create them, so you finish them off for the poor boy. He's obviously only in the course to get ahead of credits, and you figure there's no harm in slipping him a little assistance.

You learn that he's from Texas, making sure to take every opportunity to tease him about it. He's Potato Johnson to at least half of your mess of upperclassmen, but he smiles in a way that you know he's not upset and so you add in Huckleberry for good measure.

You wonder if there will be a boy like that in any other lectures that you'll sit in, and, if not, how long Thursday will take to get here.

.

There aren't any other boys like Lucas, and so you make it a point to smile even wider at him. There's warmth in his grin when you bring up the Zodiac Killer documentary that you guys watched together on Saturday. (He was busy when it aired, so you recorded it.)

You find yourself drawing his eyes a lot. You try not to when he's glancing over your shoulder in class, but when you make it to calculus, it's free reign.

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He has a girlfriend, and her name is Riley, but when he says that, his smile doesn't meet his eyes and he shifts uncomfortably. You honestly assumed that she was his sister at first, but he politely corrected you and told you about how they'd been dating for as long as anyone could remember.

He looks at you almost somberly when you repeat the word to him, a bitter taste on your tongue.

It's a silent apology when his hand finds yours, and you interlock your fingers with a squeeze to solidify whatever he felt was going to fall apart.

.

You ask about his girlfriend a lot, despite how much jealously sinks to the pit of your stomach at the thought of her because you're his friend and friends ask about each other's girlfriends and so you do.

You don't know who has the more pained expression when she's brought up, you or Potato Johnson.

"Oh, Riley? Well, she's… she's something. We've been dating since practically elementary school," he nervously laughs, shifting uncomfortably on the bench outside the hall for your class that you both sit at. "For as long as I can remember, we've been RileyandLucas . I can't even think of a point in my life where we weren't RileyandLucas. I don't know what it's like to be Riley and Lucas. Y'know?"

You tell him that you don't because you've always been Maya not Mayaandinsertboyhere . You keep quiet about how you don't think MayaandLucas sounds too bad.

.

You hate how natural it feels to touch him. Your fingertips brush and his grip finds the small of your back in a crowd and you just want to be closer; closer to the golden flecks in his eyes, closer to the curve of his lips, closer to his chest pressed against yours when you hug.

You hate it so much that you can barely stand to even look at him anymore except that's a lie because all you do is look at him, think about him.

When you say goodbye, he holds you longer than he probably should and you both know it- but you don't say anything. You just tighten your arms around his neck and bury your face into his neck on the tips of your toes because the second you say a word, the world will start spinning again and neither one of you want that.

.

When there aren't any seats, you will plop yourself into his lap, the chill of his laugh running down your spin as he locks his hands around you. A smile brushes his lips and you want to know why it doesn't feel wrong. It should, shouldn't it? It's such dangerous territory that you beg any power above to forgive you for crossing into it .

But then he squeezes your hips to catch your attention and you ease back against him, rolling your eyes at his classmates asking you to slip them copies of essays from previous years that your professor keeps as references when grading.

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There's a tiny fence in an alley two blocks down from your apartment building that is filled with scattered padlocks, a twisted take on the love locks bridge for those who are stuck in your tiny little neighborhood that need a little hope. On the back of each padlock, there's tape with a wish written on, and you can remember scrawling ' I wish to make it out of here ' when you were only eight and latching it to the very bottom right of the tangled metal.

After a week of dreaming about it, you decide that you've had enough and you convince Sundance to accompany you on your conquest because you're an eighteen year old girl that would be wandering the streets of a questionable neighborhood late at night- your pride is strong but you're not a total idiot. He agrees, of course, and so that's how you find yourself leading him past the Bunny Mart across from where your old bedroom used to be.

You're singing and you're spinning and you're so happy because you miss it here and it's been such a great night; telling stories and sharing pizza and laughing so hard that you almost snort out your sodas.

As much as being on your own is great, you've always been one for solidarity. Familiar is better and you know almost every building in a two mile radius which is amazing because at your campus, you only really can make it to the nearest McDonald's and your classes without getting lost. You feel safe and warm and when your eyes catch Lucas's, your heart stops because it washes over you just how at home you feel.

He's kissing you before it can even resume beating and your fingers are threading into his hair like he will slip away if you don't hold him close. You can feel your body being pressed against the cool brick of your complex, a tiny gasp escaping you when his hands start to roam. Your skin is on fire and you wonder if he can feel your lungs bursting when his fingertips brush against your ribs.

You don't want to pull away because you know what will happen when you do; the world will keep turning. The realization of your actions will creep into your conscience and you'll be left panting, pressed against him while you try to find the words to express why that shouldn't have happened, why it can't ever happen again.

You find that you can't get any of that out when you actually to break the kiss to catch your breath. You stare up helplessly, his name spilling from out before you can stop it.

"Lucas."

He tells you that he knows, his forehead bumping yours to rest against it. He exhales deeply and his eyes close before he pulls you closer to him.

" I know, Maya. "

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Once that door opens, it never closes. It drifts aimlessly in the wind, creaking every so often as a reminder of the girl waiting for him at home as you steal kisses on a swing set from the boy that she loves.

You wanted to get off campus for lunch, but Ranger Rick has been on this kick of trying to get you to stop arriving to your classes ten minutes late, so the farthest he lets you go is the elementary school about ten minutes away.

You try to tell him that you don't need a chaperone and that he needs to stop being such a huckleberry, but before you can tease him, he's kissing you sweetly and asking if you want to race to the slides.

(He lets you win, and then he kisses you again.)

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You like to dream that you and Lucas have a chance sometimes.

You know that you don't. He has a girlfriend at home, a beautiful girlfriend, and you're ashamed that you've become this homewrecking monster that you used to despise the thought of, but the guilt doesn't settle in until you alone in your bed at night and he is in his with her, texting you that he misses you while she probably kisses him goodnight. It doesn't feel wrong until you realize that it is, and you try to ration how unhappy he truly is with her, but she's a good girl.

She's an honest, pretty girl with a heart of gold and everything you wish you could have in the palm of her hands. You absentmindedly turn in your mattress as you wish for better features; longer limbs, darker hair, eyes as warm as a freshly baked cookie.

But you don't, and so you dream. Oh boy, do you dream.

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You're in love- Jesus fucking Christ, you're so in love that it sickens you.

You wonder if you'd be lucky enough to die from the guilt of how disgustingly obsessed you are with some boy in a class that you help teach but you're not because there isn't enough guilt when it feels so right and he's just as obsessed with you and Lucas Friar isn't just some boy in that fucking class.

You can remember rolling your eyes at the bullshit quotes about soulmates that you used to skip right through, but suddenly it's like they all were translated from a language that doesn't exist as soon as his touch scarred your skin, and you're in love.

You're so fucking in love.

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You have a bucket list of the top twenty art museums in this country that you want to visit, and so when Billy tells your entire lunch bunch that he has eight all access passes to the Detroit Institute of Art (#13) for a weekend of research for your course, it takes you all of three seconds to jump into his lap and hug him into an oblivion.

He claims it's purely coincidence to have eight tickets for art majors to abuse for a trip instead of seven, only one person in your group not earning a degree in a creative subject, but you know that he snuck it in so that Lucas could come, too, and you've never been so grateful.

When you tell Huckleberry about it, he lets out a gasped, "Number thirteen?" and a shiteating grin graces his face when you smack his arm for mocking you.

.

Sometimes it irritates you just how much of a gentleman Ranger Rick truly is.

You end up sharing a hotel room, something you think could be fun considering it'd be you, him, a locked door, a comfy bed- but no. His body twists away from yours when you slip into an oversized shirt to sleep in and he won't even glance your way until you're under the covers. Then, on top of refused to acknowledge you changing, he drops the line about him taking the sofa in the corner by the window instead of sharing the mattress with you.

"Hopalong, that's ridiculous. Not only are you half a foot too long for that damn thing, but there's no logical reason that you can't sleep next to me."

But he still protests. He claims it's the proper thing to do and his mama would castrate him if she knew that he was not taking the couch.

"Sundance," you deadpan, a blank expression falling to your face, "Stop being an idiot and come get in the fucking bed."

"No can do, Shortstack, I'll just be grabbing a pillow and I'll be on my way," he grins cheekily at your irritation, leaning over you to snatch up what he needs before you capture his lips and let out a soft noise against him.

You figure that he must be nervous- well, he's obviously nervous. Yeah, you've made out, and yeah you've done various other things, but you haven't had sex and there's a lingering sword swinging over your head with the fact that once you do, there's no going back. But you want this and you know that he wants it, too, and so you kiss him. It's sweet and slow and his arms hardly even graze your waist from how light his touch is. He sends chills down your spine when he gives you a soft groan when you nip at his lip, and when you finally get him sitting in the bed, you swing into his lap because this is it. This is the night where no one else exists, where you are completely lost in each other- where he is yours and no one can change that.

Not tonight, at least.

.

You tell Missy about him because you need help, and there's a bittersweet look in her eyes when she silently stares because you both know what you should do and you both know that you're not going to do it.

"Hey, Buttercup?" she asks softly, her arm swinging around your shoulders as you tuck your under her chin.

"Yeah, Princess?"

"Do you remember when we were nine and Farkle stuck his leg in front of us, telling us that one of us would one day be the lucky Mrs. Farkle Minkus and get all access up until his knee?"

You let out a chuckle, the image of him tugging his jeans up on top of your reading rug in the third grade flashing in your mind. "Yeah, and then we told him that we just don't think either of us are quite lucky enough for that..."

"Then Izzy showed up the next year and he said that we would just have to marry each other because he was soon to be the lucky Mr. Isadora Smackle," she finishes for you, your fingers lacing together as you sadly sigh.

"Oh, Bradford, what have I gotten myself into this time?"

She squeezes your palm, pressing a kiss into your hair.

"Nothing that we won't make it out of okay, Hart."

You smile gratefully, your eyes falling shut in the safety of your best friend. "I love you, Dipshit."

"I love you more, Fuckface."

You wish you would've just married Missy in the first place.

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Lucas tells you the story of Riley's parents- of Cory and Topanga, the couple that defined love in the lanky brunette's eyes. He tells you of Riley's wonderful fairytale that maps her life; her prince, her castle, the queen and king ruling the planet until she and her true love are crowned and the cycle repeats. He tells you that she loves him because he's supposed to be his prince.

You brush your hand along his cheek because you love him for not being a prince. You love him because you love his flaws as much as you love his perfections. You love his temper and how he sometimes fails to see the big picture and how he can't pronounce at least of half of your favorite artists.

He lets out that he doesn't think he's ever been the prince for her, and you nod because you know. He's no prince, but she is a princess, and he doesn't know how long it'll take her to figure that out.

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When you tell your mom about him, you cry. You do nothing but cry.

You cry for him, you cry for yourself, you cry for Riley, you cry for everyone and everything because you fucking love him and he loves you and you didn't mean for this to go so far- you didn't mean for it to go anywhere at all.

She holds you close and whispers into your ear that it's going to be okay. That you can't control where you find your happiness, and that it's going to work out. You find who you're meant to be with.

"Your father found his new wife while we were together," she reminds you, her smile sincere. "He found a happiness that I couldn't give him, and now he has a loving wife and two beautiful girls that he adores and takes care of. And if he hadn't found her, then I wouldn't have found Shawn, and I wouldn't have had help raising you all those years."

You sob harder because it's still not okay that you're doing this behind your back and you're a homewrecker, a filthy homewrecker.

"Maya," she strokes your hair, her free hand rubbing your back. "Please, just remember that I was in her place. Sometimes, your high school sweethearts are meant to stay that. It's not fair and it's not okay, but neither is life. Just… Babygirl, she knows more than you guys are giving her credit for. She knows in the end what's important and that when you love someone, you want them to have happiness. The sad truth of love is that sometimes it won't be from you, and if she's anything like what you've described her as to me, she knows. People change, Maya. They grow in different ways, and she's probably seen a difference in him since the day that you two met."

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Riley is even more beautiful in person than she is in pictures. You have lunch with her at Svorski's and when you walk in, ten minutes late thanks to the subway, you immediately spot her shining near the window, the sun setting just enough that she's beginning to turn gold.

It's awkward at first, and she's the first to speak.

"I needed to meet you," she confesses, "I really did. I found an apartment for myself, and before anything happened, I needed to meet the girl that he loves." You tug your bottom lip between your teeth, guilt starting to lurk as she continues, "God, the way he talks about you is surreal, and our entire place smells so much like you that it suffocates me in the sweetest way, and when he would tell me that he loves me, it wouldn't reach his eyes because it wasn't in the same way that I love him."

You don't really know what to say, your mouth falling open at everything she comes out with before even saying hello. "I… I'm so sorry," you try. Honestly, what else can you say?

Her hand finds yours over the table and there's a warmth in her eyes when she tells you not apologize. "You make him happy, Maya-"

"And when you love someone, you only want them to be happy," you finish for her, a chuckle escaping the both of you as tears well in your eyes.

"Exactly. I just needed to make sure that you would take care of him. I'm not going to be gone forever, but I'm gonna need some time, just to sort of settle with everything, and I couldn't do it without meeting you so I'm sorry if this is weird." Her face scrunches a little, and it is, you admit it, but you can only smile because in some twisted way, you're getting her blessing to be with the boy that you love more than there are stars in the sky, and you know deep inside that everything is going to be okay.

And with your hands connected over the table near the window at your favorite bakery, you hope that maybe you will be friends at some point, after she's healed, after you've grown, and that you'll love him as much as you can tell she does.

(You will and you do, you just know it.)

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The start of your new life happens on a Tuesday with a breakup and the opposite, your boyfriend kissing you hello and Riley softly waving goodbye.

You couldn't love Tuesdays more.