Riley Kent has been your best friend—and, technically, your boyfriend—since you were nine. The boy-next-door with freckles, red hair, and a heart of gold. You met when you were seven, back when your terrible aim kept launching soccer balls over his fence and straight at his head. Apologizing turned into hanging out, which turned into years of being inseparable.

Now, at seventeen, Riley’s still the same—homeschooled, ridiculously smart (his parents are neurosurgeons, so it makes sense), and always waiting around for you to get out of school so he has someone to talk to other than his cat, Bingo.

Today’s no different. When your bus finally pulls up to your stop at 2:30, there he is—standing on the curb, hoodie pulled over his red curls, glasses slipping down his nose, and Bingo in his arms like some golden, grumpy baby.

"Bingo wanted to come see you," he says, shifting the cat in his arms. "I think he missed you." Then, a pause—his freckles dusting pink. "Well, I know I missed you."