I need to calm down first
Four to four. Tied. No clear answer.
The soft light from the kitchen behind me glows gold and warm, spilling onto the porch like it’s trying to lure me back into the calm, orderly world I’m supposed to live in.
But I can still feel the cold spot where her body used to be.
Z’s leaning against the railing like he owns thegoddamn place. Like he didn’t just drop a grenade into the middle of everything with his presence.
“You done playing house yet?” he asks without looking at me.
I turn to face him slowly. “What is it exactly you want from her?”
He gives me a lazy smile. “She’s my girl.”
“No, she’s not.”
That smile sharpens. “I’ve known her since we were kids. Taught her how to steal her first six-pack. You really think some prep school hero with perfect SAT scores and a stick up his ass is gonna last longer than a season?”
I step forward, heart pounding. “I don’t care what you think I am. But you don’t get to use her like a nostalgia blanket when you’re bored.”
Z’s smirk vanishes.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
There’s silence. Just the drone of cicadas and the buzz of Mom’s garden lights, plus the thrum of my heart slamming against my ribcage.
“You’ve known her a long time,” I say, quieter now. “So you know she deserves more than being dragged backward.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Just flicks something off the porch and watches it fall into the dark.
“You think this place is gonna save her?” he says finally. “You thinkyouare?”
“I think she deserves the chance to choose,” I bite out. “Without you breathing down her neck every time she starts to feel safe.”
Z laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “That’s the problem with safe places. They don’t last. She knows that. You don’t.”
I don’t have a comeback. Because maybe he’s right. Maybe I am stupid for believing this could work. That she and I could?—
No.
I turn and head for the sliding door, because if I stay out here any longer, I’m going to hit him. And I won’t like who I am if I do.
The kitchen is empty now, warm and quiet, but it feels like Harper’s still here somehow. Her scent lingers—cherry blossoms and rage.
I close the door behind me and lock it, then unlock it, then lock it and unlock it again.
Not because I think Z will follow me in.
But because I need something—anything—to feel like it’s under control.
Upstairs, Harper’s door is closed.
Mine too.