“Thanks. I think.”
Z raises the whiskey bottle. “To being fucked up together.”
We pass it around again.
The rest of the night dissolves into stupid hypotheticals. Marie describes a book idea about time-traveling assassins. Z plays air guitar and sings off-key until Caleb throws pine needles at him. Caleb tries to explain quantum physics, gives up halfway through, and collapses into giggles.
Sometime later, we’re all huddled close to the dying fire, passing the last of the whiskey.
“Whattime is it?” Z asks.
I check. “12:47.”
“We missed midnight,” Caleb observes.
“No, we didn’t,” I argue. “We celebrated it right.”
“I’ll kiss all of you,” Z announces. “I’m down for a New Year’s orgy.”
“Shut up, Z!” Caleb and I say in unison.
“Your loss.”
And somewhere between the laughter and the cold and the smoke curling up toward the stars, it hits me—this is what it actually feels like.
Family.
Not the pretty TV version. Not even Helen’s well-meaning attempts.
This.
This messy, ridiculous, imperfect thing we’ve built.
These three idiots who somehow became mine.
THIRTY-SIX
One month later
HARPER
The keysto the Mustang feel heavier than they should in my hand. Like I’m not just holding metal, but trust. Responsibility. Maybe even a piece of Caleb.
He’s in the kitchen doorway, and he looks… wrecked. Dark circles are carved under his eyes, and his shoulders are locked so tight I’m surprised he can breathe. His debate team jacket hangs perfectly pressed on him, but the rest of him is unraveling. His fingers twitch toward his phone like an addict reaching for a fix.
“I should go with her,” he says. Again. For the third time in five minutes. “I can miss one tournament.”
“Like hell you will.” Helen sweeps in behind him, purse already in hand, lunch bag swinging from herwrist. She’s dressed like she’s going to brunch with friends instead of chemo—soft yellow sweater, carefully applied lipstick, scarf knotted neatly at her throat. She’s fighting for normalcy when nothing about this is normal. “You’ve worked too hard to just stop at regionals your final year. I won’t have you throwing that away because of my appointment.”
“It’s not just an appointment, Mom. It’s?—”
“It’s a Tuesday.” Her tone slices through his protest. Firm, no-nonsense. Final. “And Tuesday is chemo day. You have a debate team meet. How are you going to make it to State if you skip Regionals? Harper very kindly offered to drive me and sit with me. That’s that.”
But I see it—the tiny tremor in her hands as she adjusts her scarf, the split-second she braces against the counter before moving again.
She’s fighting to be strong for him.
He’s fighting to be strong for her.