And for the first time in six years—since I made the rules, since I decided control equals safety—I can’t think my way out.
Can’t logic my way through this.
Can’t fix it.
I turn and sprint down the hallway. Shove through the double doors into the cold November air. Skip class for the first time in my entire academic career.
Because I can’t fucking breathe and the walls are closing in and everything I’ve worked for is gone.
Just… gone.
And somewhere in that empty, hollowed-out space where my future used to be, all I can think is:
Harper. I have to find Harper.
THIRTY-EIGHT
HARPER
I pullinto the school parking lot in Helen’s Lexus and park in one of the spots reserved for seniors, even though I’m technically not supposed to use them without a sticker, and I don’t have one for this car.
Fuck it. After the morning I’ve had, I’ll take the parking ticket.
I reach for my phone, only to find Helen’s phone is still in the cupholder. Damn. We swapped them for navigation and forgot to switch back when I dropped her off with Silas. He was just waking up after his late-night shift at their club to help with the after-chemo nausea. My phone must be in my backpack in the trunk.
I pop the trunk and step out into the November chill. The asphalt still has that rain-slick shine from this morning’s drizzle, and everything smells like wet pavement and exhaust.
Helen’s treatment has been hell on everyone. Of course, Helen most of all, but Dad and Caleb insist on being there, holding back her hair for the hours she’s sick after every chemo appointment, and I know it kills both of them watching her feel so bad and not be able to do more for her. Caleb thinks I don’t notice the way he clicks his pen in repetitive patterns. Or scribbles more and more rules in that damn notebook of his. Sometimes I’ll even catch him blinking in patterns, and I know he’s counting.
God, I hope his day has been going okay.
I know he’s notthatstressed about Regionals—not compared to the real shit in his life like his mom’s cancer recurrence and the sixty-two percent survival rate he’s probably calculated down to the decimal point. But it’s still important to him. After four years of debate team, as captain this year, Harvard acceptance is hanging in the balance, even though he already got in.
Caleb doesn’t do anything halfway. Including worry.
Still, the debate championship is a nice distraction. Something he can control when everything else is spinning out.
And I want him to feel like I’m there for him. Even if I can’t sit in the front row cheering—because that would be weird, his stepsister showing up to regionals like some kind of groupie—I can at least squeeze his hand under the cafeteria table. Maybe steal one of those quick kisses in the empty debate room before the bus leaves.
Maybe remind him that someone sees past the perfect golden boy routine to the terrified kid underneath who just wants his mom to live.
I grab my backpack from the trunk, the leather wornand familiar against my palm. It’s the one thing I brought from Grass Valley that I actually like—Z gave it to me two birthdays ago, saved up his money from odd jobs to buy it.
Z.
He’s been a real rock lately. Picking up the slack around the house while everyone else has been so worried about Helen. He even cooks dinner for everyone once a week now. Hamburger Helper, but still. It’s meant a lot that he’s stepped up.
I pause just long enough to dig out my phone, fingers searching through the zippered pocket where I always keep it.
The screen lights up.
Fifty-three notifications.
I blink. Refresh. Still fifty-three.
What the actual fuck?
My heart starts beating faster—that animal instinct that saysdangerbefore your brain catches up. I unlock the phone with shaking hands.