It lands under the bed. Off-center. Asymmetrical.
I should leave it there. Iwantto leave it there as some kind of proof I’m not totally obsessive about everything.
I last approximately eight seconds before I’m on my hands and knees retrieving it and setting it back in the pencil holder. Fourth from the left. Blue, black, black, red, green. The order matters even though I can’t explain why.
There’s something broken in my head. The obsession with even numbers and needing visual symmetry. I know there’s a name for it, and Mom’s suggested therapy more than once.
I saw a counselor for a little while when Mom was sick. Learned how to do breathing exercises, yada yada.
I just need a littlecontrol.
There’s too much fucking chaos in the world.
Like the shitshow downstairs. I wanted to follow after Harper and apologize, but suddenly, the guy who’s never without a counterpoint in a debate tournament was at a loss for words. If I knocked on her door, what the hell was I gonna say? I’m sorry that got so out of hand? I’m sorry our fingertips brushed?
Fuck, did she think I was a creep? I didn’t meanto bump into her either time. AndMomset up the table that way and then sat down with Silas on the other side, so I had no choice but to sit?—
No. Everything I think of to say sounds dumb, so I need to channel my frustration at being so useless into studying instead of stewing about it all.
But the smell of cigarette smoke drifting through my cracked window makes my head shoot up.
Silas doesn’t smoke, and with all her health concerns, Mom would never.
I follow the smell to the French doors that lead to my balcony—the one I share with the guest room.
Harper’s room now.
And there she is, perched precariously on the thick porch railing like it’s a park bench—one leg dangles into empty space over the balcony with the other folded beneath her.
My heart rate spikes. Fifteen feet up. Concrete patio below. One shift in weight could?—
I’m calculating the probability of different injury scenarios before I can stop myself. Broken legs (62%), broken spine (23%), skull fracture (8%).
Stop. Fuckingstop.
A lit cigarette dangles from her fingers, and she’s staring out at the manicured lawn like she’s planning to burn it all down.
At least that’s what I think until I see the tear tracks down her eyes.
“Are you crying?”
She sniffles as her head whips my way.
I hurry out the door toward her with my arms slightly out in case she loses her balance. “Careful! You wanna maybe put both legs back on this side?”
She wipes her cheeks while she lets out a little laugh. “I’m fine, Boy Scout.”
She’s still in the black T-shirt and ripped jeans she was wearing at dinner that cling to her curves in waysthat absolutely shouldn’t be legal. Her hair is loose now, falling in dark waves over one shoulder, and the moonlight turns her skin silver.
She’s beautiful. And fuck me very much for noticing.Stepsister, I remind myself firmly. That’s a hard line.
Plus, she tried to rob me earlier. Can’t forget that.
“You’re funny,” she says, tilting her head sideways.
And you’re fascinating.
My heart does a weird littlethump-thumpthing in my chest like it literally skipped a beat. I thought that was just a made-up saying, not a literal thing that happens in real life.