“What about the cafeteria?” I cry.
“You know Frank never fills out those forms for the free lunches. I stopped going to school anyway. I triedgoing by Smithy’s to lift some chips, but he chased me out.” A pause, then almost casual: “It’s different without you there to distract him.”
My full stomach churns, and I suddenly feel like throwing up the delicious meal Helen cooked for us, complete with the cookies for dessert. Here I’ve been pigging out, while Z’s literally starving. And he dropped out? Since when? Jesus, I feel like a goddamn monster. How did I miss that?
“I’ll come as soon as I can get the money,” I promise. Not weakly this time. With conviction. With purpose. “Two days. Maybe three.”
“Two days,” he repeats, and his smile is soft.Relieved.“I can make it two days if I know you’re coming home.”
Home.
After we hang up, I sit there on the too-soft bed in the too-perfect room, and for the first time since I got here, I know exactly what I need to do.
I’m going home. I’m saving Z.
And soon, we’ll be married.
I swallow hard.
And no one can stop us.
EIGHT
CALEB
“Keep an eye on Harper tonight.”
Silas delivers this order from the driver’s seat like it’s the simplest instruction in the world, and I nod because, of course, I will. That’s what good stepsons do; they help their new stepsister acclimate. They make sure she feels included in family traditions.
Rule #14: Demonstrate responsible behavior at all times.
Good stepbrothers demonstrate responsible behavior. My foot taps—once, twice, three, four times. I force it to stop as I glance over at Harper, sitting beside me in the backseat. If she heard Silas, she gives no indication.
I’m acutely, uncomfortably aware of every singlething about her. The way her jaw is set in that stubborn line. The faint smell of her shampoo—something floral that shouldn’t affect me but does. The way her thigh is approximately seven inches from mine on the leather seat, and those seven inches feel simultaneously too close and not close enough.
Seven inches. Not six, not eight. Seven.
Stop it.
I’ve been preparing for this all week. Mental checklist: introduce Harper to my friends since I’m not sure she’s been making any besides the sophomore I see her hanging out with, and make sure she has a good time at the football game so Mom sees we’re blending as a family.
Perfect plan. Totally reasonable goals.
The only problem is… well,Harper.
I risk another glance at her. She’s staring out the window with this expression I can’t quite read. Something between contempt and wonder, like she’s watching a nature documentary about a species she finds both fascinating and ridiculous as we pass by pristine lawns and giant house after giant house.
“You’re going to love it, honey,” Mom says from the front seat, twisting around to beam at Harper. “Westfield has the best student section in the district.”
Harper’s smile in response looks painful. “Can’t wait.”
The sarcasm is subtle enough that Mom doesn’t catch it, but I do. I always catch it with Harper. It’s like I’ve developed some kind of Harper-specific frequency that only I can hear.
When we pull into the stadium parking lot, Harper’s jaw literally drops.
I follow her gaze to the stadium, trying to see it through her eyes. It’s on the other side of the school, so you don’t see it unless you come around to this side. And yeah, it’s impressive—gleaming metal, pristine concrete, lights that can probably be seen from space. The scoreboard alone probably costs more than a small house.
For a second, something uncomfortable twists in my chest. Like guilt, maybe, or awareness of just how different our lives have been.