Z: can u talk?
HARPER: Stuck at a football game. Working on our project.
She’s texting someone who makes her smile in a way I haven’t seen before—unguarded and genuine.
“Who’s Z?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I immediately hate how it sounds. Possessive. Jealous, almost.
I have no right to be jealous.Stepsister, family bonding, remember?
Harper yanks her phone away, shoving it in her back pocket. “Ever heard of personal space?”
“Is Z the sort of fiancé?”
Why am I still pressing?Get your foot out of your mouth, dickhead.
My fingers won’t stop tapping. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I shove my hands in my pockets to make them stop.
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or something else I can’t name. “He’s my best friend.” Her voice has this rushed quality. “It’s?—”
“Complicated?”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Yeah, actually.”
“Right. Well. Come on,” I say, shaking my head and trying to get back on track, back to the mission. Her complicated relationship status with her best guy friend back home, who may or may not be her fiancé, doesn’t matter to me. I don’t even care. This is essentially babysitting tonight. I’m not curious at all about some random guy named Z. What kind of name is that anyway? Is he from another country? Is that why they’re only sort-of engaged? For some sort of visa situation?
Fuck.Focus.
“We’re missing the first quarter. But the concession lines should be short now, so let’s go grab some food before we sit down. They’ve got some crazy good brisket. The booster parents run a smoker out back.”
“Brisket?”
The way she says it—cautious but interested—makes me smile. Her eyes always light up every time she comes downstairs every night for dinner to see what Mom’s cooked. There’s something achingly normal about bonding over food. Something I can work with.
“Crazy good brisket,” I repeat.
“Fine,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “But I’m not cheering.”
“We’ll see about that.”
At the concession stand, I order enough food for a small army. It’s excessive, I know it’s excessive, but I can’t help it. I want her to have options. I want her to find something shelikes. I want?—
I want her to want to stay.
The thought stops me cold, right there with my wallet open and the cashier waiting.
I mean, I just want her to want to say because of thefamily.
But then I catch Harper watching me, and there’s something in her expression I can’t read. Something focused and intent as she stares at my wallet as I hand over my card to the woman working the concessions stand.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
Harper blinks, and whatever I saw is gone. “Got a hundred bucks I could borrow? Cash?”
The request is so unexpected that I almost laugh. “I don’t carry cash. Why do you need a hundred dollars?” And then, connections spark: “Are you planning on running?”
Her face shutters completely. “Of course not.”
But she said it too fast, and now I’m worried. Really worried.Isshe planning to leave? Has she been planning it this whole time? Isthatwhy she wanted my wallet that first day?