I can’t imagine Harper ever being normal. She stands out in any crowd—that dark hair, those sharp eyes, the way she moves like she’s always ready to either fight or run. She’s extraordinary, and she doesn’t even know it.
“So if you’re gonna marry him, then I guess...” My hands squeeze the steering wheel. “Do you love him?”
Another damn shrug.
“It’s just a piece of paper that gets him free.”
Relief floods through me, immediately followed by shame. I shouldn’t be relieved. I should want Harper to be happy, even if that happiness?—
“Doesheknow that?”
She looks down at her lap, then picks at a nail, frowning. “I think. I haven’t exactly asked.”
“What’s he like?”
I don’t know why I’m torturing myself. But I can’t stop myself from asking.
Her face lights up. And I mean her entire expression transforms—eyes bright, smile genuine, a softness I’ve never seen before washing over her features.
And something in my chest just sorta... caves in.
“Z is the best,” she says, and there’s so much warmth in her voice it makes my throat tight. “He’s loyal and funny. He’s a gamer. God, I wish you could meet him.”
Me too.
The thought comes automatically, instinctively.
So I can make sure he’s good enough for you.
Except—who the hell am I to judge? I’m her stepbrother. I’m supposed to be happy she has someone. I’m supposed to be supportive of her choices.
I’m supposed to treat her likefamily.
But as I glance over at her—at the way she glows talking about Z, at how animated and open she is in a way she never is at Westfield—I have to face a truth I’ve been avoiding for weeks.
I don’t feel brotherly toward Harper Tucker.
I never have.
And watching her light up mentioning another guy is carving something vital out of my chest and leaving me hollow.
“Hey, don’t tell the parentals about me taking off after my birthday, yeah?” Her voice cuts through my spiral.
I shouldn’t agree. I should tell her that secrets like this hurt people. I should go straight to Mom and Silas andtell them Harper’s planning to leave so they can—what? Lock her in her room? That didn’t work before.
Try to convince her to stay? With what argument? That we want her here?
ThatIwant her here?
“Sure,” I hear myself say.
“Swear.” She’s glaring at me now, and there’s something fierce in her expression. Something that makes it clear this isn’t a request.
I nod, even though I know I’m going to regret it. “Swear.”
I’m promising to help her leave. Promising to keep the secret that will let her walk out of my life like she was never here.
Because that’s what good people do, right? They respect other people’s choices. They don’t try to control situations. They let the people they care about make their own decisions, even when those decisions hurt.