Rag’n’Bone Man’s “Human” comes on next, and Harper immediately reaches over to turn up the volume.
“That’s more like it.”
The movement makes her hair swish, and that scent hits me again—cherry blossoms and Harper, overwhelming in the small space of the Mustang. It’s the same smell that wafts out of our shared bathroom after she showers, the one that makes me linger in the doorway when I open my side of the bathroom and the steam hits me.
Cherry blossoms. Vanilla. Something sharper underneath.
I’m cataloging details again. The number of freckleson her left hand (seven). The exact shade of her nail polish (burgundy, chipped on the ring finger). The way she tucks her hair behind her right ear but never her left.
If I remember hard enough, will it hurt less once she’s gone?
TWELVE
CALEB
“Game night!”Mom announces brightly, clapping her hands after dinner, a couple of weeks later. “Harper, honey, since you’reactuallyjoining us tonight—” She pauses, eyes flicking toward Silas. I know she’s wondering if he laid down some kind of ultimatum with Harper to get that to happen. “You get to pick the game.”
But I know what they don’t.
Harper’s leaving in a week. I think that’s why she’s actually participating in game night for once. Is this her starting her long goodbye? Or because, in spite of herself, she actually likes it here? She and Silas have even reached a sort of détente lately.
Harper leans back in her chair, the movement making her fitted black T-shirt ride up just enough to reveal a sliver of pale skin above her low-slung jeans.
My mouth goes dry. Sometimes it just hits me like this—how damn hot she is.
Stepsister. Leaving in a few weeks. Strictly off-limits.
So why is it even hotter that she’s off limits?
I love limits.
Usually, Ibaskin limits.
But part of it is the fact that she could be doing anything right now—vaping behind the garage, texting some loser who doesn’t deserve her—but she’s here. With us.
“Monopoly?” Helen offers, already halfway to the game cabinet. “Scrabble? Or?—”
“Poker,” Harper cuts in, voice low and challenging. Her eyes don’t leave Silas’s.
Silas freezes mid-reach for his wine glass, his face twitching. “Absolutely not.”
“Why not,Dad?” Her smile turns lazy and dangerous as she leans forward, resting her chin on her fist. Apparently, détente doesn’t mean she’s completely lost her edge. “You taught me how to play when I was six. Pretty sure that makes it a family tradition.” She pops one eyebrow. “Unless you’re afraid I’ll clean you out of pennies.”
For a second, there’s a standoff. Then Silas laughs—a real laugh, low and genuine—and it changes his whole face.
“You’re on, little girl,” he says, and for once, it sounds like a father talking to his daughter.
An hour later, we’re deep in the game and, against all odds, having actual fun.
Like,funfun.
Mom deals with the casual precision of someone who definitely wasn’t just a mom in her past life. She moves cards like she’s shuffled high stakes before, and I catch myself wondering—what else don’t I know about my own mother?
But the real wildcard is Harper.
She’s curled into the chair across from me, legs folded under her, dark hair falling across her cheek. Every so often, she tucks it behind her ear. Each time I catch the flash of silver studs climbing her lobe, I want… things I shouldn’t.
Jesus. Stop.