I don’t know how long I’ve been on autopilot. Not feeling much of anything. Just achieving, achieving, achieving, like that would make everybody happy. Like if I made Mom proud enough, my life was worth something.
Or more likely—my jaw tightens—like it proved myfatherwrong for throwing me away like I was completely discardable the second Mom and I became inconvenient to him instead of a source of easy pleasure and comfort.
But Harper just likes me for…me.
Not for my money or the looks I’ve finally grown into. Or for how useful I am as a good debate captain to help our school win state trophies. Or for the inheritance my fatherfinallyput away in a trust for me that gives me status among my peers at school.
Besides Mom, everyone else in my universe hasalways treated me differently depending on how these factors have changed during the ups and downs in our fortunes.
Except Harper.
She genuinely wouldn’t give a shit if I had nothing. No money. No future. No prestige offered.
Sheiseverything I didn’t know to want until I met her. And it’s killing me, being this close but not being allowed to follow her up those stairs, climb back into her bed, and pull her into my arms.
I clean up after breakfast, then do a deep clean of the entire kitchen when Mom and Silas take off to do some errands.
But once the kitchen’s spotless, I’m still restless. Itching for Harper.
Cold shower. Laundry. Anything to busy my hands before I climb those stairs and do something I can’t undo.
I grab my basket of clothes and head for the basement, rattling baseball stats in my head like a lifeline.
Nolan Ryan. Fastest pitch ever recorded: 105.1 mph. Strikeouts: 5,714. Seven no-hitters.
Randy Johnson: 4,875 strikeouts. Ten-time All-Star.
Roger Clemens: Seven Cy Young Awards. 354 wins.
I recite them in order. Alphabetically by last name. Then by strikeout count. Then by ERA.
It’s a ritual. A safe pattern. Something I can control.
Unlike whatever’s happening with Harper.
The second I hit the bottom step, I hear the washer already running. And smell the scent of cherry blossoms intermixed with laundry detergent. A beep announcesthe cycle ending. Then I hear her humming as she tugs the door open.
Shit.
She’s already down here.
My heart kicks hard, a guilty, restless thud in my chest. Mom and Silas said they’d be gone for at least an hour.
Which means we’re alone.
Completely alone.
I should turn around. Go back upstairs. Wait her out.
But I don’t.
I keep going, faster now, like my body’s already decided for me. Two magnets inevitably drawn toward each other.
The laundry room is barely big enough for two people—tucked into a corner of the basement like an afterthought, warm from the machines. Our house is built into the side of a hill, so unlike most Texas houses, we actually have a basement.
I round the corner.
And there she is.