A promise.
“I’ll finish later,” I mutter, backing toward the stairs like the dryer’s about to explode and clutching the basket to my stomach like a life preserver.
As I pass Harper, she leans in just enough for me to hear, “Tonight, Boy Scout.”
Barely a whisper. But it lands in my chest like a countdown starting.
I don’t answer. I don’t look back.
But the promise follows me.
Up the stairs.
Into my head.
Under my skin.
Tonight.
TWENTY-ONE
CALEB
Harper said, “Tonight.”
One word. Two syllables. And my entire nervous system went into overdrive.
I check my phone again. 4:53 p.m.
Two minutes since I last looked.
Before that: 4:51 p.m. Before that: 4:48 p.m. Before that: 4:45 p.m.
I’ve checked my phone 47 times in the last two hours. I know because I counted.
Tonight.
She said tonight.
But when is tonight? Sunset is 6:44 p.m. That’s one hour and 51 minutes from now. 6,660 seconds.
Or does tonight mean after dinner? That’s around 8:00 p.m. Three hours and 7 minutes. 11,220 seconds.
Or does she mean late tonight? When our parentsare definitely asleep? That could be 11:00 p.m. or midnight. Six to seven hours from now. 21,600 to 25,200 seconds.
My brain won’t stop calculating. Won’t stop trying to pin down the exact moment.
I need parameters. I need to know exactly when.
But Harper doesn’t work that way.
Normal people don’t work that way.
I’m spread out at the dining room table, differential equations open in front of me like I’m actually capable of concentrating on math right now.
Problem 1: I read it four times. Can’t process it. Problem 2: I write the first equation. Wrong. Erase it. Write it again. Still wrong. Problem 3: I stare at it for six minutes. My phone says 4:59 p.m. now.
I’ve completed zero problems in 23 minutes.