"Ah, yes. And I'm supposed to call you Mateo now."
"You're notsupposedto call me anything. I told you that youcancall me Mateo," I argue. Then I take a drink from the thermos and glance at Harper. "How's he doing?"
"He looks about as good as you do."
It's not a compliment. I wait for her to go on, knowing all too well she's never been short on things to say, but she continues to enjoy her soup and a view she's had her entire life.
"Last I heard, your dad didn't think you knew this bench was here."
"Found it when I was a kid. Google Earth," she shrugs. "It wasn't an exciting place to hang out back then—the excitement was in the discovery, I think—but I've appreciated it more as I've gotten older. It's quiet. Private."
"It's definitely private. Right up until someone shows up unannounced with a blanket and some soup."
"I'm not mad you're here."
"Nah, I didn't think you were," I say.
"And it's not your first time."
I raise an eyebrow. She tilts her head. I answer. "No."
"Am I allowed to ask when you first came here?"
"A while ago."
She sits with that, and I can't decide whether she's pieced together the truth of what Jamie and I are to each other, or whether she's still working it out. Honestly, if it's the former, I'd like to ask for her help. I've been lost for weeks now, and if he looks as rough as she's suggested, I'd love to know what the hell we're doing. Of course, that's been the question all along.
"I'm glad he has you," she murmurs, as quiet as I've ever heard her. "You're different from everyone else."
"I'm a friend."
I could go on. Defend myself and this ride I've been on for years. I could argue that we're barely friends now, and may not get back to the way we were. I could confirm that he very much does have me, and will forever, mostly because I will never again be that guy who tried to order takeout and didn't expect to watch the sun rise. I'm only the guy who fell deeply in love with Jameson Sinclair and doesn't know how to crawl back out.
And I'm not sure I would if given the chance.
But it doesn't matter what I could say. Harper waves me off.
"I don't think my mom was ever his friend. Even when they confused lust with love, or used each other for whatever, I don't think they really liked each other all that much."
It's very matter-of-fact, and from what I know, she's not wrong. Still, I hurt for Jamie and Harper. Maybe Danielle, too. I tuck a few stray strands of hair behind my ear and try not to think about why her first comparison was to something supposedly romantic and definitely sexual. Then I redirect my thoughts and her words.
"What about Kai?"
She grins, but there's a crease between her brows. "Tricky. I mean, sure, he’s definitely a friend, but Kai was aroundbefore—before hockey became all of what my dad did, and most of who he was."
“Before Jameson Sinclair became more than a name reserved for roll call in a classroom full of kids.”
“Exactly, yeah. Like, he was just J back then? And to Kai, he’s still just J, so they're best friends, but they're basically brothers. He'll always be around, no matter who my dad is or was, and it's not the same as anyone my dad met after he became That Hockey Player." She stops and studies me. "I probably don't need to ask whether you've met Kai."
"You don’t."
Harper snorts and shakes her head. "Anyway, my dad's also been friends with lots of teammates. We've vacationed with them. Spent some holidays together. Honestly, I grew up around them more than my grandparents. But they only sort of count because they're all part of that world."
"They all met Jameson Sinclair, and probably never spent time with him as J, even after he stopped playing. Same goes for Taylor McKeon."
"They never spent time with him as JorJamie, and wouldn’t be sitting on this bench today even ifthey knew it existed," she says pointedly. "And Taylor McKeon is in sort of a separate subcategory. Only friendly when egos don't get in the way, or when enough alcohol makes them stop caring? There are a lot of guys like that.I'm sure you saw it when you were at the lake last summer."
I nearly choke on the last of my soup. "I didn't realize he told you about that."