23. 23 #2
Now she’s a friend . A woman with obvious trauma, a sharp tongue, and a way of looking at me that makes me want to stand still and move closer all at once.
And our first decent conversation? It’s over fucking zoomies. God help me. I run my thumb over the screen once, twice—
The screen lights up again.
Harrison.
Before I can even tap it, the bastard FaceTimes me. I shake my head. “Clingy fuck,” I mutter under my breath, tapping Accept . “What could you possibly want now? I just saw—”
But it’s not Harrison.
It’s Joseph’s face on the screen.
“MIKEY! D’YA WANT DINNER?! At my house!” His face takes up the entire screen, all nostrils and big, blinking eyes, the angle so close I can practically see into his brain.
I bark out a laugh. “Whoa, mate. Ease up. I didn’t need to see your boogers.”
He giggles, breath hitching with excitement. “WE GOT PIZZA! I LIKE PIZZA!”
“I know you do, little man.”
Behind him, I hear Imogen call out, “Joseph! Give me back Daddy’s phone!”
He squeals and takes off running. The camera jolts and bounces, showing glimpses of hallway walls, a stuffed dinosaur, a ceiling fan. His giggles echo down the line, loud and unfiltered.
It’s chaos. Pure, perfect chaos.
Finally, Imogen appears, slightly out of breath as she wrestles the phone from his sticky little hands. “Would you believe me if I said he called you all by himself?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him,” I say, grinning.
She rolls her eyes. “We’re ordering pizza. You coming over? Harrison’s sulking about you, says you need some company.”
“What a fucking idiot.”
“But you’re not mad at him.”
“No,” I sigh. “Tell the booger king I’ll be there in ten.”
“Okay, Joseph. You can’t stack a giraffe on a crocodile. It’s physically impossible .”
“Yes, I can,” he says, glaring at me with the full force of his three-year-old fury.
I glance at Hope, who’s strapped into her little bouncer next to us, her legs kicking gleefully. She squeals, like she’s backing him up. Apparently, I’m outnumbered.
Blocks are everywhere—under my knees, in my shoes, stuffed behind my back. I’m being held hostage by a toddler. And not even metaphorically. I tried standing up once—just once—and Joseph chucked a plastic block at my forehead and shouted, “NO. SIT.”
If that’s not his mother reincarnated, I don’t know what is. The kid is bossy as fuck. He might even be bossier than Imogen, but I’m more impressed by the kid’s aim. He’d clocked me right in the middle of my forehead, and I’m still rubbing at where it hit me.
My phone lights up next to me, and my eyes blink rapidly at the sight of Zoe’s name on my screen.
Zoe : If you must know, Sprinkles is chewing on my hair tie. She no longer wants the stupid feather stick. I’ve accepted defeat. Keep your judgement to yourself.
Me : No judgement here, remember? Just admiration. That’s tactical surrender.
Zoe : It’s survival. She’s got the bite strength of a little demon.
I don’t text back right away. I just stare at her name on my screen. A roguish smile tugs at the corner of my mouth as I do, because she texted me first. No sarcasm. No cold fronts.
Just… her.
The pizza didn’t take long to arrive, and now we’re sitting at Harrison’s small dining table.
They’ve only been in this place for a few months now, and it already feels lived in, as if they’ve been here for years.
It feels comfortable. Joseph refuses to eat unless his pizza slices are cut into dinosaur shapes.
He’s got four lined up already—T-rex, stegosaurus, a sad-looking triceratops, and one I’m pretty sure is supposed to be a velociraptor, but just looks like a mangled rectangle.
The whole house smells like garlic bread and tomato sauce. It’s warm. Loud. Too many noises compete at once. I’m halfway through a crust when I glance up—and find Harrison watching me. Not casually watching. Not bored watching.
Watching me. I know that look. It’s his detective face. The one he uses when he’s about to dig in and refuse to let go. “You gonna tell me what’s bothering you?”
I lean back in my chair, chewing slowly. “What?”
“You’ve been weird all day.”
“I’m always weird. And?”
He doesn’t even flinch. “And I’m asking why.”
“Since when do I tell you my women troubles?”
The words come out before I register them. Big mistake.
Because his grin spreads instantly, like wildfire. That annoying Price grin that says he’s already won. “So it is a woman.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re such a dick.”
“Language!” Imogen tsks at Harrison.
He holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I didn’t say it. Michael did.”
Joseph dramatically gasps. “Uhhhh… Mikey said a bad word.”
“He did. But he won’t say it again,” Imogen chides, before pinning me with a look. “Both of you, knock it off. Michael, seriously. You’ve been… off.”
I exhale hard, folding my arms across my chest. “Thanks.”
“And you.” She shoots a glare at Harrison. “Maybe try leading with something softer than ‘you’ve been weird all day.’”
He shrugs again, unbothered. Same old Harrison. Imogen’s eyes shift toward me as she wipes her hands on a tea towel, her tone dipping lower. “Did something happen between you and Zoe after you dropped her home?”
The air in the room stills for a moment.
I think about it. About actually telling them everything.
The ride home. The truce. The handshake.
How her voice cracked when she admitted she walked away from something—no, someone—that maybe almost ruined her.
How something about that night hasn’t stopped gnawing at the edge of my thoughts since.
But that’s not my story to tell. So I keep it simple.
“Nothing happened,” I say, grabbing another slice. “I dropped her off. We had a decent chat. Then I went home. End of story.”
Harrison’s brow lifts. He’s not convinced.
Imogen tilts her head. “She willingly talked to you?” It’s not a question. More of a stunned observation.
“Sort of,” I mutter. “I asked a couple of things. She answered.” No big deal. Except it is.
“Hm,” Imogen hums, exchanging a look with Harrison. “Right. So, you pushed Zoe to open up, then?”
My jaw clenches. “You make it sound like I did a bad thing. I didn’t push her. I just… gave her space. Silence. A moment to breathe. A place to land for a second. That’s all.”
Imogen’s voice cuts through again, sharper this time. “So, you asked a couple of questions?”
“Yes,” I reiterate with an exasperated sigh.
“Great. So then don’t be a hypocrite when we ask you questions, and you brush them off.”
Ooft . Her word lands with weight. Because she’s right. She doesn’t mean Zoe.
She means this . Me. Clamming up when my brother tries to check in.
“You, of all people, should understand how hard it is to open up,” she continues. “And Harrison’s not interrogating you to stir the pot. He’s looking out for you. Talking about your shit—your real shit—is the only way to move through it.”
I chew slowly, not answering straight away.
Because I know where that’s coming from.
Harrison’s been in therapy for two years.
Since the worst of it. Since the last time our father paid us a little visit.
Since Imogen got dragged into the mess. We almost lost Harrison that night.
Watching him unravel, watching him spiral to a place I couldn’t reach, was scary as fuck.
But in some twisted way, it also allowed him to finally stop pretending like he was fine. To admit he wasn’t.
He’s not the same guy he used to be—and I don’t mean that in a bad way. My brother gives a shit. He always has. I’ve never once doubted that.
But me? It’s not that I don’t talk. I do.
When it matters. When it makes sense. I’ve had hard conversations.
I’ve opened up when I’ve needed to. Maybe not often.
But I’m not some brick wall. Still, when it comes to her …
I don’t know what to say. Not because there’s nothing there, but because there’s too much .
Too much I don’t understand, and don’t know how to name.
What she said last night hit somewhere I didn’t expect.
Somewhere I haven’t let anyone touch in a long time.
It’s not that I don’t think I should talk about things.
It’s just that I can’t find the words to explain why.
So yeah, maybe I am a hypocrite for asking Zoe to open up when I can’t even say what I’m thinking out loud.
Imogen flicks a glance at me, as if she just read the thought straight out of my skull. She is always too perceptive for her own good. Like me. I take another bite of pizza.
Harrison’s still eating, quiet for once, probably realising he doesn’t need to keep pressing. Not right now. Imogen, though, she’s gone still. Lost in her own thoughts.
I swallow, wipe my hand on a napkin, and nudge her foot under the table. “Penny for your thoughts?”
She lifts her eyes. “Just thinking about Zoe. She’s interesting.
Hard to read, but not in a cold way.” She glances between Harrison and me.
“I like her. She’s dry, smart. She doesn’t pretend to be something she’s not.
And I can tell she’s been through something.
I can spot a woman with a heavy past in a heartbeat.
” Her words loosen something in my chest. It’s not validation I was after, but knowing it’s not just me who sees Zoe—really sees her—makes me feel a little less crazy for noticing every damn detail.
Imogen would know, too. She’s lived through enough of it herself—the disappointment, the abandonment—in her life to know some signs. I don’t confirm her suspicions about Zoe. It’s not mine to speak on. So I remain quiet.
No one says anything else for a moment. The air feels a bit less crowded somehow. Joseph drops a piece of crust on the floor and lets out an exaggerated sob, full of toddler devastation.
Harrison laughs before leaning over to grab it off the floor. He inspects it with mock seriousness, then blows on it—probably for imaginary dust—and hands it back. “Five-second rule,” he says.
Joseph doesn’t even hesitate, shoving it back into his mouth with gusto.
I shake my head, biting back a smirk. “Alright. Can we change the subject now?”
Harrison’s already grinning. “Yep. Tell me about Dutton’s. Are you racing again?”
“Yeah. Jax called me last week. Five-lap circuit. Point system for each lap, but the last lap is all or nothing. First over the line wins.”
“Payout?”
“Three grand. Plus a few grand worth of credits at Dutton’s workshop. Thinking of throwing it into the Ducati.”
He whistles. “Bet that bike could do with a little TLC.”
“Couldn’t we all,” I mutter.
He smirks. “Zoe know you’re racing?” I shoot him a flat look.
“What?” he says. “It’s relevant.”
“I haven’t told her… yet.” But I’m not mad about the question.
Because he’s not wrong. We made a truce.
We’re on talking terms. But I don’t know where the line is anymore.
How far I can push before she slams the door shut again.
It’s fragile, whatever this thing is between us.
One wrong move and it could vanish. So, no, I haven’t told her.
Not because I’m hiding it, but because I want to get it right.
And for once, I’m not in a rush to ruin it.