Chapter 5
Harper
My alarm goes off at six forty-five, and I silence it with the particular efficiency of someone who has been doing this for years, which is the only efficient thing that happens for the next forty minutes.
I am sitting on the edge of my bed in yesterday’s oversized t-shirt, one sock on, watching a TikTok about a woman who turned her garage into a reading nook, when my thumb slows on the scroll.
The next video is a girl, probably my age, sitting in soft morning light with her Bible open on her lap. She looks unhurried in a way that feels almost aspirational.
I watch it twice without meaning to.
I wish that could be me.
But I’m always in a hurry.
Then my phone buzzes with a notification from my Bible app.
Don’t break your streak, Harper!
The little flame icon pulses at me with the cheerful urgency of something that knows me better than I’d like to admit.
“Oh—” I sit up. “I almost forgot.”
I tap the app open. Twenty-six days. The flame is orange and proud, and I feel a small, genuine satisfaction at the number.
I navigate to the daily devotional tab, and the short video auto-plays, a calm voice reading the daily Bible verse and a short context behind it. Be still and know that I am God.
A quick thirty-second video. My daily dose of Jesus.
There is a longer reading below the video. Its multiple paragraphs, a reflection, and a prayer prompt. I scroll past all of it with my thumb, scanning the text quickly.
I should read it. I want to read it, actually, which is a surprising thing to notice at six fifty-two in the morning. I want to close TikTok and open my actual Bible and sit with this for a few minutes. How the girl in the video looked as she was sitting with it.
Later, I tell myself. I’ll do it properly later, when I have time to actually focus.
I press the green check mark at the bottom of the screen.
Twenty-seven days.
I set my phone down with the satisfied feeling of a completed task and immediately forget what I was doing before it.
I need to get ready for work.
I make it to the bathroom, apply foundation, get distracted by a dry patch near my chin that sends me to the cabinet under the sink looking for the good moisturizer, which is not under the sink, which means I spend three minutes looking for it before finding it on my nightstand where I left it two days ago.
I go back to the bathroom. Start on mascara.
Run out to the kitchen because I just remembered I never made my lunch.
The kitchen is only slightly better than the bathroom situation.
I get out the bread, the turkey, the mustard.
I make the sandwich, set it on the counter, open the fridge to get the cheese, and notice the leftover pasta from Tuesday that I keep meaning to finish.
I should really eat that tonight, or it will go bad.
I make a mental note. The cheese is behind the pasta.
I get the cheese. I put it on the sandwich.
I should finish unloading the dishwasher from last night while I’m in here. I open it and start pulling out the bottom rack—plates, bowls, the big pasta pot—and I get about halfway through before my brain registers that I still have no mascara on one eye.
I abandon the dishwasher and go back to the bathroom.
Mascara. Blush. The earrings I set out last night because past-me was optimistic about morning-me’s ability to function. Lip gloss. I look at myself in the mirror and decide I look like a kindergarten teacher who has it mostly together, which is accurate.
I grab my bag, my keys, my coffee thermos, and I am almost to the door when something stops me.
A feeling, specific and nagging. The kind my body sends when my brain has dropped something important.
I stand in the doorway and mentally retrace my steps.
Lunch.
I left the sandwich on the counter.
I walk back to the kitchen, and there it is, half-assembled next to the mustard and the cheese I never put away, sitting in front of the refrigerator that is standing wide open and has been for approximately fifteen minutes.
“Harper,” I say to myself, in the voice I use for my kindergartners when they try to walk out without their backpacks.
I finish the sandwich in forty-five seconds, wrap it, put it in my bag, put away the mustard and the cheese, and close the refrigerator. I close the dishwasher too, still half-full, because it will have to wait until tonight.
I’m out the door by seven twenty-three, which is fine. I can make it.
The smell of Elmer’s glue and crayons hits me the second I step into my classroom—a scent I associate with both chaos and comfort in equal measure.
A verse flickers through my mind, the one I read during my thirty-second devotional this morning before my coffee finished brewing.
Standing here now, in the quiet before the chaos, it nudges at me again.
Be still.
I should probably get better at that.
I set my oversized teacher tote on my desk and bow my head for half a second, a quick, almost reflexive gesture. God, please let today be a good day.
And then I’m already mentally running through the day’s lesson plan. Letter recognition. Counting to twenty. A craft project involving glue sticks, which is always a gamble in a kindergarten classroom.
My phone buzzes, and I dig through my tote bag, finally finding it buried at the bottom. It’s the group chat.
Ivy
Have you heard from Micah yet?
I stare at the message, then type back quickly.
Harper
If he says no, does that mean my end of the dare is complete?
Olivia
He said no??
Harper
He hasn’t said anything. He probably forgot.
Ivy
I promise. He did not forget.
Harper
Then why hasn’t he reached out?
Olivia
Just text him. It’s not that hard.
Ivy
Ya, I’m sure he’s doing this on purpose to freak you out.
I shove my phone into my desk drawer before they can push further.
The morning flies by in a blur of sight words, snack time negotiations, and a minor crisis involving a glue stick and someone’s hair. By the time the lunch bell rings and I’ve walked my kids to the cafeteria, I’m already mentally drained.
I’m heading back toward my classroom when I see him.
Collin.
He’s coming down the hallway from the opposite direction, tablet in hand, with that focused expression he gets when he’s problem-solving. His tie is a bit loose—navy blue with thin gray stripes—and his sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, as if he’s been busy dealing with problems all morning.
Which, knowing him, he probably has been.
He glances up and sees me, and his expression softens, just slightly. “Hey Harper.”
“Hey.” I stop a few feet away, clutching my water bottle like it’s a lifeline. “Busy morning?”
“Always.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Had back-to-back parent meetings, then a discipline issue in the fourth-grade hallway. You know how it is.”
I do know. That’s the thing about Collin—he cares. Maybe too much. He’s the type of assistant principal who remembers students’ names, checks in on struggling teachers, and stays late to make sure every detail is handled. He’s good at his job. Really good.
It’s the reason I fell for him in the first place.
“Sounds rough,” I say, and I mean it.
He shrugs, but there’s a weariness in his eyes. “It’s the job. Someone’s gotta do it.”
There’s a beat of silence—not awkward, exactly, but weighted with all the things we’re not saying.
“Well,” I say finally, “don’t work too hard.”
His mouth quirks into a small smile. “I could say the same to you.”
“Kindergarteners are exhausting.”
“I don’t doubt it.” He glances at his tablet, then back at me. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask—how’s everything going? With... life?”
The question catches me off guard.
“Good,” I blurt out. “Superb, actually.”
“Yeah?” There’s something in his tone—curiosity, maybe? Or is that hope?
“Yeah.” I force a smile. “I’ve been keeping busy. You know me.”
He nods slowly, like he’s processing something. “That’s good. I’m... I’m glad.”
His phone buzzes, killing the moment like it has so many other times in the past. He glances at the screen and sighs. “I gotta take this. Superintendent’s office.”
“Of course.” I step aside, giving him space.
He walks past, then pauses. “It was good seeing you, Harper.”
“You too.”
I watch him disappear around the corner, phone already pressed to his ear, and I let myself smile.
Because that? That felt like progress.
He asked how I was. He said he was glad I’m doing well. Those aren’t the words of someone who’s completely moved on.
I pull out my phone and text the group chat again.
Harper
Just ran into Collin. I think he still cares.
Ivy
Harper...
Harper
Don’t “Harper” me. I know what I’m doing.
I shove my phone back into my pocket, that familiar spark of determination flaring in my chest.
This is going to work.
It has to.
By the time I’m driving home that afternoon, the March sun is already dipping low, casting everything in shades of orange and pink. I crank up the heat in my car—because an unexpected cold front came in—and tap Micah’s name on my CarPlay before I can overthink it.
It rings once. Twice.
Then, “Yeah?”
His voice is strained. Breathless.
I frown. “Uh, are you okay?”
There’s a grunt on the other end. “Yeah. Why?”
“You sound like you’re dying.”
“I’m...” Another grunt. “working out.”
I blink. “Wait. You work out?”
There’s a pause. Then, in the most offended tone I’ve ever heard from him, “Why do you sound so surprised?”
“I don’t know.” I can’t help the grin spreading across my face. “I just didn’t picture you as a gym guy.”
“What did you picture me as?”
“Someone who listens to podcasts about time management.”
He huffs out what might be a laugh. “I can do both, Harper.”
“Multitasking. Impressive.”
“Did you call just to insult me, or—”
“I wanted to see if you’ve made up your mind,” I say, cutting to it. “About being my date to the gala. Because if it’s a no, I need to find an alternative.”
A pause. The clank of weights. “Do you have a backup in mind?”
“Well, yeah. Duh. An entire list.”