Chapter 18 Harper
Harper
I touch a finger to my sensitive lips and sigh.
My first kiss.
Well. That’s not true—last year I let Colton Davis kiss me under the bleachers during a football game out of sheer curiosity, but it was nothing like the kiss Easton gave me tonight. It was nowhere near as magical. Nowhere near as hot and sexy.
Fine. Perhaps sexy is a bit of a stretch. It’s not as if we knew what we were doing, and he seemed as clumsy as I was.
So basically the kiss was perfect.
And with prom looming—that means my promposal should be looming, too, right? I mean, how can it not be, especially after tonight?
I hunker down in my covers, scrolling through my phone, and call Macy to give her the evening’s recap. We already discussed why I left the theater abruptly, but I haven’t told her the rest…
The good stuff.
“Spill,” she says immediately by way of greeting.
“Guess.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just tell me. My brain isn’t functioning properly.”
Well, this is no fun. I love a good guessing game. But still…“He kissed me.”
My best friend responds exactly the way I expect her to: with wide eyes and a loud squeal. “Shut. The. Hell. UP!”
I give my head a shake, happy to be the bearer of this great news. “Oh my god, it was…” I let out a wistful sigh. “So good.”
“Describe,” Macy demands. “In detail. Was it soft? Rough? Did he use his hands? Where were his hands?” She gasps. “Wait—was there tongue?”
Heat floods my face. “Macy.”
“Was there? Tell me! I need to know if this was some chaste middle-school peck or a full-on, toe-curling, knee-melting, take-me-now kind of kiss.”
I nod, biting the inside of my cheek to stop myself from freaking out. “Let’s just say my entire body was tingling.”
She throws herself back on the bed and I get a clear shot of her ceiling. It’s still full of star stickers—we put them there when we were kids after her gran bought a pack.
“What else?” she prods.
“Our teeth only knocked together once.” Or was it twice? “And get this—he was wearing his retainer.”
Macy pauses. Sits back up on her bed, giving me an expressionless glance. “Stop it right now. He was not.”
“He was.”
“He was at the theater. Eating popcorn. Wearing a retainer.” She scoffs. “Who the hell does that?”
“Um. Teenage boys?”
“So what I’m hearing is: Despite the retainer, the kiss was decent.”
“So decent.”
“On a scale of one to ten, how much do you like him? Like—seriously like him?”
Eleven. “I don’t know. Seven?”
Macy nods along, pretending to be analytical. “That’s a solid number. Not too much, not too little. An I like him but I won’t carve our initials into a tree just yet kind of number.”
“Exactly.”
My bestie smiles at me knowingly. “Next question: If he promposes, does that number go up?”
I hesitate, then sigh. “Probably.”
“How high?”
Skyrockets. To the moon.
I press my lips together, trying not to grin. “If he were here, I’d probably already be making out with him again.”
Macy screeches. “Oh my god, who are you?!”
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my hand. I glance down—
My heart stops. “Oh my god, Easton is trying to FaceTime me.”
“Then answer it!” Macy squeals loudly, ending our chat before I can, a girl’s girl pushing me out of my comfort zone.
This is the most. Exciting. Night. Ever.
With a deep breath and a blissful sigh, I swipe to answer, doing my best to act completely normal. Key word: trying.
Then Easton appears on my screen.
And I have to remind myself how to breathe.
He’s lying in bed, broad shoulders bare, the sharp lines of his collarbone disappearing beneath his sheets. Oh my god—he’s not wearing a shirt! His hair is a mess, like he’s been running his hands through it, and his expression is lazy.
Handsome.
Behind him, hockey trophies line a dark wooden shelf, proof of accolades and achievements from all his hard work. Blue-and-green-plaid wallpaper covers the wall behind his head, giving his room a Scottish tartan vibe.
I would never have guessed he was a plaid wallpaper kind of guy.
My belly flip-flops at the sight of him.
Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my tank top and pajama bottoms, wishing I were wearing something cuter. Newer. Less…
Basic.
“How ya doin’?” he begins, putting a hand behind his head.
I wonder if he’s actively trying to ruin my life. He lifts his arm, biceps contracting with the motion.
Drool threatens to trickle down the corner of my mouth.
“I’m good—how are you?” I resist the urge to roll my eyes at my own comment. I’m good, how are you? Ugh! That’s the best I can come up with? I want to pull the covers over my head and disappear.
But Easton doesn’t seem to mind. He adjusts his position on his bed, biceps flexing again in the process—not that I notice or anything.
“Good.” He pauses, rubbing his jaw like he’s considering something. “I was just thinking…”
About the kiss?
About me?
About prom? Maybe this is the moment—maybe he’s going to ask me to be his date now, instead of later.
My stomach does an actual somersault, and I hold my breath, waiting, internally begging him to finish that sentence in a way that will not send me spiraling into an overanalyzing mess.
Instead, he says, “Are we almost done with the decorations?”
Oh.
I blink. Why is he asking me this? He’s literally seen our progress with his own two blue eyes. He knows how much work is left to complete the knights.
This a question he could have texted.
But he didn’t.
He FaceTimed me.
Which means he wanted to see my face. Hear my voice. Right? That’s a good sign? It must be a good sign.
I force my brain to chill out and answer casually. “Almost done. Just a few more things for us to finish.”
He knows this.
Easton nods. “I was wondering how many afternoons I have to spend covered in glitter.” He laughs.
“You don’t love being covered in glitter?” I suppress a flirty giggle. “Gee, I wonder why.”
He tilts his head, presenting me with the side of his thick neck. “I actually don’t.” He laughs. “The other things aren’t so bad.”
My breath catches. Other things?
What other things?
The memory of his lips assails me: his hands gripping my waist, the way he breathed against my neck—
“You said ‘the other things aren’t so bad.’ ” I gently nudge his train of thought along. “What other things?”
I realize I sound thirsty. He studies me through the phone, staring at me with those unreadable blue eyes.
My breath gets caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
“You, probably,” he says at last.
“Me?” Is he joking? Hard to tell.
My gaze fixates on his tongue when he swipes it over his bottom lip, and he shifts, like he already regrets saying it. “Yeah.”
I swallow. Hard.
Because I don’t know what that comment means. And I don’t have the courage to ask for clarification.
“I should sleep.” He yawns. “My parents have been checking on me; they hate when I’m on my phone when I should be sleeping.”
“You’re the one who called me,” I remind him, cheek resting against my pillow.
“Well, I thought I had more to say.” He laughs quietly. “My dad has been up my ass lately about…everything. So I don’t want them to hear me—he would lose his shit if he heard me talking to a girl.”
“Ahh.” I nod in understanding, even though I don’t understand all that well. “Do they not want you to date?”
“I think he’d rather I didn’t. Not that that’s what this is, but—you get what I mean. It wouldn’t matter. He wants me to stay focused.”
I nod some more. “I get that.”
Easton is quiet again, seemingly deep in thought. Then, just when I think he’s going to end the conversation for real this time, he says, “What about you? Who do you like?”
Who do I like?
My brain short-circuits. I like him—isn’t it obvious? Isn’t that what our kiss implied?
For me, maybe, but for him—maybe not. Maybe he kisses all his female friends. Or he just got caught up in the moment and this call is his attempt to smooth things over.
My heart drops.
“I don’t know,” I lie, face as hot as a thousand suns. “No one.”
He doesn’t believe me, laughing again—but softly, so as not to alert his parents. “Bullshit.”
I groan. Part of me wants to confess—the other part is terrified. “Why do you even care?”
“Dunno. Just curious. I mean, you’re helping me learn how to talk to girls—maybe I could help you.”
I roll onto my side, hugging my pillow and propping myself up by the elbow. “Stop being curious.”
Easton smiles at me. “That’s not how curiosity works.” His laugh is silent, eyes on me; he’s trying to figure me out. “So—no one at all?”
I hesitate. Long enough that his smile widens.
“Ohhh,” he taunts. “There is someone.”
Obviously.
I roll my eyes, because what else am I supposed to do? Admit that it’s him I have a crush on? Not a chance. “Would you shut up?”
“Nope, don’t think I will.” He stretches an arm behind his head, looking way too pleased with himself. “Is he on the hockey team?”
“Oh my god, I swear—” I scoff, scrunching up my face. “It’s not a hockey player.”
Lies, lies, and more lies…
“Huh.” He taps his fingers against his pillow. “Football?”
“No.” Definitely not.
“Track?”
“No.” You were correct the first time.
Easton narrows his eyes. “Mathletes?”
I let out a sharp laugh. “Yes, Easton. I’m hopelessly in love with the captain of the math team.”
“Hey, don’t knock it—smart dudes pull.” He pauses, latching on to the subject like a kid with a piece of candy. “Give me a hint.”
I exhale, stalling. A hint? That’s dangerous territory.
Then again, so is this whole conversation.
“All right. A hint is easy.” I giggle. “He’s kind of an idiot.”
Now Easton is the one rolling his eyes. “That narrows it down to, like, half the population of guys at school.”
“You asked for a hint—you didn’t say how specific you wanted the hint to be.”
“Be serious.”
I prop my chin in my hand, pretending to think. “Fine. He’s a little cocky.”
Easton scoffs. “Still half the school.”
I press my lips together, trying not to smile. “Thinks he’s funnier than he actually is.”
“That could still be a lot of people.”
I arch a brow. “He’s a pain in my ass.”
He lets out a low laugh, tilting his head. “It’s starting to sound like you have terrible taste.”
We both laugh, sharing the joke, but something inside me twists. He’s right—it does sound like I have terrible taste. Because if I keep describing him, there’s no way he won’t figure it out.
Unless he really is that oblivious.
I shift, swallowing hard before I ask, “Then what advice would you give me? About guys?”
His smirk lingers, but his eyes flicker with something else—thoughtfulness, maybe. “The same advice you gave me—be yourself.” He pauses. “And I’d tell you to raise your standards.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, pulse thrumming. “What if I don’t want to?”
His smirk falters, just for a second. Barely enough to notice. But I do notice because there is nowhere to look but at him.
Then, voice lower, just above a whisper, he says, “Guess that’s your problem, then.”
Is he messing with me? Or does he seriously not know?
I shift onto my back, staring at the ceiling. “That’s a dumb answer.”
I risk a glance at my screen, and he’s watching me—really watching me—as if he’s trying to figure me out. But I am not a puzzle I want him to piece together.
“So,” he says lazily, lids heavier than they were before. “This guy…”
Oh god. He is not going to let this go.
I swallow. “What about him?”
“Does he know you like him?”
I freeze.
He asks it so casually, like it’s just another part of the game, but my heart slams against my ribs because no, he doesn’t know. And I am not going to tell him. Not until I’m sure my heart isn’t going to be shattered.
Yes, he kissed me.
Yes, we spend time together.
But that does not a relationship make.
I wet my lips, feigning ignorance. “Does who know I like him?”
“The guy you like.” Easton scoffs. “Dumbass.”
He did not just call me a dumbass…
“You just seem like the type to…I don’t know—suffer in silence instead of taking action,” he continues, slowly ruining my entire evening. “I’m being a good friend and telling you to grow a pair and tell him you like him.”
I want to die.
I also want to wipe that stupid, knowing look off his face.
With my mouth.
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
I grip my phone tight. “Sure. I’ll get right on that,” I say, glaring at the screen. “Just know that I hate you.”
He laughs. “Nah, you love me.”
My stomach flips violently, and I have to remind myself that he doesn’t mean it like that. It’s just Easton being Easton, completely and devastatingly unaware that he is the source of my suffering.
I force out a chuckle. “Yeah, okay.”
Something flickers in his expression.
“So when are you gonna tell him?”
“Would you please stop? I can’t tell him. He likes someone else.”
“Oh.” Easton’s face falls. “That sucks.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.” I laugh, but it comes out sounding fake. “It’s fine. It hardly matters.”
He doesn’t immediately agree. He doesn’t say yeah, totally! or the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else. No. He observes me stoically, like he’s seeing me for the first time.
And because I can’t take the silence—can’t take him looking at me like that—I add, “Besides, I’m sure you can relate. You’ve had a crush on Maddie Miller since forever and she barely knows you exist.”
It comes out more defensive…and meaner than I intended it to, but I don’t take it back.
I can’t. My pride is on the line.
Easton blinks. “Um. Ouch?”
I shrug, playing it off like the blood isn’t rushing through my veins.
“Just saying.”
His jaw tenses, and he rubs the back of his neck. I’ve come to recognize it as something he does when he’s overwhelmed.
“I mean…yeah,” he stammers. “But that’s different.”
I frown. “How?”
“I don’t know, Harper. It just is.”
My name on his lips never gets old. I could listen to him say it over and over and over again…and I should drop this subject and move on. Tell him to hang up and go to sleep. Make another joke. Tease him instead of throwing barbs.
But I don’t.
I take his earlier advice, holding his gaze. “If a girl liked you but she was too scared to say anything because…I don’t know, maybe she thought you liked someone else…” I swallow, pulse hammering. “Would you still want to know?”
His lips part, like the words are forming but not quite making it out of his mouth. His brows pinch together slightly, thoughts running a mile a minute behind his eyes.
He’s thinking about it.
He’s thinking about me.
He knows.
The moment stretches, thick with tension.
Then he answers, so low I almost don’t hear it—
“Yes.”
The word sends a shiver through me.
I nod, my heart in my throat. “Yes?”
His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes darting away self-consciously.
“Yeah.” He exhales a breath, quieter this time. “I’d want to know. Everyone deserves a chance to make an informed decision.”
Everything feels like it’s vibrating. My body. My thoughts. The air between us.
But I don’t say anything else.
And neither does he.