Chapter 33 Easton
Easton
The she shed is quiet.
For a long while, I stare at the books on my mom’s shelves, reading all the spines. Barely registering their titles, not a thought in my brain except the mess I’m in.
I spy a cord and reach over to plug it in so the fairy lights go on, then lean my head back against her pink velvet sofa. Kick my Crocs off and dig my toes into her decorative rug.
Mom doesn’t know it, but her shed is the one place where I can clear my head. I come in here more often than she realizes, preferring it to my bedroom.
She doesn’t know I’m home, let alone in her shed. She thinks I’ve already left for Marcus’s to pick up the suit I’m borrowing for the dance. Dad said it was a waste of money to rent a tux.
I remove my eyes from the shelves, latching them onto the sheet of loose-leaf paper in my hand. I take in Harper’s name written at the bottom again, her handwriting, with its curvy script and cutesy i’s.
I’ve read her letter at least a dozen times, trying to make sense of it, but there are so many fucking words and they’re all jumbled together. Written in haste.
It’s an essay that’s longer than anything I’ve written in English class, for crying out loud.
I look at it again, skimming the lines.
Why did you have to go and kiss me?? Then you did it again. And again. And now look! Surprise!
I LIKE YOU.
Look, I don’t expect you to feel the same way.
Honestly, I probably don’t deserve it.
She is not wrong: She probably doesn’t. Some of this is her fault. If Harper had let me go, hadn’t held me captive in her yard—or hadn’t started blackmailing me—I would not be in this predicament.
She could have let me off the ground and let me run away as I’d planned on doing and kept her yap shut the way everyone else in our senior class who knew about the prank was doing.
I sigh.
I don’t know when things changed for me, either.
Maybe it was that night in her car after the movie, when we kissed like we meant it. Or those times in her garage when she looked so stubborn, wanting things done a certain way. Harper clearly did not need my help to finish any of that shit…she’s more than capable and we both know it.
As she clearly stated, I was a slob who couldn’t glitter. I was not useful. I created more fuckups than not.
Yeah.
Things have definitely changed since I was dragged kicking and screaming onto the prom committee, pretending I didn’t give a shit about decorations.
Plot twist: I do.
Imagine that.
The more time Harper and I spent together, the more I realized this whole thing stopped being about our stupid deal shortly after it began.
And now I’m going to prom with someone else. She wants me to go to prom with someone else.
I continue to stare at the paper in my hands, unblinking, then up at my mom’s shelf.
The framed pictures of my siblings and me. Of Dad. Her succulents.
The knot in my chest grows tighter and tighter.
This whole damn time I’ve been trying to make sense of how I feel about Harper and Maddie Miller hijacks the entire thing by publicly asking me to the dance.
The letter is wrinkled from how many times I’ve read it over. I home in on her opening sentence, wondering why she isn’t brave enough to say this crap to my face. Maybe if she’d said it sooner…
…I would have asked her to the dance and things would be different.
What does she want from me? Is this her way of testing me, to see if I’ll fight for her? Girls do that sometimes, don’t they? Play games.
Or is she serious about liking me?
Why would she put it in writing if she wasn’t?
I’m holding the evidence.
Suddenly the door swings open, hitting the wall behind it with a thud.
“Hey, dingus,” Phoebe says, standing in the doorway, arms on her hips like she’s the security officer. “You look like you’re thinking way too hard. Mom saw you sneak in and told me to tell you dinner is ready. Also, why are you in here?”
“You’re supposed to knock before entering a room.”
“What are you doing in Mom’s shed? Trying to steal her zen or whatever?” She shoots me one of her famous suspicious looks.
I don’t look up at my sister; still, I feel her eyes on me. I know she has her skinny arms crossed over her chest indignantly and I can hear her tapping her little foot against the hardwood floor.
Typical Phoebe, busting in and disrupting my peace and quiet.
“Get out,” I say—but can’t even muster up the emotion to truly be mad. “Tell Mom I’ll be there in a minute.”
“I asked what you’re doing in here,” she pesters, like a dog wanting a bone.
“None of your business, Phoebe.”
She steps closer. “It is my business when you’re hiding out in here like a weirdo. Mom sent me to find you—she knows you’re home.” Phoebe walks over to where I’m sitting, waiting for me to snap back. I can practically feel her smirk from across the room as she judges me. “It’s time for dinner.”
God, why is she like this?
“Go away. I’m not in the mood.”
“This place is off-limits to you and your sad-boy routine. Wait.” She comes closer. “Easton. Are you actually sad?”
“No, I’m not sad.” I’m confused. Frustrated. Disappointed in Harper and myself.
My little sister inches closer and closer. “You seem like it.”
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
I hesitate, my jaw tightening. Do I tell her the truth? That Harper’s been occupying every corner of my mind, and she made it worse with this letter?
“I’m thinking about how I want to smother you.”
My sister giggles. “You’re not going to.”
“No—but I’m thinking about it.” I look at her.
“Oh no. You are sad,” she says when she gets a good look at my face, inching up beside me so she can rest her small hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on, Easton?”
Clearly, she is not going to leave until I give her a crumb of information. Nosy little shit.
“You, uh, remember my friend Harper?”
Phoebe nods enthusiastically. “The one you were in here with last week?”
“Yeah. Her.”
“She’s pretty. I like her.”
Yeah, me too. “She wanted to go to prom with me.”
There.
I said it.
Admitting it out loud is half the battle.
Phoebe blinks, clearly confused. “But you don’t like going to dances. I heard Mom telling Dad this is the first one you’re going to and Dad laughed and said it was a waste of time and money.”
Of course he did. “Well, I’m going, and I have a date.”
“Is she Harper?”
“No. Her name is Maddie.”
My sister tilts her head, her expression curious. “There’s a girl in my class named Maddie. She pinches people.”
I have no idea what to say to that. “She sounds like she sucks.”
“It’s fine. Last week I said her dog was ugly and now she leaves me alone.”
A laugh escapes my throat.
My sister says the wackiest shit sometimes and can be so freaking cute at others. Mostly she’s annoying—but these rare glimpses remind me she’s only trying to be a Big Kid. That’s the reason she runs her mouth; she’s emulating me, Mom says.
Occasionally she’s not a troll.
Phoebe sighs as if the weight of the world were on her shoulders. “Come on, Easton. I’m younger than you, but I’m not an idiot. I saw you kissing Harper.”
Her blunt admission is the last thing I need her spilling to my parents. I have to give her a peace offering to keep her quiet.
“I can confidently say that any chance I had with Harper is officially over. Do you want to see the proof?”
Phoebe nods fervently, eager to be included in my secrets.
I pull the letter from its hiding spot and unfold it. Phoebe may only be seven, but she is wise—so when her little eyeballs scan the letter, my heart flip-flops.
“What does it say?” Her brow is wrinkled.
I forget that she’s still learning to read and definitely does not need me crushing her dreams about love and life and romance by telling her what is actually written on these pages.
“We were supposed to go to prom together—she’d rather I go with someone else.”
“But she wrote ‘I like you.’ See? Right there.” My sisters little tiny index finger taps on the paper, bull’s-eye on the sentence that says SURPRISE, I LIKE YOU! in bold letters. “See?”
I do see. “It’s not important anymore. She thinks I like someone else.”
Phoebe consider this information, perky nose scrunched up. “Do you want to go with the other girl?”
“I’m not sure.”
Two weeks ago I would have jumped at the chance the same way I jumped at the opportunity to take Maddie on a date. But after that ride in the car? After everything that’s gone on between Harper and me? Not sure.
I blink at Phoebe, caught off guard by her question. “I’m not sad about Harper’s letter,” I say—but my voice wavers enough for her to catch it, the smart little shit.
Her round face lights up with triumph. “You’re lying. I know it,” she says, poking my chest. “Right here. Sad heart.”
“Sad heart?” I echo, rolling my eyes. “Where do you get this stuff?”
“I’m very wise for my age,” she says. “And your sad heart means you want to go to the dance with Harper, not Maddie.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she’s already wagging her finger directly in my face.
“You’re thinking too much.” She wags her finger again. “You always do that.”
“What does that mean?” I grab her finger to stop her from poking me in the forehead.
“It means you make everything all twisty in your brain,” she explains. “Just tell Harper, ‘I like you, too,’ and boom! Problem solved.”
“It’s not that easy, Phoebe.” I sigh, staring at the ceiling. “That solves nothing.”
“Or,” she says, “you’re just a chicken.”
“I’m not a chicken,” I say, glaring at her.
“You are too!” She makes a clucking sound that sounds nothing like a chicken. “You’re afraid to tell Harper you like her, and now you’re grumpy she thinks you like Maddie and Maddie is your date.”
Wow. That’s all very…
Accurate.
“That’s not—” I stop, realizing I can’t argue with the truth. Instead, I let out a very loud, dramatic sigh. “You wouldn’t understand.”
Phoebe rolls her eyes like a tiny adult. “Boys are so dumb sometimes.”
Can’t argue with that, either.
“Says the kid who still thinks broccoli is poisonous,” I shoot back.
Her hands go to her hips. “Do you want my help or not?”
“Not.”
“Easton! You can’t go to the dance with a girl you don’t like!”
“I never said I didn’t like Maddie Miller! She’s beautiful and popular and…”
And.
And.
“Call Harper right now,” my sister demands. “Or write her a letter—but use prettier paper. Hers was kinda boring.”
“It’s not that simple.” I smile, rubbing the back of my neck. “What if she only wrote that letter to make me feel guilty?”
Phoebe gives me a pitying look, like she’s talking to someone who’s completely hopeless. “If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have written the letter in the first place. Duh. Stop self-sabotaging.”
“Maybe she changed her mind,” I mutter, slumping back into the cushions.
“She didn’t,” Phoebe asserts, as if she’s some kind of expert on teenage-girl feelings. “She probably thinks you don’t like her back.”
I stare at her, wondering how my seven-year-old sister got so good at reading people. “And how do you know all this?”
“I watch a lot of TV. Like, a lot,” she explains, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world, and I have to wonder if I should talk to my mom about limiting her screen time. “Plus, I’m really smart.”
“Uh-huh.” I shake my head but can’t stop the small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re something, all right.”
Phoebe grins, clearly taking that as a compliment. “So are you gonna tell her or not?”
“Not,” I admit, leaning forward to rest my elbows on my knees.
“If you don’t, Harper’s gonna think you don’t care. And then at prom, she’s going to dance with someone else. Someone cooler.”
“No one is cooler than me,” I inform her, chest tightening at the thought of Harper dancing with someone else. Nothing I can do about it—it is what it is.
I have a date and I will be dancing with her.
The idea of putting my hands on Maddie Miller has me legit sweating, and I shift uncomfortably on the floor.
“I’m going to have a great time.” My voice lacks conviction, but I say the words anyway, as if they were my new mantra. “My friends will be there.”
“Your friends are boring.” She says it with a theatrical roll of her eyeballs.
That makes me laugh, and I let my short nub of a sister give me a hand to pull me to my feet.
“You’re heavy!” She giggles.
“Hey! You’re not supposed to say that to people.”
She shrugs, her grin toothy and proud. “Well, you are.”
I tousle her hair and she swats at my hand before running ahead of me toward the house shouting for our mother, forever the town crier spreading gossip. I trail slowly behind her—much as I hate to admit it, talking to Phoebe has taken some of the weight off my chest.
Who’d have thunk?