Harper #2
This week, I spent six hours tracking down the head of the Pre-Law Society.
I made sure Avery was not only admitted but fast-tracked for the Moot Court team, leveraging a "favor" my father had once done for the Dean’s brother. It was the first time I used my name for something that felt clean. Second, I tracked down the girl I’d convinced to steal Avery’s first-year textbooks back in high school—a petty, cruel move I’d long forgotten but Avery hadn't. I bought a brand-new set of the most expensive annotated editions of the Blackstone’s Commentaries and left them on Avery's desk with a note that simply said: With interest.
But it’s the moments inside Dorm 111 that feel like real life.
Tonight, I’ve decided to push my luck. I’m planning a real date, something that seems so out of my comfort zone, I might as well jump out the window.
However, this week’s been all about leaving my comfort zone.
I’ve smuggled a hot plate, a pan, and two ribeye steaks into the room—a massive violation of the university housing code, but I’ve always been good at breaking rules when I’m the one writing them.
"Harper, is something burning?" Avery asks, walking through the door after her late-night shift at the campus library. She stops, her eyes widening.
The room is transformed. I’ve pushed our desks together and covered them with a silk scarf I usually wear to formal dinners.
In the center, three prohibited vanilla-scented candles are flickering, casting a soft, golden glow against the walls.
I’m standing over the hot plate, trying—and mostly failing—to sear a steak without setting off the smoke detector.
"It’s not burning," I say, poking the meat with a fork. "It’s... caramelizing. Sit down. I’m attempting to provide a service that doesn't involve organizing binders."
Avery drops her bag, a smirk playing on her lips. "A candlelit dinner in a ten-by-ten dorm room? If the RA smells the sear, we’re both getting academic probation. You really like living on the edge, don't you, Price?"
"I’ve spent nineteen years being safe, Avery," I mutter, carefully plating the food. "I think I can handle a fire hazard."
We sit. The steaks are a little overdone, and the "wine" is actually just high-end sparkling grape juice I found in the gourmet section of the local market, but the air between us is thick with something sweeter than the candles.
The banter is different now; the jagged edges have been filed down into something softer, something that feels like a secret language.
"You're actually a decent cook," Avery admits, cutting into her steak. "I expected you to think 'cooking' meant calling a caterer."
"I have hidden depths," I tease, though my heart is racing. "Though I will admit, I had to YouTube how to use a hot plate without blowing a fuse."
After dinner, we retreat to the small window nook behind the ferns I insisted on buying to "humanize" the space. The campus is quiet outside, the moonlight reflecting off the glass of the Law building. Avery pulls out her phone and hands me a single earbud.
"Since you're so cultured," she whispers, "tell me what you think of this."
The music starts—a gritty, indie-folk track with a rasping female vocal and a cello that sounds like it’s weeping. It’s the exact opposite of the polished, classical piano my mother forced me to practice for ten years.
"It’s... textural," I say, leaning my head back against the wall. "It sounds like a bruise."
Avery laughs, the sound vibrating through the earbud. "That is the most 'Old Money' description of a folk song I’ve ever heard. You’re such a snob, Harper."
"I'm not a snob," I protest, nudging her shoulder with mine. "I'm just used to music that has a clear resolution. This... this feels unfinished. Like it's waiting for something."
"That’s the point," she says softly.
We sit in the dark, the single pair of earbuds tethering us together.
For a long time, we don't speak. My mind drifts back to the phone call from my father, the weight of the Sterling merger, and the ticking clock of our three remaining days.
There are so many things I need to deal with, but having Avery near me makes me feel like I can do it.
"Avery?" I ask, my voice barely audible over the cello. "How did you do it? In high school. How were you so... brave about being out? Everyone knew. Everyone talked. And you just... walked through the halls like they couldn't touch you."
Avery’s hand, which had been resting on her knee, slowly slides across the cushion. For the first time, she doesn't wait for me to reach out. Her hand finds mine, her fingers interlacing with mine with a slow, deliberate pressure. It’s not part of the deal. It’s not a command. It’s just... her.
"I wasn't brave, Harper," she admits. "I was just tired.
Hiding takes so much energy, and I didn't have enough to give.
I figured if they were going to hate me for being poor and smart, they might as well hate me for being a lesbian, too.
It gave me a weird kind of power. They couldn't out me because I’d already outed myself. "
I squeeze her hand, my thumb tracing the line of her knuckles. "I'm terrified. I think about my father finding out, and it feels like the floor is going to drop out from under me. I feel like if I lose the 'Price' title, I'll disappear."
"You won't," Avery says, turning her head to look at me. In the candlelight, her eyes are like deep water. "I see you, Harper. Even without the name. Especially without the name."
I lean my head on her shoulder, closing my eyes.
The fear is still there—a cold, sharp lump in my stomach—but for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m facing it from inside a cage.
I’m in a dorm room, with a girl who understands the weight of a secret, and the scent of vanilla candles is finally starting to drown out the smell of the past.
"Three days," I whisper. “Three days, and then this is all over.”
What happens when the bet is done? We’re not defining our relationship.
I know Avery hasn’t forgiven me, and I don’t want to push her.
But I also don’t want to go back to being strangers.
Will she want me out of her life when this is done?
Will we no longer laugh together, no longer secretly hold hands and kiss?
"Don't count the days," Avery says, her grip on my hand tightening. "Just stay here."
And so, I do. I live in the present–a present filled with chaotic music, steaks, and the girl I’ve loved since high school.
The final three days of the deal don't feel like a countdown to freedom; they feel like the final grains of sand slipping through an hourglass I’m desperate to flip over.
We’ve fallen into a rhythm that is as intoxicating as it is terrifying.
In our Constitutional Law seminar, we sit side-by-side, our expressions masks of academic focus while beneath the heavy oak table, our fingers are tightly interlaced.
Every time the professor makes a point about "due process," Avery’s thumb strokes the back of my hand, and I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling like a fool.
At night, the "assistant" duties have dissolved into something else entirely.
I still make the coffee, but now I bring it to her in bed, stealing kisses that taste of sleep and peppermint.
We talk until two in the morning—not about cases, but about life.
I told her about the summer I spent hiding in the attic because I didn't want to go to debutante camp; she told me about the night her mom worked a double shift just so Avery could have the dress she wanted for the winter formal.
Last week, I even made a cameo on a video call with her mother.
Avery introduced me as her "roommate, Harper," and for the first time in my life, I felt like I was being seen by a parent who wasn't measuring my worth in social capital. Her mother’s smile was warm, genuine, and completely devoid of the icy expectations that define my own dinner table.
I’ve stopped answering Chloe and Sarah’s texts. I’ve deleted the group chats. I’m considering the impossible: coming out. Not as a strategic move, but because the weight of the lie is starting to hurt more than the fear of the truth. But what hurts the most is no longer being tied to Avery.
The bubble bursts on the final night of the deal.
There’s a massive "Halfway to Finals" party at one of the off-campus houses. Usually, I’d be the one hosting, the one deciding who gets past the velvet rope. Tonight, I’m just Avery’s plus-one. We’re standing in a crowded, beer-slicked kitchen when the ghosts of my past finally catch up to us.
Chloe and Sarah are there, surrounded by a group of guys from the rowing team. When they see us—specifically, when they see Avery’s hand resting casually on the small of my back—the music seems to drop an octave.
"Look at this," Chloe says, her voice cutting through the bass of the speakers. "The Queen Bee has officially moved into the hive. Tell us, Harper, is the scholarship money really worth the loss of dignity? Or are you just doing some kind of twisted social experiment for your personal statement?"
The circle of onlookers grows. I feel the old instinct to lash out, to protect myself by destroying them, but then I feel Avery’s warmth beside me. She’s standing tall, but I can see the way her jaw is set. She’s waiting for me to falter.
"It’s not an experiment, Chloe," I say, my voice surprisingly steady.
"Then what is it?" Sarah sneers. "Because everyone remembers high school, Harper. We remember what you called her. We remember the 'poverty' jokes. You spent four years making her life hell. Now you’re acting like Avery’s slave? It’s pathetic. You’re just a bully who got bored."
The word bully hangs in the air, a cold reminder of the girl I used to be. I look at Avery, and for a second, I see the doubt in her eyes. She needs to know. They all need to know.