Chapter 8
EIGHT
CALEB
“Keep an eye on Harper tonight.”
Silas delivers this order from the driver’s seat like it’s the simplest instruction in the world, and I nod because, of course, I will. That’s what good stepsons do; they help their new stepsister acclimate. They make sure she feels included in family traditions.
Rule #14: Demonstrate responsible behavior at all times.
Good stepbrothers demonstrate responsible behavior. My foot taps—once, twice, three, four times. I force it to stop as I glance over at Harper, sitting beside me in the backseat. If she heard Silas, she gives no indication.
I’m acutely, uncomfortably aware of every single thing about her.
The way her jaw is set in that stubborn line.
The faint smell of her shampoo—something floral that shouldn’t affect me but does.
The way her thigh is approximately seven inches from mine on the leather seat, and those seven inches feel simultaneously too close and not close enough.
Seven inches. Not six, not eight. Seven.
Stop it.
I’ve been preparing for this all week. Mental checklist: introduce Harper to my friends since I’m not sure she’s been making any besides the sophomore I see her hanging out with, and make sure she has a good time at the football game so Mom sees we’re blending as a family.
Perfect plan. Totally reasonable goals.
The only problem is… well, Harper.
I risk another glance at her. She’s staring out the window with this expression I can’t quite read.
Something between contempt and wonder, like she’s watching a nature documentary about a species she finds both fascinating and ridiculous as we pass by pristine lawns and giant house after giant house.
“You’re going to love it, honey,” Mom says from the front seat, twisting around to beam at Harper. “Westfield has the best student section in the district.”
Harper’s smile in response looks painful. “Can’t wait.”
The sarcasm is subtle enough that Mom doesn’t catch it, but I do. I always catch it with Harper. It’s like I’ve developed some kind of Harper-specific frequency that only I can hear.
When we pull into the stadium parking lot, Harper’s jaw literally drops.
I follow her gaze to the stadium, trying to see it through her eyes.
It’s on the other side of the school, so you don’t see it unless you come around to this side.
And yeah, it’s impressive—gleaming metal, pristine concrete, lights that can probably be seen from space.
The scoreboard alone probably costs more than a small house.
For a second, something uncomfortable twists in my chest. Like guilt, maybe, or awareness of just how different our lives have been.
I don’t know much about where Harper came from.
Just that whatever was happening there was…
bad. Silas lit out of the house like a bat out of hell after the phone call with her mother.
Mom wouldn’t tell me what had happened, just that we needed to make up the guest room and that Silas’s daughter was going to come spend her senior year with us because it was a quote-unquote “bad situation” at home.
Bad situation.
What the hell does that even mean?
Was Harper in some sort of danger? If she was, then why was she trying to run away that first day when she stole my wallet? Or is she not trying to get back home, but just to meet up with that sort of fiancé of hers?
It’s been driving me nuts all week trying to figure her out. But she’s been withdrawn ever since the night she let me meet the cat. Preoccupied. Everyone feels it, which I’m guessing is why Silas was determined to drag her out of her room to come to the football game tonight.
After we park and all get out of the car, Silas repeats his instructions, except this time to Harper.
“Stay with Caleb all night.” Harper’s expression shifts to something mulish that tells me she’s absolutely planning to do the opposite.
Shit. I’m back to focusing on my mission: Keep the peace. Make this family work. Make Mom happy.
Simple, right?
“We’ll go on ahead. You two have fun,” Mom says, holding cash out to me.
“We’ll be right behind you,” Harper suddenly perks up, snatching the cash out of Mom’s hand and stuffing it in her pocket.
Then she hikes her backpack on her shoulders.
She carries that beat-up thing everywhere she goes, like it’s a safety blanket.
At least I don’t think it’s hiding any contraband kitties today.
Mom beams at her, then takes Silas’s arm and tugs him forward. He’s frowning and looking over his shoulder, but we’re all caught in the crowd and carried forward, quickly losing sight of one another.
As students, Harper and I get in free. The stadium is packed when we walk through the gates, and I immediately shift into tour guide mode.
“All right,” I say, rubbing my hands together with what I hope is encouraging enthusiasm. “We should probably hit the snack stand before heading to our seats. They’ll be packed once kickoff sta—”
But when I turn around, Harper’s gone.
Just... vanished into the crowd like smoke.
My stomach drops.
One job. I had one job.
I scan the crowd systematically. Left to right. Count the rows of people. One, two, three, four sections. Back to the beginning. Start over. She has to be here somewhere.
That distinctive dark hair. That particular way she moves—like she’s always ready to either fight or run.
Nothing.
I check my phone. No messages. Touch the screen to wake it. Lock it. Wake it again.
Rule #47: When responsible for someone’s safety, maintain visual contact at all times.
I failed. Already failed, and we’ve been here three minutes. Three minutes. Unlucky.
I check my phone again—still no messages, obviously, it’s been eight seconds—and my chest starts to tighten.
“Shit,” I mutter, my hands curling into fists at my sides. Open. Close. Open. Close. The rhythm doesn’t help.
Twenty minutes later, I finally find her behind the porta-potties on the visitor’s side, leaning against the plastic wall with a cigarette dangling from her fingers like she doesn’t have a care in the world.
The smell back here is apocalyptic, but she doesn’t even seem to notice.
“God, how can you stand the smell?” I gag a little, unable to stop myself.
She snorts. “This is fresh air. Try living downwind from a chicken factory.”
It’s a glimpse into a life I can’t imagine.
Yeah, things were scary and uncertain for a while after my father noped out and we had to live in an apartment that had roaches sometimes, but it wasn’t in a bad part of town.
I was just in a different social strata than my classmates, but so is ninety-nine percent of the rest of the country.
And I was still enrolled at a freaking prep school.
I’m trying to think of something to say—something that doesn’t sound condescending or pitying—when I accidentally glance down at Harper’s phone screen.
Z: can u talk?
HARPER: Stuck at a football game. Working on our project.
She’s texting someone who makes her smile in a way I haven’t seen before—unguarded and genuine.
“Who’s Z?” The question comes out before I can stop it, and I immediately hate how it sounds. Possessive. Jealous, almost.
I have no right to be jealous. Stepsister, family bonding, remember?
Harper yanks her phone away, shoving it in her back pocket. “Ever heard of personal space?”
“Is Z the sort of fiancé?”
Why am I still pressing? Get your foot out of your mouth, dickhead.
My fingers won’t stop tapping. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I shove my hands in my pockets to make them stop.
Something flickers across her face—surprise, maybe, or something else I can’t name. “He’s my best friend.” Her voice has this rushed quality. “It’s—”
“Complicated?”
Her eyes narrow at me. “Yeah, actually.”
“Right. Well. Come on,” I say, shaking my head and trying to get back on track, back to the mission.
Her complicated relationship status with her best guy friend back home, who may or may not be her fiancé, doesn’t matter to me.
I don’t even care. This is essentially babysitting tonight.
I’m not curious at all about some random guy named Z.
What kind of name is that anyway? Is he from another country?
Is that why they’re only sort-of engaged? For some sort of visa situation?
Fuck. Focus.
“We’re missing the first quarter. But the concession lines should be short now, so let’s go grab some food before we sit down. They’ve got some crazy good brisket. The booster parents run a smoker out back.”
“Brisket?”
The way she says it—cautious but interested—makes me smile. Her eyes always light up every time she comes downstairs every night for dinner to see what Mom’s cooked. There’s something achingly normal about bonding over food. Something I can work with.
“Crazy good brisket,” I repeat.
“Fine,” she says, stubbing out her cigarette. “But I’m not cheering.”
“We’ll see about that.”
At the concession stand, I order enough food for a small army. It’s excessive, I know it’s excessive, but I can’t help it. I want her to have options. I want her to find something she likes. I want—
I want her to want to stay.
The thought stops me cold, right there with my wallet open and the cashier waiting.
I mean, I just want her to want to say because of the family.
But then I catch Harper watching me, and there’s something in her expression I can’t read. Something focused and intent as she stares at my wallet as I hand over my card to the woman working the concessions stand.
“Do you need something?” I ask.
Harper blinks, and whatever I saw is gone. “Got a hundred bucks I could borrow? Cash?”
The request is so unexpected that I almost laugh. “I don’t carry cash. Why do you need a hundred dollars?” And then, connections spark: “Are you planning on running?”
Her face shutters completely. “Of course not.”