Chapter 8 #2
But she said it too fast, and now I’m worried. Really worried. Is she planning to leave? Has she been planning it this whole time? Is that why she wanted my wallet that first day?
God, I’m feeling paranoid. But with Harper, paranoia might just be pattern recognition.
“Harper—”
“Can we just watch the fucking football game?” She crosses her arms over her chest while I grab the bags and tray of food from the table. “I’ve never been to one before.”
“How is that possible?”
She shrugs. “My team back home sucked. I just went to the field parties after.”
“Well, then you’ll have a lot of fun tonight. Our team is great. C’mon.”
She looks skeptical as I lead her into the stadium. I keep my eyes on her this time, though, to make sure she doesn’t do another runner and disappear again before we get to our seats.
My friends have saved us spots in the middle of the pack—prime real estate. When we sit down, I start making introductions. “Guys, this is Harper. Harper, meet Derek, Kevin, Miles, and Sara.”
I’m watching Harper’s face, trying to gauge her reaction. Will she like them? Will they like her? Does it matter?
Of course it matters. Everything about her matters, even when it shouldn’t.
“Food!” Kevin shouts, immediately lightening my load of several bags.
Harper snatches one of the paper trays with barbecue before anyone else can.
“Respect,” Sara says, laughing. “There’s never any of the good food left around these boys unless you grab it early. Here, come sit by me.”
Sara grabs Harper’s arm and pulls her to sit beside her, and I take a seat on Harper’s other side, by Kevin.
Sara immediately takes Harper under her wing, rolling her eyes at the guys when they start debating quarterback statistics. I feel something in my chest unclench. Good. This is good. Harper needs friends here. People who’ll give her a reason to stay.
Why am I so obsessed with making her stay?
The game starts, and Harper looks completely lost. She’s watching the field and the players like they’re alien life forms engaging in bizarre rituals. I definitely shouldn’t be finding it so adorable.
“It’s just a bunch of guys running up and down a field throwing a ball back and forth to each other,” she says after Westfield scores and everyone leaps wildly to their feet, screaming in triumph and losing their shit as is tradition at any Texas football game.
The horrified gasps from everyone around us would be funny if I weren’t so focused on Harper having a good time.
“Okay, we’re fixing this right now,” I say, turning to face her.
And then I start explaining enough so she can enjoy the game. She seems interested, really following, so I keep going, showing how every play is really a chess move and explaining how the game is about intelligence as much as athleticism.
She leans closer to hear me over the crowd, and suddenly I’m drowning in the smell of her—cherry blossoms and something uniquely Harper. Her shoulder presses against mine as she strains to see what I’m pointing at. I have to actively remind myself to keep breathing.
“Watch number fifty-four—the middle linebacker. See how he’s shifted four steps to the left?”
“Mmm hmm.” Her voice is distracted, breathy.
Three steps. I try to focus on the linebacker. “That tells the quarterback they’re probably blitzing from the weak side.”
The play develops exactly as I predicted, and Harper’s eyes go wide. “How did you know that was going to happen?”
“Body language. Foot positioning. The way the safety is cheating up toward the line. It’s all information. If you know how to read it...”
I trail off because I’ve just realized how close we are. Close enough that I can see the amber flecks in her green eyes. Close enough that I’ve completely lost count of—what was I counting? The plays? The yards? My own heartbeats?
I can’t remember.
Harper’s proximity has scrambled every system I use to stay in control. The patterns, the counting, the rules—all of it just... gone. Static.
She jerks back suddenly, and I feel the loss of her warmth like a physical ache.
I swallow hard and force myself to keep talking about the game, even though every cell in my body is screaming at me to close that distance again and stop pretending this is just sibling bonding when it’s so clearly, devastatingly something else.
Like the best first date I’ve ever been on.
She picks things up really fast, proving, like she did in English class, that she’s whip smart.
By the fourth quarter, she’s on the edge of her seat. When Westfield lines up for the game-winning field goal, she’s as tense as everyone else. And when the kick sails through the uprights, she’s on her feet screaming with the rest of us.
I grab her hand without thinking.
No counting first. No checking if it’s the right moment. No mental calculation of the appropriateness or the consequences.
Just: hand. Hers. Mine. Together.
We’re running down the bleachers with the whole crowd, swept up in the chaos and celebration. Her hand is warm in mine, and this feels right in a way that nothing else ever has.
My brain isn’t screaming about germs or proper hand-holding protocol or the fact that I’ve just broken approximately seven rules I can think of off the top of my head.
I’m not counting my steps or checking over my shoulder or mentally cataloging exit routes.
I’m just... here. Present. Alive.
With her.
We hit the field, and the confetti canyons going off make it look like it’s snowing. The band plays, cheerleaders flip across the field, and everyone’s hugging and screaming and celebrating like we’ve won something bigger than a normal Friday night high school football game.
Harper’s grinning up at the falling confetti like it’s magic, her face open and unguarded in a way I’ve never seen.
I’m still holding her hand.
We both realize it at the same moment.
Our eyes meet in the chaos, and for a heartbeat—one perfect, suspended heartbeat—everything else falls away. The noise, the crowd, the celebration.
It’s just her and me and this thing between us that I can’t name and can’t ignore.
Then we drop each other’s hands like we’ve been burned.
But I can’t look away from her. I don’t want to. And I can’t stop cataloging every detail—the way the stadium lights catch in her dark hair, the flush in her cheeks from running and screaming, the way she’s looking at me like I’m someone unexpected. Someone who matters.
“So?” I call over the noise, grinning like an idiot. “Still think it’s just guys chasing a ball around?”
She grins back, and it’s genuine and bright and everything I didn’t know I was hoping for.
“Okay, fine. That was... actually pretty fun.”
Victory surges through me—stupid, disproportionate victory. I did it. I gave her a reason to want to stay, at least for tonight. I gave her something good.
A group of cheerleaders runs past, pom-poms flashing. I pull out my phone to text Mom we’ll be ready to head home soon.
Mom’s going to be so happy that Harper had fun tonight.
Because that’s what this is about. Mom’s happiness. Family bonding. Doing the right thing.
Liar.
The crowd starts to thin out, everyone heading back to the parking lot, and I turn back to Harper to suggest we find our parents.
But she’s gone.
Again.
My stomach drops. “Harper?”
I scan the field, the bleachers, the stream of people heading toward the exits. Nothing.
“Did you see where Harper went?” I ask Sara.
She shakes her head, already being pulled away by Miles.
I check my phone. One new text.
HARPER: Went home with Marie. Saw her on the field. Spending the night at her house. Tell your mom I said thanks for tonight.
I stare at the message until the words blur.
Then I read it again. Count the words. Twenty-three words. Not a good number. Odd and not divisible by any number that makes sense. Read it again. Still twenty-three.
I press my thumb against the screen right where she signed off. Press three more times to make it four times total. That’s better.
She left. She has a friend—Marie, apparently—and left with her instead of coming home with us. Without saying goodbye. Without a second thought.
I check the timestamp. Sent four minutes ago. Four. That’s good. Even number. Divisible by two.
I read the text again. Count the words again. Still twenty-three. My thumb taps the screen: one, two, three, four, five, six. Stop. Start over. One, two, three, four.
I should be happy. This is exactly what I wanted—Harper making friends, fitting in, having reasons to stay. Mom will be thrilled when I tell her Harper’s having a sleepover like a normal teenager.
This is good.
My hands are shaking. I shove them in my pockets. Pull them out. Touch my phone. Lock the screen. Wake it. Lock it. Wake it.
Rule #89: Let go of what you can’t control.
I wrote that rule, and I still don’t know how to follow it.