Chapter 13
THIRTEEN
CALEB
Harper explains about having the cat the whole time she’s been here, and swears up and down to keep the cat upstairs in her room out of the way, just like she’s been doing, and how she’ll be no problem, just please don’t make her get rid of her.
“I’ve been helping her,” I volunteer when Harper doesn’t bring me up.
I don’t miss Mom’s surprise at that. “You’ve been lying to me for months?”
I wince down to my core.
Don’t disappoint Mom is one of the core rules. Top ten. Number seven, specifically. Right between Be polite and Help around the house.
I’ve broken rule number seven.
My hands find my pockets. Thumb to index, index to middle, middle to ring, ring to pinky. Repeat. If I do it four times, maybe—
No. That’s not how this works. Breaking the rules has consequences. Mom’s disappointed. That’s a fact. No amount of counting will undo it.
But my fingers keep moving anyway.
“Harper rescued the cat, and I—” I start lamely.
“He was helping me, and I asked him not to tell,” Harper says, averting Mom’s attention back to her. “It’s my fault.” She explains about Marie’s dad and then exclaims defiantly, “I couldn’t just let her die.”
She accurately estimates the way to get to Mom’s heart.
“Well, of course not, honey.”
Then Mom and Silas share a long, silent look. His face turns red, brows down, but finally turns acquiescing. “Fine,” he sighs. “I guess I can take some Zyrtec. But only if she keeps that little monster away from me.”
“Really?” Harper pipes up, shock clear in her voice. “We can keep her?”
“We’re not going to take away your cat, honey,” Mom says.
Harper’s still looking a little shocked by the time she manages to lure the cat from underneath the couch ten minutes later, tugging the kitty out by her rump once she finally gets a hold of her.
“Gotcha!” Harper says. “Oh, what do we have here?”
I look over from where I’ve been helping Mom clean up the spilled pennies and cards to see Harper tugging some sort of leather-looking fabric out of the cat’s claws.
“Oh!” Mom says, “Been wondering where those went.” She scurries over to Harper, who’s just flung the bunched fabric outward to reveal a pair of leather… thigh highs.
I choke a little and turn my back.
Knowing my mom has sex is bad enough, but God. Witnessing the proof? No thanks.
“Thanks, honey,” Mom says to Harper, and thankfully, she’s got the leather bundled under her arm by the time I turn back.
I’m more than ready to follow Harper upstairs, purring cat tucked securely in her arms.
“Well, that went better than expected,” I say. But my optimism lasts only as long as it takes for her next words to make it out of her mouth.
“I guess it was good it happened now, since I’m taking off in seven days. Then Sox will be all yours.”
I almost stumble in my tracks.
Seven days.
168 hours.
10,080 minutes.
604,800 seconds.
My brain does the math automatically, breaking down exactly how much time I have left with her. Seven days until she’s gone. Until this house goes back to being Mom and Silas and me. And a rambunctious cat, I guess.
But that won’t help rid me of the memory of the most fascinating person who ever crashed into my carefully ordered life.
Seven. A prime number. Usually lucky.
Until now.
She says it so casually. Like seven days is nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.
She hadn’t mentioned leaving again since that one afternoon in the car, when she finally let me get a glimpse of the real her.
Since then, she asked if we could pick up Marie on the way to school and back—eliminating those twenty minutes when it was just the two of us, when she might accidentally let something real slip through. The two of them just chat in the back seat the whole time.
Before poker tonight, she hasn’t looked at me directly in a week, apart from our co-cat parent duties.
But now her birthday is seven days away.
She heads into her room and leaves the door open behind her instead of closing it in my face, which I assume is an invitation?
I stand in the hallway, unsure.
Her room. I’ve been in here before—feeding Sox, checking the litter box—but always briefly. Task-focused. In and out.
Now she’s inviting me to stay.
I can see from here: clothes draped over her desk chair (three shirts, unfolded), books stacked on her nightstand (four books, different heights, no order), the closet door half-open (not fully open, not fully closed—halfway, which is worse than either extreme).
My fingers drum against my thigh. One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five.
But then she calls over her shoulder, “Come in, what are you waiting for? The cat will just escape again.”
I step inside. Close the door behind me.
The click feels too loud. Too final.
I close the door, and she lets the cat go. Sox immediately scampers back to a little nest she’s made for herself in the back of Harper’s closet. Harper turns on some low music and sits on her bed, thumbing through her phone.
I try to think about anything except the image of her on her bed. Is it hot in here? I tug at my collar. God, it’s been torturous enough sharing a wall with her.
I recognize the music and focus on it. The Civil Wars. Huh. Is that a good sign? Maybe I’m not the only one collecting pieces of the ones I care about.
Then again, she’s on her bed, phone in hand, looking completely unbothered by my presence.
And she’s leaving in a week.
“Busy?” My voice comes out steadier than I feel.
“Not really. What’s up?”
“I just wanted to... I...”
Jesus Christ, Graham, finish a sentence.
“Talk. I just wanted to talk,” I finally manage. “I thought we all had fun tonight.”
She shrugs. One shoulder. Doesn’t look up from her phone. “Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
My jaw clenches. I force it to relax.
“So...” I swallow. My hands find the back of my neck. It’s burning. “You’re still planning to leave? In a week?”
“Yeah.” Now she does look up, and those eyes—fuck, those eyes—pin me in place. “Why would that have changed?”
My hand curls into a fist before I can stop it. Once. Twice. Three times. Four.
The knuckles crack. The sound is satisfying. Grounding.
Why would it have changed?
Because you laughed during poker. Because Sox will be devastated without you. Because for five seconds tonight, you looked like you belonged here. Like maybe you wanted to belong here. And you’re the funniest, most gorgeous woman I’ve ever met.
But I don’t say any of that. Instead, I repeat her own words back to her.
“Family is the ones who don’t leave, right? That’s what you said.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “That’s why I have to go back.”
“We’re your family now, too.” I take another step into the room. “And if Z is really your family, I don’t get why he’d ask you to throw away finishing high school.”
Her face hardens.
Good. Angry Harper is better than indifferent Harper.
“He didn’t ask me to. He just…” She shrugs, looking defensive. “…doesn’t think about that kind of stuff. And he knows we need to go get jobs if we’re going to afford rent.”
My hand curls into a fist before I can stop it. Did whoever this guy is even bother to think about what he’s doing to Harper’s future?
Loser. The word pounds through my skull. This Z guy is a loser, and Harper is so fucking smart she could do anything, be anything, and instead she’s going to—
“Mom was suggesting community college so you could establish good grades,” I say, fighting to keep my voice level.
Fighting not to sound like the condescending asshole I’m probably being.
“Build a transcript. You can transfer to any state school after a couple of years.” Or maybe even to a school halfway across the country.
There are state schools near Boston, too.
I shake off the intrusive thought. “Years, Harper. Doesn’t that tell you something?
That we believe in you enough to want to help you plan years ahead? ”
She’s watching me now. Really watching. I can’t read the expression on her face.
“But no,” I continue, and I’m losing the battle with my temper, “you’re going to go be self-sacrificing for some guy who doesn’t even—”
My jaw clenches. I bite the inside of my cheek. The pain is grounding. Count to four. Release.
“Doesn’t even what?” Her voice drops low. Dangerous. “Say it, Caleb.”
Deserve you.
Instead, I try: “Why don’t you come back to Dallas instead? You and Z both.”
It hurts to get that part out, but I can compromise if it’s what’s best for her. I might be leaving next September, but that’s still so much time…
“At least then Mom and Silas could help if things get dicey.”
Harper’s brow furrows. For a second—just a second—she looks young. Her actual age.
Then the armor slams back into place.
“I’m not going to take advantage of Helen like Dad is,” she snaps, two red spots appearing high on her cheeks. “She’s a really nice lady. I like her a lot.”
Her voice softens on that last part, and it fucking destroys me. Mom’s actually been breaking through that hard shell of hers. Why can’t Harper see how much she needs someone like Mom in her life?
“I’ll miss her,” Harper admits.
Will you miss anyone else?
“Harper.” Her name comes out rough. Raw. If I don’t say it now, I never will. And she needs to understand. “Don’t you get it? You’re stunning. Inside and out. You’re the most fascinating, fun, sharp, funny, intelligent person I’ve ever met.”
And so dead sexy, I try hard not to think about it because it’s inevitably followed by the hard limit: stepsister.
She rolls her eyes. “Shut up. Don’t bullshit a bullshitter.”
“I’m not.” I hold her gaze, willing her to see the truth. To see what’s standing right in front of her. “I’m not bullshitting. Why don’t you get how stunning you are?”
She looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “You’re the one who doesn’t get it. I’m a disaster in the middle of an identity crisis!”