Chapter 21
TWENTY-ONE
CALEB
Harper said, “Tonight.”
One word. Two syllables. And my entire nervous system went into overdrive.
I check my phone again. 4:53 p.m.
Two minutes since I last looked.
Before that: 4:51 p.m. Before that: 4:48 p.m. Before that: 4:45 p.m.
I’ve checked my phone 47 times in the last two hours. I know because I counted.
Tonight.
She said tonight.
But when is tonight? Sunset is 6:44 p.m. That’s one hour and 51 minutes from now. 6,660 seconds.
Or does tonight mean after dinner? That’s around 8:00 p.m. Three hours and 7 minutes. 11,220 seconds.
Or does she mean late tonight? When our parents are definitely asleep? That could be 11:00 p.m. or midnight. Six to seven hours from now. 21,600 to 25,200 seconds.
My brain won’t stop calculating. Won’t stop trying to pin down the exact moment.
I need parameters. I need to know exactly when.
But Harper doesn’t work that way.
Normal people don’t work that way.
I’m spread out at the dining room table, differential equations open in front of me like I’m actually capable of concentrating on math right now.
Problem 1: I read it four times. Can’t process it. Problem 2: I write the first equation. Wrong. Erase it. Write it again. Still wrong. Problem 3: I stare at it for six minutes. My phone says 4:59 p.m. now.
I’ve completed zero problems in 23 minutes.
My grade-obsessed brain is screaming at me. I have a 98.7% in this class. I can’t afford to fall behind. I’m in a neck-and-neck race with Derek Morrison for valedictorian, and that bastard is relentless.
But every time I try to focus, I see Harper’s face. Hear her voice. Tonight.
I check my phone: 5:01 p.m.
The numbers blur together, meaningless symbols mocking my complete inability to focus on anything except the memory of Harper’s voice when she said it.
That husky whisper. The condom she’d been holding.
Tonight.
My pulse kicks up just thinking about it.
“Getting a lot done, honey?” Mom breezes past with another tray of cookies, flour dusting her apron.
I jerk up in my seat, adjusting my position. This is wrong on so many levels—fighting a hard-on while Mom pulls fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies from the oven and musses my hair like I’m still five years old.
“Yeah, Mom.” I yank away from her touch, reaching for my water bottle instead. If I’m drinking, I don’t have to think about her and Harper existing in the same universe. The same house. The same sentence in my brain.
“Cookie?” She holds out two warm ones, already plated.
“No.” The word comes out strangled. “Thanks.”
Mom’s smile doesn’t waver even though she looks a little tired. I frown, trying to remember if she worked yesterday. She sleeps in after late nights working. “Are you getting enough sleep?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I’m sleeping fine. You don’t always have to worry about me, you know? I am the parent here. Take the cookies. Harper would love these, I bet. She has such a sweet tooth.”
She bustles toward the stairs, and I force myself to breathe. Maybe the dining room table was a tactical error. Too exposed. Too many potential interruptions.
I glance at my phone. 5:02 p.m.
Are you kidding me?
I Google “sunset time today.” 6:44 p.m. Which means I have nearly two hours to sit here, slowly losing my mind.
Where am I supposed to meet her? Her room? My room? The bathroom again?
My stomach clenches. Does she expect me to just... know? Is there some unspoken protocol I’m supposed to understand? She’s probably done this a hundred times. She knows exactly how these things work.
And me?
I’ve done… ya know, some stuff with girls. I’m not completely clueless. But I’ve been focused on other things—debate tournaments, college apps, keeping my grades flawless. The handful of experiences I’ve had were... brief. Fumbling. Nothing that would have prepared me for tonight.
For her.
What if I disappoint her? What if she realizes I’m just the Boy Scout she called me that first day—all talk and no actual experience? What if—
Stop. I need to move. Need to do something before I spiral completely.
“I’ll be at the library, Mom!” I call, already grabbing my keys.
“Have fun, honey!” she calls after me, but I’m already out the door.
The library is quiet. Too quiet. My footsteps echo as I make my way past the help desk, past the study carrels where a few students huddle over textbooks.
I know where I’m going even if I don’t want to admit it.
The romance section sits in the back corner, mostly ignored except by middle-aged women and apparently one desperate eighteen-year-old trying not to completely humiliate himself tonight.
I hesitate at the end of the aisle, checking to make sure no one I know is around. The covers stare back at me—shirtless men with impossible abs, women in various states of undress, titles that make my face heat even though I’m alone.
Mom used to read these. That one summer, she couldn’t put them down; she’d laugh when I made fun of her. “Don’t knock it ’til you try it, honey. These authors know what they’re doing. If you ever need pointers...” She’d winked. “There’s education in here.”
At the time, I’d rolled my eyes.
Now? Now I’m pulling books off the shelf like they contain the secrets to the universe.
I flip open the first one. Skip to a scene that makes my pulse spike. The detail is... extensive. Specific. The author doesn’t just describe what’s happening—she describes exactly how, exactly where, exactly what the woman responds to.
I grab three more books, find a secluded corner behind the reference section, and start reading with the focus I usually reserve for AP exams.
Two hours later, I’ve taken mental notes on:
The importance of pacing (apparently you don’t just... go)
Key anatomy details (I screenshot diagrams from a medical text when the romance novels aren’t specific enough)
What women reportedly like most (the list is longer and more complicated than I expected)
I’ve read 47 pages in the first book. 63 in the second. 52 in the third. 38 in the fourth.
200 pages total in 2 hours and 14 minutes.
I’m reading like I’m cramming for finals. Because in a way, I am.
I’ve highlighted passages in my mind:
Page 47: “Start slow, build gradually.”
Page 63: “Watch her reactions, adjust accordingly.”
Page 52: “The clitoris has 8,000 nerve endings.”
Page 38: “Enthusiasm matters more than experience.”
I really appreciated that last one. Enthusiasm, I can manage. As for the rest… Preparation is control. Control is key.
My phone buzzes. A text from Mom: Dinner in 30. Don’t be late!
Right. Dinner. The meal where I’ll have to sit across from Harper and pretend I’m not thinking about tonight. Pretend my hands aren’t shaking. Pretend I don’t have a dozen explicit scenes running through my head on repeat.
I should be terrified.
I am terrified.
But underneath the terror is something else. Pure adrenaline and the sense of readiness and rightness. Like every careful, controlled choice I’ve made my entire life has been leading to this moment.
To her.
I return the books, checking out none of them because that would leave a paper trail. But I don’t need them anymore. I’ve memorized what matters.
Tonight, I’m going to make sure Harper Tucker knows exactly how much I’ve been waiting for her.
Even if she doesn’t know she’s what I’ve been waiting for.
10:47 p.m.
Checklist:
Showered: Yes. Used the good soap. Brushed teeth twice.
Bed made: Yes. Changed the sheets. Hospital corners.
Lamp on: Yes. Soft light, not too bright.
Door locked: Yes. Checked three times.
Chair wedged under the handle for good measure.: Yes. Extra security.
Condoms in drawer: Yes. Box of 12. Even number. Good.
Wait. Does she expect me to have condoms? She had one last time. Does that mean she’s bringing one? Or does she expect me to provide them?
Shit. Should I have the condoms visible? Or is that presumptuous?
I check my phone: 10:48 p.m.
One minute has passed.
How many minutes until she comes? 10 minutes? 30 minutes? An hour?
My hands are shaking. I shove them under the pillow.
Count backwards from 100 by 7s: 100, 93, 86, 79, 72, 65...
It’s not working.
Nothing works when it comes to Harper.
My podcast plays in the background—something about the history of the Roman Empire—but I can’t focus on a single word. My mind keeps circling back to the same spiral: What if she doesn’t come? What if she does? What if I mess this up? What if it’s perfect and she still chooses to leave?
I don’t know what will happen tomorrow. Harper’s made it clear—she has plans. Plans that probably involve going back to East Texas and marrying another man. Plans that might mean tonight is all we get.
So if this is my last night on Earth?
I’m not wasting a second of it.
My eyes drift closed despite the adrenaline. The anticipation has been building so long it’s exhausting. The podcast narrator’s voice fades into background noise...
I wake to sensation.
A hand sliding around my waist. Fingers trailing lower. The heat of a body pressed against my back, soft curves molding to my spine.
For a second, I think I’m dreaming. I have to be.
Harper? Here? In my room, in my bed, touching me like this?
I’ve been dreaming about it for so long, it seems impossible that it’s real.
But her breath is warm against my ear, her weight real and solid behind me. This isn’t a dream. This is actually happening.
She’s here.
In the bed where I grew up. On the twin mattress that used to sit in a race car frame. There’s something about that contrast—childhood innocence and this very adult moment—that makes my heart hammer even harder.
Her fingers slip beneath my shirt, cool against my overheated skin. She traces the trail of hair below my navel with her thumb, back and forth, deliberate and teasing.
Every compulsion, every ritual, every careful pattern I’ve built—
Gone.
Just gone.
There’s only Harper.
Her breath against my ear. Her fingers on my skin. The warmth of her body.
All the anxiety that’s been building for hours just... evaporates.