Chapter 26
TWENTY-SIX
HARPER
“So come on, spill,” Z says the second we’re alone in the basement.
It smells like lavender and fabric softener down here. Everything matches. Cream-colored furniture. Coordinated throw pillows in teal and peach. Big prints of impressionist art on the wall that I recognize but can’t name, with water lilies and bridges and sunrises.
It’s cozy. Warm. Safe.
I can’t believe we did it. After all the waiting and fear and shame about getting out while Z was left behind, we actually did it.
Z is here.
My heart feels so full it could burst.
“Spill about what?” I laugh, finally happy without guilt gnawing at my insides.
I grab the sheets from where Caleb handed them to me upstairs—I had to shut the door in his face to do it, and I felt bad about that—and start making up the pull-out couch. But Z deserves some one-on-one time after the long car ride, where I was so exhausted and out of it, I slept the whole way.
Z’s voice drops into that low, conspiratorial whisper he always uses when we’re gossiping about something dumb. “What’s up with you and Step-boy?”
Heat crawls up from my chest, slow and suffocating. There’s the shame, back again, trying to strangle me.
“Nothing,” I say way too fast. My hands go stupid as I try to straighten a corner of the fitted sheet.
I wince as soon as I say it, because that’s not true.
I mean, what Caleb and I have isn’t like any of the guys I’ve been with before.
It’s not like when I lost my virginity to Danny Mueller at that house party when I was fourteen, then went home shaking, and Z held me while I sobbed.
It’s not even like the handful of others I’ve hooked up with just to feel something—anything—even if that something was just being wanted and clutched in someone’s arms for a few, desperate minutes.
But with Caleb, it’s...
God, I don’t even have words for what it is with Caleb.
“Well, I mean—” I sputter, trying to find something that sounds true without being too true. “Just—You know how I am with guys.”
I wince the second the words leave my mouth.
Because that’s a lie.
A complete fucking lie.
And Z will know it. Z knows me better than anyone.
Z goes totally still. “You’re hooking up with him.”
Last night flashes through my head—Caleb’s hands on my skin, his mouth on mine, the way he looked at me like I was something precious—and heat floods my face so fast I feel dizzy with it.
My cheeks are burning. My hands are shaking.
I shrug, suddenly intensely focused on shoving sheet corners into place like my life depends on perfect hospital corners. “I mean—You know. Sort of.”
“Jesus, he’s your stepbrother.” Z’s disgusted voice lands like a slap.
It’s judgmental in a way I never expected from him.
Z, who laughed when I told him about the married guy (I didn’t know until after we’d hooked up, in my defense); Z, who high-fived me when I made out with two different guys at the same party; Z, who never once made me feel like I was wrong for the way I moved through the world.
“That’s fucked up, Harper.”
My eyes shoot to his. Something hot and sharp flares in my chest.
“He’s not actually my brother. Jesus.” I shove the pillow case at him hard enough that he has to catch it. “Why did I even tell you? You’re welcome for the accommodations, asshole. And maybe try a shower. You smell like the chicken factory.”
I turn to walk away, fighting tears. This isn’t how tonight was supposed to go.
We were supposed to be happy.
“No, wait.” Z’s hand catches my arm. “I’m sorry.”
His voice is softer, and I stop despite myself, closing my eyes. I swallow hard, biting back emotion.
God, I’m so tired.
The whole trip out with Caleb to get Z was like something from a movie—laughing, eating too much food, stealing glances at each other across diner tables. Luxurious. Light.
Just one last day, I told myself. I’d give myself just one last perfect day with him. And then he did the impossible—stood up to Frank and made a way for everything to work out—and I thought we could be free to—
My shoulders sink.
But now it’s all heavy again. Sometimes being with Z always makes me feel so leaden. So responsible. Like I have to hold both of us up, or we’ll drown.
It wasn’t always like this. Was it?
When we were kids, Z was the fun one. The one who made me laugh. The one who’d break into the high school gym with me just to scream into the echoing dark.
But somewhere along the way—maybe after Frank started getting worse, maybe after I left—Z stopped being the person who made me feel lighter and started being one more thing I had to carry.
It’s just for a little while, though. He’s carried me before when I was down, and now it’s my turn. We’ve carried each other back and forth at different times. Didn’t we? Didn’t we? God, my head hurts.
“What?” I groan. “God, Z, I’m tired. We’re safe now. Isn’t that enough? We just wanted to be safe. With a roof over our head and food in our bellies.”
Z hasn’t let go of my arm. His fingers are tight around my elbow, grounding me in place.
“No, I want you to talk to me like you used to.” He gives my arm a little shake. “Like my Harper.”
Something twists in my stomach.
My Harper.
Like I’m a possession. Like I belong to him.
When did he start talking like that? Or has he always talked like that and I just never noticed because I assumed we’d end up together anyway? Because that was always the plan—vague and unspoken but always there.
Harper and Z against the world.
But that was before Caleb kissed me like I was oxygen. Before someone held me all night like I was something worth protecting. Now I knew what it felt like to be chosen instead of just being the only option left.
I turn and glare at him. “What does that mean?”
He finally lets go of my arm, but he steps up close instead—right into my personal space in a way that used to feel comfortable and now feels… suffocating.
“It means you’ve become some weird pod person. Is it because of him? Have you been fucking him the whole time you were planning to marry me?”
I step back from him. “What’s wrong with you?”
My voice is louder than I mean it to be.
“All this time I’ve been trying to get back to you.
Scared shitless about what Frank was doing to you.
And now that I do, now that we’re finally both safe, you’re acting like this?
How about a ‘thank you, Harper? ’ Or an ‘I’m so grateful you rescued me, Harper? ’”
All the emotion I’ve been swallowing back is suddenly bursting out in a fury of words I can’t keep in anymore. “And who I fuck is none of your business, Z. I don’t know what you had in your head, but getting married was always only supposed to be about emancipating us. It was just paperwork!”
I’m breathing hard by the time I finish. I manage to keep tears back, but just barely, and that makes me even more furious: at Z for making me feel this way, at myself for not seeing this coming, at the universe for turning what should have been a happy reunion into this mess.
And there’s Z in front of me, wide-eyed. Looking at me like I betrayed him.
“So you are fucking him. It’s more than just feeling each other up?”
I throw my hands up. “That’s all you heard? Jesus Christ! Enjoy your nice, warm bed.”
I turn to go, and I can already feel it—the way this will end. I’ll walk up those stairs. Z will stay down here, bitter and hurt. Tomorrow will be awkward. Next week will be worse. And everything we survived—Frank, the trailer park, the Todds, the years of planning our escape—will be for nothing.
Z must sense or feel some of what I’m thinking because his hand cinches around my elbow again, in a death grip this time. Pinning me in place.
“No, Harp, don’t go. I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry. You’ve always had your guys on the side. I don’t know why I-I’m sorry I’m being shitty.”
Some of the tightness in my muscles relaxes at his apology, even though I hate the way he puts it. Your guys on the side.
But still. This is Z. The boy who left his window unlocked so I could climb in when things got bad at home. The one who held me when I cried. The one who understood without me having to explain that some days just existing was hard enough without adding words to it.
He’s been through hell. Frank’s been beating him for years. Of course he’s not in the best state of mind right now.
I turn back to him. “Can’t we just be happy that we made it here?” My voice comes out softer. Pleading. “I was so fucking scared when I saw Frank come at you like that.”
I reach out and squeeze his hand. “Z. You never have to see him again. You’re free.”
His face crumples.
“I know.” His voice is small. Broken. “But I was supposed to be the one to save you.”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be an idiot.”
His lip trembles for half a second before he pulls me into a hug so fierce it knocks the air out of me.
“I missed you,” he whispers into my hair.
I hug him back, and my heart physically aches. He’s so thin. Just skin and bones. I can feel his ribs through his shirt.
I’m going to direct Helen’s baking obsession toward him immediately.
“Me too. It’s still so hard to believe you’re really here.” My voice cracks. “But we did it. We actually got out.”
“You’re right,” he whispers, voice thick and shaking. “Look, I’ll get a shower, sleep off the worst of this, and we can hole up for as long as it takes to get a job and build up a stash. Then, just… pick a place. We’ll start over.”
He pulls back slightly, and his eyes lock on mine.
“You and me are still endgame.”
And just like that, the air changes.
My stomach drops again.
Endgame.
I spent so many years picturing it—me and Z in some shitty apartment with peeling linoleum and a broken air conditioner, splitting ramen between job shifts. We’d be tragic. Gritty. Romantic in that Bonnie-and-Clyde way. You know, if they worked at a gas station.
His hands lift to my face, thumbs caressing my cheeks. “I’ll take care of you, Harp. You know that, right?”
I freeze, like a goddamn deer in headlights. Z was always supposed to be my future. That was the plan, even if unspoken. Even if vague.
We were going to patch each other up with spit and spite and maybe make something whole out of our broken pieces.
I always thought that when the time came—when we were both safe and free—the feelings would just... happen. That I’d look at him one day and feel the way I’m supposed to feel about the person I’m going to spend my life with.
But standing here, with his hands on my face and his eyes burning into mine, all I feel is trapped.
“You never need to provide for me,” I say, and I step back before I start shaking. “I can take care of myself.”
Z’s smile slowly falls… and then twists into something ugly.
“Is this you taking care of yourself?” He waves at the pristine basement like it’s evidence in a trial. “Playing house with Daddy’s shiny new wife? What’s the plan, Harp? Follow in the family tradition and snag yourself a sugar daddy?”
All the air swoops out of my lungs at the unexpected blow. My defenses were down, so it hit harder than it should have. But old habits snap into place like a spring recoiling.
If he wants cruel, I can do cruel. Hell, I was raised on it.
“Money does make shit easier,” I snap, eyes locked on his. “Maybe I will be a trophy wife. Seems like there’s plenty of rich morons around here who’d be thrilled to put a ring on some damaged pussy.”
Z’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “That soft little prep school boy upstairs one of them?”
And just like that, he hits a nerve.
Something hot and sharp blooms in my chest. Protective. Possessive. Feral.
Because he doesn’t get to talk about Caleb like that. He doesn’t get to reduce what Caleb and I have to that—to me using him, to me being another con artist Tucker.
Caleb stood up to Frank O’Brian. Caleb drove me all the way to East Texas, knowing I was going to marry someone else. Caleb said, “I love you,” and meant it.
Caleb chose me.
Not because I was convenient. Not because I was the only option. Not because he wanted something from me.
He chose me because I’m worth choosing.
“Leave him alone,” I bite out.
Z’s eyes light up with vicious delight.
“Oh shit.” His grin is savage. Triumphant. “You like him. Harper Fucking Tucker, queen of one-night stands and ghosted hookups, caught feelings for her stepbrother.”
“Fuck you, Z.”
But it comes out too high-pitched. Too desperate.
Because he’s right.
I have feelings for Caleb.
Real, terrifying, overwhelming feelings that make my chest ache and my hands shake and my carefully constructed armor feel like it’s made of tissue paper.
I turn and head for the stairs, all but running this time so he can’t stop me.
“You coming back down tonight?” he calls after me, and his voice is calculated. Possessive. “We could cuddle like old times.”
I don’t even look back.
Just flip him off as I climb the stairs, middle finger sky-high.
But his words follow me up the stairs. Slither up my spine like smoke.
Like old times.
But I don’t think I’m that girl anymore—the one who curled up in Z’s bed and thought that love was whatever scraps someone gave you if you were pretty enough and quiet enough and useful enough.
That girl thought being held was the same as being seen.
That girl thought survival was the same as living.
And now?
Now I know what it feels like when someone kisses you like they’re drowning and you’re their oxygen. Now I know what it’s like when someone gives their body to you alone, in a way that makes you feel precious for the first time in your whole life.
Now I know what it feels like when someone shows up to rescue you before the bad thing happens, and then doesn’t take advantage of you after or expect payment.
Now I know what it’s like to be held all night to someone’s chest like I’m not broken, but already whole.
Every step up the stairs is a step away from the girl who took what she could get.
Every step is a step toward something I don’t have a name for yet. Something terrifying. Something that might destroy me.
Something better.
The light from the basement fades behind me, warm but weighted with everything I’m leaving down there.
Everything I thought I wanted.
But maybe what’s ahead is still more wild yet than I can imagine, and not all surprises have to be bad, and relationships don’t have to be just transactional…
I get to the top of the stairs and pause as I grab the doorknob.
Or maybe I’m just like my mother after all, pouring everything into a man who will leave as soon as next summer ends, off to his next adventure while I’m left behind, broken-hearted and soothing myself at the bottom of a bottle.