Chapter 34
THIRTY-FOUR
HARPER
I spend all of Christmas break worried about Caleb.
His behavior doesn’t change much during the day. He goes through the motions—family dinners, helping Helen with dishes, talking about Harvard like he isn’t carrying a time bomb in his chest.
But there’s something hollow in his eyes.
Like the real Caleb is locked away somewhere, and this is just a convincing mannequin going through the routine.
Smile. Nod. Pass the salt. Pretend everything’s fine.
Every night, I sneak into his bed, and his arms clutch around my waist like I’m his lifeline.
And maybe I am. At least the shadows under his eyes disappear because he’s sleeping again—actually sleeping instead of lying awake staring at the ceiling, running through worst-case scenarios like some kind of nightmare calculator.
And I get to hold him.
Give, without expecting anything in return.
Is this what love is?
He’s said he loves me, but I’ve held back the words.
Kept them locked tight behind my teeth. Because one, I never thought I was capable of it—love feels like something that happens to other people, people who didn’t grow up the way I did.
And two, I never thought I’d recognize the feeling if it did ever happen.
How would I know? I don’t have a reference point.
Darlene didn’t exactly model healthy emotional attachment.
And three—the back of my mind whispers it, getting louder every time I push it away—if I ever dared crack open the cold shell of my heart, it would mean...
The whisper becomes a roar: Ruin. Pain. Abandonment.
All the things I’ve spent my life avoiding.
All the things that happen when you let yourself need someone.
He only lets me comfort him at night. That’s our deal, unspoken but understood.
Each morning, I wake to an empty bed and the sound of the shower running. That’s my cue to leave, to slip back through the bathroom to my own room before Helen or Silas notice. And the rest of the day, he doesn’t want to talk to anyone. Doesn’t want to be touched or comforted or acknowledged.
He retreats behind his walls, and I let him, because I understand walls better than most people.
It goes like that for the rest of our break.
It kills me.
Watching him suffer. Watching him pretend he’s not suffering. Knowing I can only reach him in the dark, in those stolen hours when he’s too exhausted to keep his shields up.
So I spend time gaming with Marie and Z in the basement to distract myself.
Marie’s been coming over a lot during break—started as her checking on Caleb when I told her about Helen because I needed to talk to someone about it—but evolved into actual hangouts.
She fits surprisingly well into our little found family of misfits, even if Z side-eyes her sometimes like he’s trying to figure out if she’s for real. Or maybe because he finds her cute?
I can’t decide how I feel about that, if only for Marie’s sake. Z has been less volatile the last couple of months, but you never know with him. On the one hand, it would be awesome if my two friends wanted to go out with each other.
On the other, everything around here is already too stressful, and if Z breaks her heart, it would only add to the chaos. Marie’s never even had a boyfriend before.
“Your form is shit,” Z announces, not looking up from the screen where he’s building some kind of elaborate redstone contraption. “You’re gonna get swarmed.”
“My form is fine,” Marie argues, her avatar sprinting through a cave system. “I’ve got a strategy—”
“Your strategy is panic and flail.”
“It’s worked so far!”
“You’ve died six times.”
“Those are just practice deaths. They don’t count.”
I snort, my own character hanging back with a bow, picking off zombies from a safe distance. “Practice deaths. Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I’m learning the mechanics,” Marie insists, but there’s humor in her voice. “Harper, back me up here—”
“Oh no.” I’m already shaking my head. “I’m staying out of this. You two can fight about Minecraft strategy without me.”
“Coward,” Z mutters, but he’s grinning.
“Smart,” I correct. “There’s a difference.”
Marie’s character gets cornered by a pack of zombies, and she lets out this high-pitched squeak of alarm that shouldn’t be as funny as it is.
“See?” Z says, vindicated. “Shit form.”
“Shut up and help me!”
“Why would I do that? This is hilarious.”
“Z!” Marie’s actually laughing now, even as her character gets overwhelmed, smashing keys on her laptop she brought with her. “You’re the worst teammate ever!”
“I’m teaching you a valuable lesson about self-sufficiency.”
“You’re teaching me that you’re an asshole.”
“You already knew that.”
I’m about to jump in and save her—even though Z’s right and watching her panic is pretty entertaining—when a voice from the doorway stops me.
“I’m heading out to the big New Year’s Eve party. Do you want to come?”
Marie and I both look up, mid-zombie massacre, to find Caleb standing in the basement doorway.
Z keeps playing, doesn’t even glance over.
Caleb’s barely gotten out of his pajamas all break. I’ve watched him shuffle around in sweatpants and ratty T-shirts, hair uncombed, looking like a sad ghost haunting his own house.
But now?
Now he’s dressed like he walked straight out of a catalog—dark jeans that fit just right, a button-down shirt in deep charcoal that makes his eyes look darker, hair styled into that rich-boy perfection that looks effortless but definitely wasn’t.
He even smells good from here, some kind of cologne that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe.
He looks good. Too good. Dangerous good.
The kind of good that makes my stomach flip and my brain go fuzzy.
“Tyler’s party?” Marie asks, pausing the game. Her character immediately gets eaten by a zombie, but she doesn’t seem to notice.
“Yeah.” Caleb’s hands are in his pockets, his posture casual, but there’s something wrong about it. Something too controlled. Like he’s wound so tight he might snap. “Figured I should make an appearance.”
“Tyler’s McKenzie’s boyfriend,” I point out. “You hate both of them.”
“I hate a lot of people. Doesn’t mean I can’t go to their parties.”
That’s... not like him. The old Caleb would’ve listed seventeen logical reasons why attending would be a waste of time. Would’ve stayed home with a book and his color-coded study schedule.
This Caleb looks like he’s looking for a fight.
Or looking to forget.
Neither option feels good.
“I’ll come,” I hear myself say, setting down my laptop.
Caleb’s eyes flick to me, something unreadable passing through them. “You don’t have to if you don’t wa—”
“I want to.” I stand up, brushing Dorito dust off my jeans. “Could be fun.”
“I’ll come too!” Marie pops up like an eager puppy. “I’ve never been to a real high school party before.”
Z finally looks up from the game, one eyebrow raised. “A party? With the people who made your life hell for years? Sounds fucking terrible. I’m in.”
“You weren’t invited,” I point out.
“When has that ever stopped me?”
Fair point.
Twenty minutes later, we’re all piled in Caleb’s car.
Caleb’s driving, I’m in front, and Marie and Z are in back.
The drive to Tyler’s is quiet, apart from Z joking with Marie.
Caleb’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, jaw set, eyes fixed on the road like he’s driving to war instead of some shitty high school party.
I reach over and put my hand on his thigh.
He doesn’t relax, but he doesn’t pull away either.
“You okay?” I ask quietly, under the music playing from the speakers.
“Fine.” The word is clipped. Final.
Not fine, then.
Tyler’s house is already packed when we arrive—cars lining both sides of the street, bass thumping loud enough to rattle windows, people spilling out onto the lawn with red cups in hand.
And the house itself is obscene.
Not just big—obscene. The kind of house that makes you wonder what his parents do for a living and whether it’s legal.
Three stories of glass and stone and architectural statements, perched on a slight hill.
“Jesus,” Z mutters, staring up at the house. “How the other half lives.”
“Other one percent,” I correct.
Inside is even more ridiculous. The entry has this massive chandelier that probably cost more than Helen’s car, and the living room—if you can even call it that—has been transformed into something that looks like a club.
Professional DJ setup in the corner, light system that pulses with the beat, a bar that’s definitely been raided from Tyler’s parents’ collection based on the top-shelf liquor lining the counter.
There have to be a hundred people here, maybe more. Bodies everywhere—dancing, drinking, sitting draped over expensive furniture like they own the place.
The air is thick with perfume and cologne and sweat and that particular smell of teenage desperation masked as confidence.
It’s an uncomfortable flashback to the last party I came to, and I make a careful note to monitor everyone’s drinks tonight.
This used to be my scene. The chaos. The noise and the chance to disappear into the crowd, while the alcohol burned away anything resembling feelings.
But tonight it just feels… like I want to turn around and crawl right back into bed.
Z immediately peels off toward the kitchen, muttering something about “quality reconnaissance,” which I know means he’s going to steal every bottle of expensive liquor he can fit in his jacket. I watch him go with something between amusement and resignation—at least someone’s having fun.
The rest of us find Miles, Sara, and Kevin near the makeshift dance floor. Sara squeals when she sees us, pulling Marie into a hug that makes the smaller girl stumble.
“You came! Oh my God, you look so cute—is that a new top?”
Marie flushes, pleased. “Harper lent it to me.”