Chapter 18
Lark
I bared my soul to him.
Lying beside me, now he bares his to me.
“My aunt called Lucas the golden child of the family.” He glances at me as I lie beside him.
“My mom isn’t the type to argue about such things, as she puts it, but it always stuck in her side.
” He grins as if the memory invokes it. “She would tell us that she was gifted with four beautiful children, so she wasn’t looking to get into a fight over her sister-in-law’s only child.
” He looks back at me again, the smile still on his face.
“She loved Lucas like one of her own, so I think she just let it go.”
“Your mom is nicer than I would have been.”
He gives me a wink and then rolls to his side to face me.
“Lucas was my age, so we were always directly compared to each other. It’s like what they do to twins.
There’s always one deemed an angel and the other a devil.
That was true for Lucas and me, too. But with his mom always campaigning for the top slot, she pegged me early on as the troublemaker. ”
The lighthearted tone weaving through the story has disappeared, and I have a feeling this is where truth and lies get confused.
“The thing is,” he continues, “I wasn’t trying to be an angel.
There’s not a bone in my body that struggles with confrontation.
But sometimes, trouble knew how to find me.
Nothing big. It was petty shit, like a pack of gum that was too tempting not to nick behind my dad’s back.
Or trekking muddy shoes in the house and blaming my younger brother.
” He shakes his head. “I always got busted. They matched the soles of our shoes to the footprints.” A light chuckle rocks his shoulders but then stops.
“But Lucas, despite the angelic reputation his mother had built, he looked for trouble.”
“Maybe she knew, and that’s why she petitioned so hard for that perception.”
Reaching over, he finds my hand between us, and our fingers fold together. “I always had a similar thought, but it’s nothing I could prove.”
“What kind of trouble did he get into?”
“He was stealing liquor from his house at fourteen, smoking weed at fifteen. When he got a car on his sixteenth birthday, he drove us straight to Beacon . . .” Harbor stops, seeming to shuffle through notecards in his mind that will detail the memory.
“What did you do in Beacon on his birthday?”
He exhales and looks down. I’m naked next to him, but he doesn’t ogle me or do anything that makes me feel vulnerable or exposed in an uncomfortable way. I’m treated as an extension of him, our hands exchanging energy between us.
His hands slide over my shoulders and then up my neck until I look him in the eyes.
“He found the trouble he was looking for, but I made the mistake of being there. We were best friends. Wherever he went, I went. When he drank, I drank. The first time I ever smoked weed was from a blunt he handed me. That’s just how it was with us.
We were like brothers but almost closer.
” He suddenly sits up and puts his back against the wall.
When he scrubs his hands over his face, I can already see the toll this is taking on him.
I sit up next to him, bringing the sheets over my chest. “If this is too much—”
“I’m okay. I just haven’t thought about some of this stuff in years.
It’s weird now, like it was a different lifetime and not my own.
We had some good times, but my eldest brother, Loch, was onto us.
He’d threaten to tell our parents if we didn’t stop.
We always told him what he wanted to hear.
Then the next day, without a second thought, we would be up to the same old shit.
” He yawns, but I don’t think he’s tired from the day, but from the exhaustion of reliving a life he dug up today.
“Harbor?” He looks at me, and that’s when I see the torment in his eyes.
I rest my hand on his arm. I kiss his shoulder and then mold myself to him, holding him the best I can.
“I love you.” I do, too, more than seems possible in such a short time.
But like his life with his cousin, our connection runs deeper than the time we’ve had together.
Our bond is stronger with every day that passes, and in each hour, I feel more myself when I’m with him than I ever have alone.
His arm comes around my front, and he rubs my back. “I love you.” A kiss is placed on my forehead, and he whispers, “I love you so much.”
We sit in silence, letting the moonlight stream in through the blinds and mingle with the light stretching from the lamp in the corner.
He says, “My shoulders don’t feel so heavy when I’m in this room with you. It feels good to feel like myself for the first time in years.” We’re so alike, but I don’t want to distract from his story, so I stay quiet, though I’m impatient on the inside. “Lucas died on my birthday.”
The punch to my gut elicits a gasp. I can’t hold him any tighter than I already am, but I wish I could ease the pain. “I’m so sorry. I know it’s just words, but please know I mean them.”
“I know, and it’s all right. There’s not a lot to say about it.
We spent years fucking around, but when I turned eighteen .
. . I don’t know. I was over it. I was over taking the blame for him.
Watching him be rewarded for coming out of the mess he made unscathed finally got to me.
He kept going to parties in Beacon, mixing with people who didn’t give a damn about him while I started focusing on what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
” When he exhales a deep breath, we readjust and lie down on our backs again.
“Did I mention his mom wanted him to be a doctor?”
“That was the plan?”
“He was going to Princeton, and I was going to Beacon. He told me better luck next time, gave me a pat on the back, and told me to work harder so we could go to medical school together. He even suggested I get my parents to make a large donation like his had done.”
I have so many thoughts about how this picture has been painted but only one conclusion. “You got into Princeton.” I don’t bother asking because I already know the truth. Harbor lied to get away from his cousin. “Do you want to be a doctor?”
He keeps his eyes forward on the blanket. “I have to be a doctor. For Lucas, to make his dream come true.”
“Why?” I sit forward, angling to face him. I need a better view of this man. I need to see his eyes, and the truth inside he won’t be able to hide. “What about your dreams? Don’t they matter anymore?”
Closing his eyes, hiding them from me, he shakes his head. He finally turns to me, and says, “My dreams died the day my cousin passed away.”
“No.” I cover his hands with mine. “That’s not how life works.”
“You’re right, but we’re not talking about life. We’re talking about his death.” His tone is firm, his eyes determined despite knowing he doesn’t believe the words coming from his mouth. “My aunt told me he would want me to still become a doctor. She told me over his grave and made me promise.”
“Who does that to someone?” He can’t answer that. No one can. It’s not her right to saddle him with the burden of her son’s life. “Harbor? If you’re living your cousin’s life instead of your own, you’re not living.”
“It’s all I know anymore.” His tone is resolved, the fight for his own life left his eyes long before I met him.
“I’ve met your mom, Harbor. You cannot convince me that this is what she wants for you.”
He levels a glare at me. “My mom is thrilled she’ll have a doctor in a family of lawyers.”
“Not at the expense of your happiness.”
The tips of his finger graze my neck as he slides his hand into the hair at the back of my head. “I’m happy, Lark. I’m happy with you.” Bringing me in for a kiss, he does it twice before saying, “Medicine is a noble practice.”
“Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”
“No one. I don’t have to convince anyone. It’s a done deal.”
“What if you don’t get into medical school?”
He scoffs, the sound more likened to an arrogant prince than Harbor.
“Of course, I’ll get into medical school.
I’m a Westcott.” It’s then that I realize.
Right now, he’s not the guy who bandaged my chin with loving care.
He’s the creation of what he thinks he’s supposed to be.
He’s what happens when your life is formed from tragedy.
I move away, an inch at first, and then climb out of bed. He watches but doesn’t try to stop me. Grabbing my shirt from the floor, I put it back on and stand at the end of the bed. “You should go home and get some rest.”
“I’m not tired.”
“I am.”
The covers are flying so fast from his body that I flinch. Stopping, his shoulders are straight and muscles are tense. “Don’t do that, Lark.”
“Don’t do what?” I ask, raising my chin as I cross my arms over my chest.
“I would never hurt you, so please don’t flinch.”
“Like I can help it,” I gripe. “It’s an involuntary reaction.”
“It’s distrust.”
Kicking out my hip, I plant my hand on it and push every one of his buttons. “It is what it is. Isn’t that what you say?”
He grabs his clothes, and says, “Fuck this.” He dresses as he moves to the door, and his pants are up by the time he leaves my room.
I hear Amanda say, “Hot damn,” and the sound of her door shutting.
I’ll apologize to her later, but for now, I follow him.
His pants are up, though the fly hangs open.
Still shirtless, he pulls on his shoes and hops on one foot.
Then he grumbles again, “Fuck this.” Pulling open the door, he doesn’t look back before walking out.
Wow. I stand there in shock, dumbfounded by the turn tonight took.
And I’m pissed.