I need to fix this. Before she calls off our bargain for good.
“Can you drive me to Harper’s house?” I blurt the question outbefore I can think it through. Frowning, my best friend glances over from behind the wheel.
“What for?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I feel like I need to talk to her. Clear some stuff up.”
“What stuff?” Marcus pauses. “Is something going on with you two?”
I glare out the windshield. “No. I just…You guys are right. I should have said hi to her at practice. I was being rude.” And I need her to like me so she doesn’t rat me out to the cops.
Marcus shakes his head. “You think showing up at a girl’s house unannounced is agoodidea?”
He has a valid point, but I see no way around it.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I waffle, unsure.
“Literally everything terrible is the worst thing that could happen. A girl’s house is like her sanctuary. You don’t just walk in there,” he counters, focused on the road ahead of him while everyone snacks on protein bars. “How will you get home if I drop you off?”
“She has a car.” I blow out a puff of air. “Okay, fine. Don’t do anything yet. I’ll text her.”
My head tilts back against the headrest and I sigh, the Jeep falling silent except for the reverberating sound of the engine, along with my buddies chomping on food, as we get farther away from the ice rink and closer to the suburbs where I live.
I watch the scenery blur by, my mind racing with things to say to Harper. Excuses for my idiotic behavior at the rink. Like the moment I first saw her, when I looked to see who was watching practice tonight—people (parents) usually come to watch—then forced my eyes past her.
The more I think about it, the more I feel like absolute shit.
I shift again, jaw tight, the image of her face stuck in my dumb brain. The way her shoulders dropped, like she’d been waiting for me to acknowledge her. Like she expected something from me.
How am I going to apologize for ignoring her like an asshole? There was literally no reason not to say hi.
Not only that, this was one of the rare nights my dad wasn’t in the stands watching practice so he could show me videos of my playing and lecture me about it later.
Before I can second-guess myself any further, I open Harper’s contact and start typing.
Me:You home?
I hit send, the message disappearing into oblivion. No take-backs, no deleting it.
A sense of unease settles in my chest as I wait for a response, not sure if I’m hoping for an immediate reply or dreading it. The thing about Harper: She doesn’t hold back her feelings. If she’s pissed at me, I am going to know it.
Minutes tick by.
Finally, my phone buzzes, and I nearly drop it in my haste to see her reply.
Harper:Yes.
Ouch. A one-word response.
“You know what? What the hell, why not—take me to her place,” I tell Marcus, my fuck-it attitude propelling me toward this unwise decision.
He raises an eyebrow. “So…turn around? We already passed her neighborhood.”
I nod. “Sure.”
He comes to a full stop on the side of the road, glances in his rearview then side mirrors. When the coast is clear, he whips the Jeep around with dramatic flair, pressing the gas and sending us hurtling in the direction of Harper’s house, as we all white-knuckle the “oh shit” bars above our doors.
It’s a short drive that takes forever.
