I slip on my shorts, sucking in my stomach as I yank them over my thighs, hopping to squeeze myself in.
“I guess.”
Macy watches me with a knowing smile, fluffing the skirt of her massive lavender dress. “I have to text Marcus about this. We’re, like, matchmakers!”
I wince. She doesn’t know that the reason Easton has been hanging around lately is because I’m forcing him to, and there is no way I’m telling her. If I let Macy in on the secret, she’ll tell Marcus, and by tomorrow, everyone at school will know everything.
My stomach drops. “Macy—do not.”
I catch her wicked grin before her screen pauses. “Too late.”
“Why are you the worst?!”
“I’m thebest,” she corrects me. “And when Marcus confirms that Easton is downbadfor you, I’ll accept your apology.”
I sigh, brushing invisible lint off my shorts. “If I kill you, do I have to go to prom alone?” I give my chin a tap with the tip of my finger.
Macy gasps dramatically. “Harper Conrad.Violence?”
I grimace at the thought, snatching my phone off the nightstand and glowering at her. “Cool it with getting in the middle, okay? Easton and I are just friends.”
Friends.
The word sits awkwardly in my mouth.
Macy raises an eyebrow but doesn’t argue. Instead, she smirks. “Who knows, Debbie Downer—he might end up asking you to prom.”
Magic 8 Ball says:Most likely.
Because that was the original plan.
Chapter 13
Easton
I stand in Harper’s garage, surrounded by half-painted knights, nervously shifting from one foot to the other. I’m still in my gym clothes, damp with sweat, my hair a tangled mess from the car ride over.
Regret gnaws at me, twists tight in my chest as I stare at the scattered mess of our decorations. The knights lean against the wall, their shields missing details. A cardboard shield sits on a folding table, the design traced with pencil abandoned because I had to leave in a rush.
Everything looks unfinished.
Incomplete.
Kind of like whatever’s been happening between Harper andme.
This waiting is torture. It’s giving me too much time to think, and thinking is exactly what I’ve beentryingto avoid.
Footsteps sound from inside the house.
My stomach clenches.
I brace myself, forcing a steady breath as the door creaks open.
And then—there she is. Harper steps into the garage, herexpression unreadable, arms crossed over her chest. Wearing a cute T-shirt, her short shorts peeking out below its hemline. Her hair? Pulled back into a high ponytail.
Cute. Since when does she look cute?
My heart does this weird flip thing in my chest, and I have no idea why, but I have to remind myself:I do not have a crush on this girl,I do not have a crush on this girl,I do not have a crush on this girl.
