I shove my hands inside the pockets of my athletic pants. “I don’t want you to think that was about you. That I ignored youon purpose to hurt you.” My throat tightens. “I don’t want you to feel bad.”
“Well, I did.” Harper studies me for a long beat. “I saw you looking at me. And then you looked away.”
Shit.
My chest aches, the guilt heavy. “I’m sorry. I’m still…I’ll still ask you to prom and everything, I promise. We still have a deal. You just…caught me at a bad moment, I guess.”
An awkward silence stretches between us. Literally the longest I’ve ever endured.
I clear my throat again, glancing around the garage like the scattered decorations might offer me a way out of this crushing tension. My shoulder brushes against the edge of her dad’s workbench, and I lean against it, suddenly having no idea what to do with my hands.
“So, uh…” I gesture vaguely toward the cardboard knights. “You still working on these?”
Not a thing has been touched, which means she hasn’t made any progress without me.
Harper exhales, finally breaking her stare. “Yeah.” She moves toward the table, reaching for a paintbrush—like I’m not even here with her.
Fine.
Okay.
I deserve it for ignoring her earlier.
The distance between us feels bigger than it actually is.
I push off the bench, taking a step closer. “Want some help?”
She hesitates for half a second, then sighs. “Sure.” Sliding a marker across the table, she looks me dead in the eyes. “Don’t screw it up.”
Relief eases some of the tension coiled in my chest. I step forward, grabbing the marker, careful not to let my fingers graze hers. She already let me back into the garage—which is more than I expected for tonight.
For a few beats, we work in silence, the only sound the quiet swish of paint and marker against cardboard. It’s awkward but not unbearable.
Then, out of nowhere: “I accept your apology, by the way.”
I pause mid-stroke, glancing at her. “Yeah?”
She doesn’t look up, just keeps painting, her voice even. “Yeah. I don’t want to dwell on it.”
Amazing.
I love that for myself.
I nod, swallowing the last of my guilt. “Okay. So…what are we doing with this?” I pick up a strip of crepe paper and start stretching it across the wall.
“Nothing.” Harper is bending at the waist, moving pieces that still need paint to the center of the floor. “My mom bought a bunch of random stuff at the dollar store thinking we could use it—I’ll bring those to school when we decorate, but…”
“I love streamers,” I tell her, fiddling with the roll.
“That’s a really random fact.” She giggles, watching as I start unrolling the bright pink streamer and toss it to the open roof trusses above our heads.
When it falls back at my feet, I toss it up again.
“Dude—what are youdoing?” She sounds horrified.
“Decorating.”
“Oh jeez,” she mutters, but doesn’t object, watching me for several more seconds, biting her lip like she’s holding back a laugh. “You’re doing it wrong.”
