“Oh yeah? When?” I ask.
“November twenty-first.”
The world narrows instantly. My stomach drops like I missed a step, like my body found the bottom of a staircase it didn’t know was there. I don’t move. I don’t speak. My brain just lit up with a name I don’t often say out loud unless I’m already bleeding.
Harlow watches my face and immediately knows she hit something.
“Gray,” she says softly. “What is it?”
I swallow.
Once. Twice.
“Owen,” I manage.
Her brows knit. “Owen?”
“My brother,” I say, and my voice stays steady because I make it. “You guys have the same birthday.”
Harlow goes still, her eyes a mix of sympathy and shock.
“Oh. That’s why you understood what was happening in the bookstore.”
It’s barely a whisper.
I nod once, jaw tight like it can keep the grief contained if I clamp down hard enough. Harlow doesn’t fill the space with cheap comfort, with lines of “I’m so sorry” or anything like that. She just sits beside me, letting me calm down, and doesn’t force this into a conversation I don’t want to have right now. And I tell her what I can manage.
“He died in an accident when I was fifteen. On his way to my game.”
Her eyes grow shiny with unshed tears. It confuses me at first, but then I understand. She’s sad for me. Not in the sense of pity, but because she knows how precious it is to have a sibling, especially one you’re close to.
“Is that why November is hard?” she asks.
I nod again.
“Not just because of the birthday coming up,” I say, voice flattening. “It’s like…everything stacks up. The world gets loud, and it doesn’t stop. The holidays are coming, which is hard to navigate alone, and then the anniversary of losing him isn’t far after.”
Harlow watches me like she’s listening with her whole body.
“Were you with him?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. “No, I was already at my game.”
She doesn’t push for details, thank God.
She tugs her sleeve down again, then says quietly, “Happy early birthday.”
I blink.
She gives a small, awkward shrug, a grin tinged with sadness toying on her mouth. “To both of us.”
Something in my chest cracks. I look away quickly, because if I let myself hold her gaze too long right now, I might do something stupid, so I hug her quickly, not trusting myself to let it linger longer than a few seconds.
Pulling away, I fight the urge to bring her back to me. To tilt her chin up and cover her lips with my own. To lose myself in her, even for just a moment.
Instead, I anchor myself with a question that feels safer than the one burning a hole through my pocket.
“What’s your favorite birthday memory?” I ask.
