She looks just like Kai in some ways, but in others, they couldn’t be more different. Her dirty-blonde hair hangs in loose waves over one shoulder, the other side tucked behind her ear like she did it without thinking. A tote bag is gripped in herhands like it contains an exit plan she can deploy at a moment’s notice. Haunted hazel eyes that tell me she has a story she doesn’t offer up freely.
A sense of awareness zings through me the longer I hold her gaze. Like she’s reading me while I’m doing the same to her.
Kai’s hand settles lightly on her shoulder.
“Harlow,” he says, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it in the locker room. “Hey. You good?”
She nods once, finally looking back at him. He steps aside to give her space to enter on her own terms, like he’s learned the difference between guarding and crowding. She crosses the threshold. And it’s like a weird sense of peace walks in with her. Like the room, loud, messy hockey-player chaos shifts around her without swallowing her whole. She looks at me again, then away, then back—like she’s making a decision she doesn’t want to admit she’s making.
And I realize, abruptly, thatoff-limitsis going to get tested way sooner than I thought.
5
HARLOW
By the time I need to leave for Kai’s, I’ve already changed outfits three times and hated all of them. Not because I’m trying to impress anyone. I’m not. I would rather swallow a thumbtack than try to impress a room full of loud men who communicate exclusively in grunts and protein goals. But there’s something uniquely maddening about standing in front of a dorm mirror and realizing you don’t know how to dress like a person who belongs here.
Once, there was a time where I absolutely hated what I saw staring back at me, but it wasn’t my own thoughts that started those feelings. Worse, it was a boy. A boy who happened to be one of my brother’s closest friends. His teammate.
My thoughts are interrupted by my phone vibrating.
Wren: HI, MY LOVE!! Facetime???
I smile to myself, yet can feel the twinge of sadness before I even type my reply. With the time difference between here and London—where Wren is currently living—finding chances to talk to her have been challenging.
Wren has been my best friend since before we were even in preschool. Our families grew up in the same neighborhood, and our moms have been inseparable since they attended Oregon State University together.
I guess there are ups and downs to having families so close together. On one hand, you have a built-in friend. On the other, things can get complicated if lines are crossed.
My mom and Mrs. Calloway have stayed close through everything, but we can’t really say the same for our fathers. Then again, Mr. Calloway was too busy doing another woman to be around much when everything hit the fan.
Harlow: Can’t. Kai is once again forcing me to be social. This time, it’s a team barbecue.
Wren: Oh no, the horrors of being around athletic men that might also be attractive.
Harlow: LOL, you know hockey players are a no from me.
Wren: A girl can dream. Talk soon!! xoxo
I look over my outfit one more time: oversized cream sweater that doesn’t touch my stomach, with a dainty bralette underneath to make sure it doesn’t squeeze, black leggings that have the perfect amount of compression but don’t make me feel like I’m suffocating, and some white sneakers. Safe and comfortable. I can breathe easier in it, which is the point.
I grab my tote—since my brain likes Plan B in bag form—and shove my e-reader inside, even though I know I’m not going to read at a team barbecue. It’s a security blanket with a battery.
When I check my phone again, it’s officially time to go. I take one steadying breath, lock my door, and step into thehall. It’s louder than my room, as usual—doors shutting, someone laughing too hard, bass thumping through a wall like the building has a pulse. I keep my eyes forward, my steps measured, and make it to the parking lot without absorbing anyone else’s chaos.
Outside, the air is warm for October. California doesn’t do fall the way my brain thinks it should. It just…softens. Less brutal sun. A little wind. The occasional leaf decides to pretend. Nothing like Oregon, where fall was gray and wet and honest about it.
We moved here when Kai accepted his scholarship to PCU—sunshine and new routines and the promise of a fresh start. My parents agreed with my therapist that a fresh start might help. Once I heardmore sunshine and less rain, I was fully on board.
The drive is short—too short. The closer I get to Kai’s apartment, the tighter my ribs feel, like my body has decided it needs extra protection for something that’s probably just burgers and a bunch of loud men.
When we were little, Kai’s protectiveness felt like safety. Now it sometimes feels like a cage built entirely out of good intentions.
His building is an old beige box close to campus. The kind of place where the hallway always smells faintly like dryer sheets and someone else’s dinner. I pause outside his door and take one deep breath before knocking gently. Maybe they won’t hear it. Maybe I can retreat back to my dorm and call this a brave attempt, and no one will ever know.
No such luck.
The door opens, and Kai stands there. Cool air hits first, followed by the faint scent of lemon cleaner, coffee, and smoke from the grill. I take a peek inside. The apartment is brighter than my dorm, sunlight spilling across scuffed hardwood.
