Harlow’s shoulders drop a full inch, like gravity just got kinder. She moves to the railing and rests her hands on it, staring out at the yard where a few people are gathered around a fire pit. She doesn’t speak, and neither do I.
I stand a few feet away, leaning against the siding like I really did need some air, because I have a feeling she hates when things are about her. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s the kind of quiet I’ve been needing all day, only I have a feeling the quiet wasn’t the thing I was actually craving.
Finally, Harlow speaks without looking at me.
“I hate parties.”
I snort softly. “Same.”
She glances at me, a suspicious grin playing on her pillowy lips. “You don’t seem like you hate parties.”
“That’s because,” I say, deadpan, “I’m an excellent actor.”
That earns me another mouth twitch, and here I am staring at my teammate’s little sister’s lips, thinking about how soft they might feel against mine. My chest tightens again. The stupid kind. The kind that feels a lot like wanting something I damn sure know I can’t have. I shove it down.
“Weston talked you into coming, huh?” I ask.
Harlow’s fingers tighten on the railing. “Yup.”
I nod. “Of course he did.”
“He meant well,” she says.
“They all mean well,” I reply, because it’s true.
Harlow’s shoulders rise in a quick, tense shrug. “Sometimes ‘meant well’ feels a lot like pressure.”
That lands under my ribs.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Pressure sucks.”
She finally looks at me, and something in her gaze sharpens like she’s evaluating whether I’m full of shit or being sincere. I don’t flinch. I just hold her gaze, because I want her to see that I’m the most honest version of myself whenever I’m around her.
She seems to decide I’m telling the truth before shaking her head slightly and looking away again.
“I’m trying,” she says, her voice rougher now. “I’m trying to be…normal. To at least feel like I belong here and can function as well as everyone else.”
Normal. That pesky word again. Always loaded on her tongue like it doesn’t hurt her every time she thinks about it.
“Normal is overrated,” I say carefully. “Plus, I don’t think everyone functions well. Some people are just better at hiding their struggles than others.”
Harlow huffs a humorless laugh. “That’s what people say when they don’t understand not fitting the mold.”
My jaw tightens, a slice of anger working its way through my mind. Not at her, but at the world for how badly it failed her. Atthe way people think words fix things and expect you to just get over anything that’s happened to you in the past to make you feel the way you do. Like your feelings aren’t valid, regardless of where they came from.
It takes me back to hearing “I’m so sorry for your loss” or “you’re holding it together well.”
No, I wasn’t, but people only see whatever they want to see. They say whatever makes them feel better, regardless of how it makes you feel. No one willingly signs up for awkward conversations, and by the time you’ve heard “he’s in a better place” a hundred times, you learn to just shut up and smile.
“I’m not trying to fix you,” I say before I can stop myself.
Harlow turns fast, her breathing a bit ragged. “I didn’t say you were.”
“I know,” I say, exhaling. “I just…want you to know I’m not.”
Her stare holds mine, intense and guarded, yet begging someone toseeher, all at the same time. Her eyes slide back down to the cup in her hands. “Everyone thinks they’re fixing. Or saving. Or protecting.”
My mind flashes to Kai. The hovering. The watching. The attempt to control outcomes, like outcomes can be controlled. I don’t say it out loud, but I feel it.
