I’ve been one person with her in the dark and a different person in real life.
If it’s the same girl…
Did I trick her?
No. I didn’t know.
But brains are idiots, especially mine. It’s great at finding a way to make everything my fault.
Asher nudges my shoulder lightly. “You good?”
I blink, realizing he’s been watching me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
Asher’s eyes narrow a fraction, not buying it, but he doesn’t press. He just nods like he filed it away.
Weston grins. “He’s not fine. He’s thinking about his pen pal.”
“I’m going to throw you into the Zamboni door,” I tell him.
Weston beams. “See? Emotion.”
The doors open behind us, and cold air spills in as a few skaters leave.
Then Harlow steps inside. Oversized sweater—dark green this time—leggings, tote slung over her shoulder. Hair down. Eyes scanning the lobby like she’s cataloging exits, noise levels, threats. Her shoulders are tense at first. Then she spots Weston.
Weston waves both arms like he’s signaling planes. “Harlow!”
Harlow’s mouth twitches as she finds us. Tiny. Real. My chest tightens in that stupid way it did yesterday when she smiled at my joke on the porch. And there it is again—the want, overwhelming and unfamiliar, to be the reason for her smiles.
To earn it again.
Harlow walks toward us, steps measured. Her eyes flick to Asher first, then to me, as if she can’t keep them away even if she tried. We hold eye contact for half a second. Something in my chest shifts like a door opening. Then she looks away like she doesn’t want the moment to exist.
“Hi,” she says to the group, voice flat but not unfriendly.
Asher nods. “Harlow.”
Weston thinks better of speaking and gives her an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
Harlow glances at him. “Is this your quiet mode?”
Weston nods violently. Harlow’s mouth twitches again. I look away so she doesn’t see me watching it like it matters. Because it does. And I don’t want her to know it does.
Weston points toward the benches and mimesI can helpwith his whole face.
Harlow sighs like she’s resigned to chaos. “Fine. But if you fall, I’m leaving you.”
Weston’s eyes go wide. He whispers to Asher, “She’s funny.”
Asher replies, deadpan, “Yes. I noticed.”
Harlow sits to lace her skates. Weston drops beside her, talking—quietly, for once—while Asher leans against the wall, watching the ice like he’s mentally doing drills. I stay a few feet back. Not because I’m afraid of her. Because I’m afraid of how easy it is to notice her. The way she lines up her skates with careful precision. The way she pulls each lace tight the same amount, like control is a language her body speaks fluently. The way her fingers tremble when someone laughs too loud behind us, then steady again when she focuses.
Little tells. My brain keeps collecting them like it’s building a file.
Weston stands and offers her a hand onto the ice like a dramatic gentleman.
