Page 82 of On the Breakaway

The cold night air chills my skin when we step outside. The backyard is almost empty now, with only a few people lingering near the fire pit.

And right in front of the fire, sprawled across one of Wyatt’s outdoor blankets with Tank half on top of her, is Harper.

My eyebrows shoot up, and I look around for James since they’d come together. When I don’t see him, I look back toward her.

Harper is drunk and alone.

I haven’t seen Harper drunk since college. She’s usually the person holding everyone else’s hair back while offering them crackers and reassurance.

Her cheeks are flushed pink from alcohol and firelight, and her dirty blonde hair is messy around her shoulders while Tank rests his giant head on her stomach.

“Avery!” she gasps happily, like she hasn’t seen me in years.

Then she pats the ground beside her.

“Lay down with me.”

Sloane mouths good luck and disappears back inside.

Harper grabs my hand and tugs me down.

“I’m coming. I’m coming,” I mutter.

Tank immediately abandons her for me, climbing into my lap.

“Traitor,” Harper tells him solemnly.

He sneezes in her face, and I laugh before I can stop myself.

Harper points toward the dog. “I think he understands me emotionally.”

“That’s because you’re both drooling.”

She gasps, but then giggles despite herself.

I watch as the smile disappears from her face, replaced by a painful silence. The fire crackles while music muffles through the walls behind us. It would almost feel peaceful if Harper’s behavior weren’t so weird.

“Where’s James?” I ask.

“He went home. Said he had work stuff.”

“At midnight?”

“Apparently spreadsheets wait for no man.”

That asshole didn’t have work. But even drunk, Harper’s trying to protect his image.

I prop myself up onto one elbow. “Harper.”

She looks at me with a tiny crack in her expression that she’s trying desperately to hold together.

“He told me to catch an Uber,” she says softly. “But I don’t have my debit card for the app.”

Anger flashes through me. He left her here with no way to get home. Husband of the fucking year.

“It was shitty of him to leave you here.”

“I mean, he told me I could go with him.”