Chapter2

Harper's POV

His smile is warm. The same smile he always has when he's spoiling Brooke.

"You've got sorority rush in the fall. Wear something that holds the room."

Brooke squeals and puts it on right there at the table, then leans toward me with her chin tipped up.

"Harper, how does it look?"

The pendant swings against her collarbone. She never even flips it over to see the back.

Under the chandelier, the diamond is almost too bright to look at.

"It looks great," I say.

Mason's face goes dark.

"Can you not sit there looking like you just smelled something? Brooke got into college. You can't be happy for her for five seconds?"

"Speaking of which," he says, leaning back in his chair, "where are you going in the fall? I don't think I've ever heard you say."

Dad glances up, too, with the look he gives a disappointing quarterly report.

I twist the cap off my sparkling water and take a sip.

"Still deciding."

Mom sighs and reaches for the bread basket.

"Community college, obviously. Her grades have always been… you know."

"Okay, okay, let's not do this tonight. Let's not kill the mood."

She has never once logged into the school portal to look at my grades. Brooke's account, she has notifications turned on for. Every time a grade posts, her phone pings.

The day my acceptance came in March, I stood in the kitchen for twenty minutes, waiting for a chance to say something.

All she said was, "Brooke's having a bad day. Don't make it about you."

Under the table, Ethan brushes his fingers against mine.

He keeps his voice low, just for me.

"It's just a necklace. Don't be like this."

"And hey—grades aren't everything. Worst case, I'll take care of you."

I turn my head and look at him.

When I was eight, I crashed my bike into a muddy ditch and split open both knees. Ethan dragged me out and piggybacked me all the way home. Anybody messes with you, he said, they go through me first.

Now he's given my birthday present to someone else, and he's telling me not to be like this.

I don't argue.

I don't pull out my phone and show this whole table that email, either.

"Okay," I say.

If they love Brooke's state school this much, then Carlisle can stay mine.

On the way back to the parking lot, Brooke walks ahead arm in arm with Mom, already planning tomorrow's outfit.

"The pink one? Or the champagne one? Mom, which one goes with the necklace?"

"You look gorgeous in everything."

Mason makes some joke, and the three of them crack up.

Ethan slows down to fall into step beside me.

"You mad?"

"No."

He sighs—the kind of sigh grown-ups use on a sulking kid.

"Brooke's not like you, Harper. She takes things hard. Little stuff wrecks her for days. You've always been the tough one, so we just… look out for her a little more."

"I'll find you something even better than the necklace, okay?"

"Don't bother." I watch the three of them up ahead. "It suits her."

He frowns. "Do you have to use that tone?"

"What tone?"

I honestly don't know. I'm not mad. I don't feel like crying.

It's just quiet inside me. Like a house after the power goes out.

When we pull into the driveway, there's a moving truck parked out front.

Two guys are carrying my desk down the stairs.

Mom stands in the middle of the living room like she's directing traffic.

"The south-facing room upstairs clear it all out. Everything goes to the basement. Careful, don't scuff the walls."

"Wait—" I stop in the doorway. "That's my room."

Mason comes out of the kitchen holding a beer.

"Brooke has too many clothes. All the stuff for rush—there's no way it fits in her closet. Your room's the biggest and gets the best light. Perfect for a walk-in closet."

"I've lived in that room for ten years."

"So?" He shrugs. "You're living at home and doing community college anyway. What do you care where you sleep? Brooke's actually going places."

Brooke tugs Mom's sleeve, and her eyes go glassy right on cue.

"Mom, it's fine… If Harper doesn't want to, I can just squeeze everything in."

"Absolutely not." Mom pulls her into a hug. "You're our pride and joy. I'm not having people come over and see you don't even have a proper closet."

The front door opens behind me.

Ethan comes in with two smoothies from the place on the corner—the one we've been going to since middle school.

He hands the strawberry one to Brooke and pushes the other into my hand.

"Peace offering. Peanut butter banana. Your favorite, right?"

I look down at the label on the cup.

Peanut Butter Banana.

I have a severe peanut allergy.

When I was seven, I took one bite of a peanut butter cookie at a birthday party and my throat swelled shut. Ethan was the first one to run for a grown-up. He stood there and watched his own mom jam an EpiPen into my thigh.

After that, at every party, he'd flip over every snack and read the ingredients before I touched anything.

For years, he carried a spare EpiPen in the side pocket of his backpack.

And now he's handing me a peanut butter smoothie and calling it my favorite.