Chapter 21

Jace goes out to the half-court, and as requested, I go out there with him. Since there's nowhere for me to sit, Jace moves his van to the backyard and opens up the back doors for me. I'd kind of seen the back of his van before, but only from the front when it was dark out.

There must be some truth to the rumors Sammy had shared about Jace "plowing" through girls in there, because there's a mattress, along with many other things one would need to practically live in there. Out of respect, I don't snoop too much or ask why his car looks to be a second home, but I have my suspicions. And, if true, it's as confusing as it is devastating.

Jace—he's a wonder to watch. Every step, every move, every breath seems to come so naturally to him. So effortlessly.

Harley was the opposite. His life revolved around basketball because he needed it to. When he wasn't playing or training, he was lifting weights, or running, or finessing his footwork or ball-handling skills. He'd spend whatever downtime he had studying game tape and memorizing plays. It took up so much of his time that Mom refused to allow him to get a job. Even during the summers.

But, what Harley lacked in God-given talent, he made up for in determination. And heart. And college scouts not only saw that, but they appreciated it.

At some point, Dad calls again, and I'm a lot calmer than I was the first time. I give him as much information as I can, which isn't much. Christian showed up, and I don't know what he wanted. No, I haven't been speaking to him. No, I don't know how he found out where I was, and yes, I still have him blocked on everything.

Then, for the next couple of hours, I silently watch Jace sink shot after shot, never once taking a break or even looking the slightest bit tired. He could go all night. And he probably would if it wasn't for me. "Jace," I call out, and he slows his dribbles until they stop completely. He looks over at me in a daze, almost like he'd forgotten my existence. Again. "I'm getting tired."

"Okay," he says and makes his way toward me. "I can't see you from the couch in your living room."

I rub the physical and mental exhaustion from my eyes. "What?"

"I was going to sleep on your couch, but I can't see you from there."

My eyebrows dip, head tilted slightly. "Are you asking to sleep in my bed?"

"No!" he's quick to say, and I don't know why it hurts the way it does. "Just your bedroom. On the floor."

I ignore the painful twist in my chest and move past him toward the house. "You can sleep in my bed, Jace. You can't catch whore from close proximity."

He follows after me. "That's not what I meant."

"I'm not going to force myself onto you, if that's what you're worried about."

"Jesus, Harlow, that's not it."

I hate the way he says my name. The way it flows from him as effortlessly as he moves.

As quickly and dramatically as possible, I create a makeshift bed on the floor beside mine from couch cushions and whatever blankets I can find, then practically throw a pillow at his head.

He catches it before it makes contact, because of course he does.

Then I climb into my bed and don't wait for him to do the same before switching off my bedside lamp. He uses the flashlight on his phone to guide him into his spot, then turns it off once he's settled.

He sighs.

I do the same.

For way too long, I toss and turn, replaying his words in my mind over and over. Then, out of nowhere, he says, "Maybe if you quit hating yourself so much, you'd stop assuming the entire world feels the same."