Chapter 41

Under heavy supervision, I manage to make dinner for the both of us. Not only is it edible, but it's actually good.

Afterward, I play ball in the backyard while Harlow sits in my van, scrolling through Pinterest for pictures of how to "spruce up" the back. I don't need it "spruced"—whatever that means—but Harlow has ideas, which leads to plans to drive into Fremont on Saturday to go shopping.

I agree, only because it means I get to spend more time with her. After an hour or so, I make the excuse to go home and shower, but really, I need to check on my grandpa. He's asleep on the couch when I get home, and so I wake him gently, shaking his shoulder. His eyes open, a gasp leaving him. "It's just me, Grandpa. Do you need help getting to bed?"

His smile is lopsided, and it's clear he's only half drunk, which is getting more and more rare for him. "Thank you."

"Of course." I help him to his feet, then into bed.

He covers my hand with his, aged and wrinkled and forever shaking now. "You take good care of me, Jace."

"You take care of me too," I tell him. "Did you have dinner?" I'd made a plate of leftovers and told Harlow why. She didn't ask questions, just loaded the plate even more. I'm almost certain she's met my grandpa at his worst, but she hasn't brought it up, and I appreciate her for that.

"I had a late lunch, so I'm not hungry," he answers.

"Okay, Grandpa." I pull the covers up to his chin and leave his bathroom door ajar before flicking on the light in there. Even a man like him needs light in the darkness. "I'm going to be out late, but your phone's charging on your nightstand. Just call me if you need me, okay?"

"Okay, son."

I'm already at his door when he calls my name, and so I turn to him. "What do you need?"

"Nothing. Just wanted to say I love you."

"I love you too, Grandpa," I tell him, watching him a moment as his eyes drift shut, his chest rising and falling with his calm breaths. I hope he finds peace there, in his slumber, where his dreams are far removed from his reality.

Carefully, and as quietly as possible, I close the door between us, then run up to my room, take a quick shower, and head back to Harlow's. She's left the front door open again, and I remind her of it the second I step into her room.

"You were gone ten minutes," she says, waving me off with a flick of her wrist.

I slip off my shoes, replying, "I don't care. Lock the door."

She slides onto the bed, dressed in her sleep clothes, and uses the remote to turn on the television. "But that would mean going downstairs when you knock, opening the door for you, then coming all the way back up. I should just give you a spare key."

I get on the bed beside her and lift my arm, wait until she's nuzzled in close to say, "I have a key." Technically, I own the house, and I don't know how my grandpa, in all his drunken glory, managed to get it listed for rent, but since it got me Harlow, I'm not complaining.

Harlow doesn't physically react to my statement, just lets out a yawn before hitting play on He Got Game. She says, shifting to get more comfortable, "I'll lock the door next time, if you use your key."

"Deal."

Harlow's stayed still in my arms during most of the movie, so I assume she's fallen asleep. As the credits roll, I stare up at the ceiling—the same ceiling I used to stare at as a kid. Mindlessly, I twirl a loose strand of her hair between my fingers, marveling at how soft it is. Harlow sighs, and I lift my head off the pillow.

"You sleepin'?" I whisper, and she shakes her head against my chest.

"No."

I relish in the silence a moment, in the way her body feels pressed against mine, and I don't think I've ever felt so weightless before. So free. So… part of something bigger and better than myself. Sure, I have basketball and my team, but I know that's not forever, and I realize now that whatever I'm feeling—I want it to be forever. I wonder if she feels the same.

"Harlow?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you okay? You've been really quiet."

"I've just been thinking."

"Anything in particular?"

She tilts her head up so her eyes meet mine, then inhales a deep breath as she moves from my chest to her pillow.

I roll to my side so we're face to face and give her all my attention. "What's on your mind?"

She scoots closer again, eyes downcast, focused on her hands as she toys with my shirt. "I was thinking about today, about walking into that gym…"

"I'm sorry," I say. "And thank you for sitting through practice like you did." She didn't have to come back in, and I didn't expect her to stay—not after the way I saw her when she was standing outside the gym, alone, struggling for air. For calm. "I totally understand if you don't want to do it again. Or if you can't be at my games or whatever. I won't be upset. I swear."

"I want to keep trying," she says, adamant. "I guess I just wasn't expecting to have the reaction I had, and I wasn't prepared." She clears her throat, scoots closer again. I settle a hand on her waist but don't speak, because I feel like she has more to say. "After my brother died, my mom threw away everything of his. Every sign that he had existed. She said the constant reminders were just too hard to deal with, and we didn't even try to stop her—Dad and me. She was so far out of her mind that anything we could've said would've just angered her more. Harley was the only one who could calm her, and he… he was no longer around to do it." Tears well, cling to her lashes, and she closes her eyes when I press my thumbs to them, wipe them away. When she opens them again, she adds, "The last time I was on a basketball court was at my old school. They put on a ceremony to retire his jersey. It was the last time my parents and I put on a united front. It was easy when Harley was alive. We all went to his games together, supported him together. He was the glue, and the moment he died, we all came undone." She attempts a smile, but it's sad. So sad. "At least I still have my dad."

"Yeah," I agree, but it doesn't seem like enough. Harlow deserves more. She deserves better.

She laughs now, a strange sound among the darkness that surrounds us. "When my dad would come home after a long haul, he'd film himself stepping through the front door, and he'd yell, ‘Kids, I'm home!' Every time. Even as we got older, he'd do it. Anyway, Harley and I, we'd always race to be the first to hug him. We'd run from wherever we were and fight to get to him." She smiles now, genuine, and I hold her closer. "We'd shove each other out of the way, or he'd pick me up and move me behind him, and then I'd jump on his back to slow him down. It was a whole thing… Dad—he still does it when he gets home, except he says kiddo instead of kids, and even though he says that, I still expect Harley to come bolting out of his room and push me out of the way." She pauses a breath, lost in her thoughts. "I think I have all these withheld feelings still. Like grief, but not really. I don't know how to explain it."

I don't think she needs to. At least not to me. I pull back slightly. "Can I ask you something about him?"

"Anything."

"Do you think he would've liked me?"

"He would've hated you at first, for sure," she's quick to say, laughing quietly, and I find myself laughing with her. "But then, once he got to know you, we'd be fighting for your attention."

"Yeah?" I ask, eyebrows raised. I don't know why it's so important to me, but it is. Regardless of whether or not he's around, having his approval means something.

"I'm positive," she assures, her eyes brighter now, and it does something inexplicable to my insides. Swear, Harlow almost took my breath away the moment I saw her. Beautiful from afar, but up close, she's extraordinary. I reach up, shift her hair behind her ears, and her eyes drift shut at the touch. "I love when you do that," she says, and I make a mental note to do it more. After a moment, she asks, "Can I ask you something?"

"Anything."

"You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

"Okay."

"When you think about your parents, do you have vivid memories of them?"

For a long moment, I stay silent, pondering her question. "I didn't for a long time," I answer truthfully. "Then when we were out at the spring, Jonah mentioned something about them, and then I started remembering more… I don't know if I'd unknowingly blocked the memories or if too much time had passed, but… they're not distinct—the memories. They're more like…" I trail off, thinking.

"Snapshots?" she finishes for me, and I nod.

"Yeah, snapshots." Flashes of them, sometimes in stills. Sometimes with movement. I rarely get audio though. Like, I know they're speaking, but their voices are distorted, as if they're speaking underwater. "But it's weird," I continue, my mind in a haze, "because I remember the day it happened—the cops at my school and my grandpa sitting me down to tell me they were gone. That all plays out like… like, um…"

"Slow motion?" she offers, and I nod again.

"Yeah. Slow motion…"

"That's exactly how I remember Harley," she says. "His life in snapshots, and his death in slow motion."