Chapter 63

True to his word, Jace never told my dad about what he saw, and regardless of how it may have appeared at the time, I didn't ask him not to because I didn't want my dad to know. I asked him not to because I wanted to be the one to tell him.

The day after I broke up with Jace, I called my dad in tears and begged him to come home. He was in Mississippi, but right away, he found someone else to take over the job and got on the next available flight.

Revealing my truth to him was one of—if not the—hardest thing I've ever had to do. My dad's life was already a mess. He'd just found out his wife was sleeping with his brother, ruining their marriage for good, and the only family he had left was—technically—not even his. And then his daughter, the one he raised as his own, had to sit him down to tell him that she was self-harming.

Again.

It started when I was fourteen. There were no major triggers that I could think of, but I just… I hated myself and the skin I was born in, and I found that physically harming myself helped lessen my psychological pain—even if it was momentary.

For a long time, I was able to keep it a secret. It never scared me—doing what I did—and there was never any intention of ending my life, so I didn't think it was a big deal.

I was drinking a lot, doing drugs, acting way too dumb, yet way too grown for my age, and then along came Bryce Lynn. I didn't care that he'd taken my virginity, because I wanted him to. I didn't even care that he discarded me like trash when it was over. Nor did I care about the rumors he spread about me afterward. But… my mom did. She'd heard about it from a friend of a friend, and it embarrassed her to no end. She told me so herself. "Did you even think about how this would affect me?" she yelled. "How this would affect your brother?"

I took things too far that night. There was so much blood. Too much of it. And I don't know if it was my heightened emotions or my inability to clean the liquid crimson off my flesh, off the floor, but my cries must've been loud enough that my dad heard. He knocked on my bathroom door—the one I shared with my brother, who was out that night—and the only thing I could do was cry harder, beg him not to come in while I failed at hiding the evidence.

He kicked down the door.

I don't even want to imagine the vision he saw in front of him, because all I saw was the agony in his eyes and that was enough to ruin me. He helped clean and cover my self-inflicted wounds, not knowing what to say or how to act. Then he sat on my bed beside me while I pretended to fall asleep, only leaving when my mom got home from wherever she'd been that night. Their bedroom was right next to mine, and I could hear everything they said. My dad explained what had happened and tried to convince my mom that I needed help. More help than they could provide. And my mom—she brushed it off. "It's just Harlow being Harlow," she said.

But my dad knew me. He knew me better than anyone in the world. The girl he'd literally picked up off the bathroom floor that night was not the Harlow he knew, and so he found a treatment center nearby and admitted me for the next available opening, which was two days later.

I didn't argue. Didn't protest. He was right. I needed help. More help than they could give me.

My brother didn't cry the day he was given his diagnosis. Didn't shed a tear when they told him he couldn't play basketball forever. But he cried the day I left for treatment. He cried as he hugged me, told me to get better or else. And he cried as he stood in the driveway, waving goodbye as Dad reversed out of there.

My mom was nowhere to be seen.

I was in treatment for a total of three weeks, and six months of therapy followed.

I was better.

For a while.

But the longer the jobs were that Dad took on, the more time I was forced to be alone with my mother, and drugs and alcohol seemed to be my only escape. I quit self-harming, at least.

Until Harley died.

It was only one time. A relapse, if you want to call it that. It was months since Harley passed and, at the time, I was proud of myself for holding off for as long as I did.

And then we moved, and everything… changed.

"Low?" Dad calls from downstairs, pulling me from my thoughts. "Your appointment's in ten minutes!"

"I'm logging in now!" I reply. Sitting at my desk, laptop in front of me, I pull up the link and hit enter.

It's been just over three weeks since Dad rushed home to me. He was able to use whatever leave he had to take an entire month off so he could be with me as much as possible. Initially, he suggested I go back into treatment, but I told him it wasn't necessary. The fact that I came clean and didn't hide it from him was proof. But he wanted me to at least speak to someone, and so he reached out to my therapist from Dallas, and I've had video call appointments with her twice a week since.

Movement from outside my window catches my eye, and I look up in time to see Jace's van pull up to his house. For a long moment, nothing happens. Eventually, the driver's side door opens and Jace steps out, then makes his way around to the passenger's side. He opens the door, and I can't quite make out what's happening… until his grandpa appears, holding on to Jace's arm to balance himself. Which, unfortunately for him, doesn't help, because he trips over nothing and falls flat on the ground. I wince in response. But Jace—Jace just stands there, shaking his head as he looks down at his grandpa. After a beat, Jace drops to the loose gravel beside him, his knees bent, ankles crossed, arms outstretched behind him, and he just sits there, as if resigned to his life.

There's an ache in my chest, one that's always there whenever I see him or whenever I don't but know that he's nearby. Which is always. Sometimes it's dull, like a light throbbing beneath my ribs. Other times, it's almost excruciating. The pain is worse when I replay the same two moments in my mind—the look on his face when he saw me in my bathroom, then again as he gave me the cash I had—in his words—earned.

They were such contrasting reactions on his end, but for me, they were both devastating. And I don't know how he couldn't see that. I think what hurts me the most is that I'll never truly know when he stopped faking it and our feelings became real.

If at any point prior, he wanted to cash out on the deal, he could have. I would've agreed to it. But he waited until it happened—until it meant something—to completely blindside and eviscerate me, and I don't understand why.

Jace is still sitting on the ground, unmoving, when my laptop dings with a notification. My screen changes from the standard blue "waiting room" background to Jen—my therapist—and I sit back in my chair, give her all my attention. "Hi, Harlow." She smiles wide, waving at the screen, and I return the gesture.

"Hi."

"How are you?"

"Better," I say. It's the same response I've given for the past few meetings, and it's not a lie. I'm not sure if it's these sessions that are helping me, or if it's Dad being home, or if it's the fact that I no longer have Mom's bullshit looming over me, but I am better.

I'm just not where I want to be.

"That's good," she says, clicking on her mouse a few times. "So, I think last time we spoke, we were discussing?—"

My phone rings, cutting her off, and I apologize before checking who's calling. "Sorry," I tell her. "It's my work."

"Go ahead and answer it."

I nod, hitting answer. "Hi, Lana," I greet.

"Hey, Harlow, are you coming in today?"

I go to check the day, but don't need to because my sessions with Jen are on Tuesdays and Saturdays. "I don't work on Tuesdays."

"Oh… well, it's showing here that you're rostered on. Have you checked it recently?"

"No. My shifts have never changed before, so…" I trail off.

"They update a week in advance," Lana tells me. "And I don't have anyone to run the floor tonight."

"Of course, yeah. I'll be there as soon as I can."

I apologize to Jen for wasting her time, but she assures me it's fine and that I can reschedule for another day. Then I change quickly, run downstairs, tell Dad what's happened and ask for a ride.

He'd gotten a long-term rental car for the time he's home, and so he grabs his keys, asking, "What about your session?"

"Jen said I could reschedule."

I make it to work ten minutes later and immediately run to the office to clock in. Lana is there, sitting at her desk. "I'm so sorry. I didn't even think to check the schedule."

"It's no problem," she says, standing to pack up her things.

I glance over the new schedule, printed out and pinned to the wall in her office. I'm working Tuesday and Thursday, instead of Wednesday and Friday now, but I keep the Sunday shift, which is good for tips. Curious, I look at Jace and Jonah's. The only change is that Jace is working Saturday instead of Sunday.

We have no shifts together anymore.

None.

My heart sinks, and I turn to Lana, her bag already hanging off her shoulder. "Hey, Lana?"

"Yeah?"

"Who does the rosters?"

"Jace."