Chapter 78

I'm even more exhausted when I enter the classroom the next morning, but that passes quickly when I see Harlow sitting with her friends. Her car wasn't at her house this morning or all last night, and maybe I'm dreaming. Maybe my mind's just messing with me, because it doesn't make sense.

I trail my gaze to the back of the room, where Jonah's already seated, and question him with my eyes alone. He shrugs. Whatever that means.

"In or out, Jace," Mrs. Curtley says, her hand on my back as she steps around me in the doorway. I push forward, keep my gaze downcast as I pass Harlow.

I have so many questions, so many things I want to say, but when? How?

"Harlow, you're here!" the teacher exclaims. "Great, now you can present your project to everyone."

I don't look at Harlow when she replies, "You didn't watch it yesterday?" There's a shakiness in her voice—a sadness, a fear, and I inconspicuously tilt my head toward her, watch her squirm with unease.

Mrs. Curtley clearly doesn't pick up on any of this, because she says, all cheery and clueless, "Nope! We wanted to wait for you."

I'm not sure who the "we" is she's referring to, because no one else had shit to say about it.

"Jonah," Mrs. Curtley calls. "Can you close the blinds for us? Harlow has a video presentation for us all." It's not the first video submitted for this stupid hero project. Most guys on my team chose basketball players, obviously. Some girls chose singers or random people from social media who I'd never heard of before. I don't even take communications or multimedia or whatever subject this assignment is for. I've tuned out of all the other presentations, but, for some reason, I'm almost nervous to watch Harlow's.

Within a minute, the TV's set up, lights are off, and the room is shrouded in darkness.

"Is there anything you want to say beforehand, Harlow?" Mrs. Curtley asks.

I shake my head, doing my best to keep it held high. "No."

I hoped that they'd watch the video yesterday, when I wasn't here, because I knew the kind of stares and whispers that would come after. I wasn't ready for any of it.

The night I powered up Harley's laptop, I went through each and every one of the clips. Going by the title of the folder, my brother had planned to create a video of my life for my eighteenth birthday, but he never got a chance to complete it.

So, I spent that entire night, and most of yesterday, completing it for him. Only it wasn't just my life. It was ours—Harley and Harlow.

Mrs. Curtley clicks on the file now, and I wait with bated breath as the opening clip unfolds. A four-year-old Harley runs through the grass, holding the bubble wand in the air, forming a mass of bubbles behind him. Seconds later, I appear on the screen with my own bubble wand, chasing after him. "Wait, Harley!" I yell on the video. In real life, I sniff back my emotions, watching the movie play out through tear-soaked eyes. "You're too fast!" Three-year-old me trips and falls to the grass. I cry out loud on the video, like I silently do now, and Harley stops and turns immediately, then races toward me. "You're okay, Harlow," he says, dropping to his knees. "Where are you hurt?"

Little me points to my knee, and my brother—my sweet, protective brother—brushes away the grass and covers it with his hand. "You're okay," he repeats, and then he hugs me, and I hold him back. And just like that, my tears stop on the video, but not in real life. The camera zooms in on us, on our embrace, and Dad's voice fills my ears, my heart. "That's very nice, Harley."

Harley looks up at him, his light brown eyes shadowed by his eyebrows as they dip low, confused by Dad's words. "She's my little sister," he tells Dad. "I'll always take care of her."

On either side of me, the chairs scrape against the floor, and I'm suddenly flanked by friends. I didn't even see them get up from opposite me. Jeannie takes my hand, while Sammy throws an arm around me, and I rest my head on her shoulder as the clip fades to black, moves on to the next ones. Birthday parties, and Christmases, and holidays and vacations, and throughout all the moving pictures and still images, Harley and I are side by side.

I always thought I lived in his shadow.

Turns out, I was the one who always shadowed him.

The quick clips go on, showing our growth, until Harley finds basketball. And then it's just him, and his love for the game—from middle school onwards. Every time Harley makes a play or shot worthy, the boys in the class cheer him on, and my friends… my friends only hold me tighter.

Shot after shot, clip after clip, picture after picture, all switching faster and faster and faster until they're nothing but flashes, and then…

And then it slows completely.

Harley's a senior now, the ball in his hands above his head as he jumps off his toes, and the rest plays out in slow motion—the way the ball leaves his hand, the way his feet don't quite land right, the way he collapses on the middle of the court…

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

The scene cuts there, and for seconds, five in total—there's nothing but white noise and static. The room is silent during all five of those seconds. I lower my head as the video cuts to a local Dallas news reporter standing outside the school gym. "Tragedy unfolded on Wednesday night as NBA prospect and future Texas Tech University recruit Harley Greene died on scene, collapsing mid-game from a genetic heart condition. Fellow students and teachers here at…" The audio fades, along with video, and I don't look up when the next clip begins. His team stands in a line in the middle of the court, their heads bowed, arms around each other, as a ruby-red jersey is unveiled in the gym. It hangs on the wall, lit up by a spotlight. The number five retired forever.

At some point in the clip, Levi breaks the line to get me from the sidelines, and he holds my hand as he leads me back to the rest of the team—my brother's brothers—and makes sure I'm part of honoring his memory.

The school held a celebration of life a few days after that. Thousands of people filled the football field. Students, teachers, parents, fans. My parents were there.

I stayed home, crying in my closet as I clutched my dead brother's jacket. It was the first time I'd ever done it.

"Kids! I'm home!" I look up at the sound of my dad's voice playing through the speakers. He's standing in the entryway of our old house, the camera pointed right at the stairs. A moment later, there's a bang—Harley opening his door so fast it hit the wall behind it. "No!" I yell, as Harley flies down the stairs with me only a step behind. He's eighteen in this clip. I'm seventeen. It was the last time Dad ever said those words.

I jump on Harley's back to stop him from getting to Dad first, and he laughs in the video, and I let out a sob, because I miss his laugh. Jeannie cries with me, wiping her tears. On the screen, Harley's trying to untangle my limbs from around him while still moving toward Dad, and he can't stop laughing, and neither can I, and then it ends.

Right there.

With both of us smiling, reaching for our dad.

A still shot of a memory I never want to forget.

Harley's name appears over the image of us, followed by his date of birth, then his date of death.

And then all those words are replaced by the ones he wanted to live by:

Faith Over Fear.

For the longest time, no one moves. No one makes a sound. I stare at the TV, my cheeks stained with liquid longing.

Finally, I clear my throat, breaking through the silence. "That was my brother," I say, my voice cracking with emotion. "He was my hero, but I didn't realize it while he was alive. I always felt like I came second to him, but he was never the one to make me feel that way. And I thought… I thought I'd forever live in his shadow, but then someone…" I trail off, keeping my gaze down for fear of what I'll see if I look up and around the room. "Someone really important to me once suggested that maybe… maybe Harley wanted me to see his shadow, so that I'd always remember there's light…"