Chapter 4

Chapter

Four

DECLAN

T he way Harper and Banks interact physically seems off, stilted. I can’t imagine saying goodbye to my girlfriend with just a kiss on the forehead. His hands never stray from their innocent placement to her tempting curves. If it were me, I’d be permanently attached to her.

Knowing her father I wouldn’t be surprised if he had strict rules for her concerning dating. Maybe it’s just what they’re used to doing. Regardless, it’ll make it so much easier for me to carry out my plans knowing there’s a weird distance between them. I will gladly take full advantage of that.

Banks looks down into the pool at me with the sun illuminating his blond hair. He grabs his shirt and puts it on before walking over to the edge and crouching down.

“Give her some space. She’s dealing with a lot of changes.” His southern accent grates on my nerves.

“Plenty of space here. We own the whole southern end of the island.”

His lips flatten into a firm line as he glares back at me with a mirrored intensity to my own.

“I’ll walk you out.” Harper runs her hand over his shoulder to draw his attention away.

They turn and walk off together without another word to me.

“What was that about?” Emerson swims over and rests his forearms on the pool deck.

“He was just telling me to give her space.”

A dark chuckle rumbles from Cyrus. “Rookie mistake on his end.”

If I were to describe my two best friends in any way, it’d be as the demon and the angel sitting on someone’s shoulders battling for their soul. Luckily for me, I don’t have one for them to fight over.

“When is she moving into the house with us?” Emerson shifts his body so he’s facing out toward the ocean.

“Same time as us.”

“Have you told her about her horse yet?”

“No.”

I bought her horse, Annie, at auction. She’s been nothing but a nuisance since the moment I took possession, but I’m waiting for the right moment to give her back. The stable near our university is expensive, and apparently the mare has quite an attitude with some of the workers. But it’s bullshit that Harper had to give everything of value up to pay her crooked father’s legal fees and fines. The least I could do is make sure she doesn’t lose the horse.

“Do you think they’re actually together? Harper and Banks?” Cyrus asks.

“Why would they lie?”

“I don’t know. Something about them doesn’t seem right.”

“I think they love each other,” Emerson says. “You can see it when they’re together. Just because they’re not all over each other doesn’t mean they aren’t in love.”

Cy and Emerson go back and forth a few more times, but I drown their conversation out with thoughts of Harper. I want her to come back out here with us, but I know she won’t. She’s probably back upstairs in her room, finding comfort in the four walls around her.

We find ourselves in the kitchen after spending all afternoon out at the pool. Jared made several dishes for us while Dad and Annabelle are away, each labeled with reheating instructions. I pull out a stir-fry and rice. After I get it started in the microwave, I tell the guys I’m going to go see if Harper wants some.

I knock quietly, and when she doesn’t answer, I push open the door. She’s stretched out on the bed, sleeping as the sun slants across her tan legs. Her plush pink lips are slightly parted, and the strands of hair that have fallen over her face flutter with each breath.

I hook my finger under the piece of hair and lightly run it between my fingers. It’s so silky, just like the ribbon I stole from her years ago. Now that I’ve moved the locks impeding my view, I can take in her face with her cheeks rosy from the sun and light dusting of freckles across her cheeks.

She’s perfect.

Behind her closed eyelids her eyes begin to move, so I rest my palm on her shoulder, being sure to keep my hands in one of the areas I know are safe to touch her. She’ll become used to the feel of my hands soon but not today.

“Harper,” I say quietly. “I’m warming up dinner. Come eat.”

“What?” She blinks as she wakes until the swirling golds and greens of her hazel eyes meet mine. “Dinner?”

“Yeah. You need to eat.” I’m not giving her an option to decline.

“Okay,” she says after a moment’s hesitation. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

I leave her room and head back downstairs just as Emerson and Cy are pulling out plates and the food from the microwave. I grab forks and sit down at my normal spot. Sharing meals with these two guys feels more normal than nearly anything else in my life.

“Is she coming down?” Cy asks, glancing at the staircase.

“Yeah, she was asleep.”

Not even a minute later, her light footsteps on the creaking wood of the steps draw all our attention. She pauses when we all look up at her. For a second, I think she’s about to turn around and go back up, but then she keeps going.

“I didn’t realize you guys were still here. I’ll just get myself a plate and get out of your hair.”

“No, stay.” Emerson stands and pulls out a chair, the only southern gentleman in our trio. “We do want to get to know you.”

“I already got you a plate.” I point to the empty place setting waiting for her.

Good manners win out over her unease, and she walks over and sits, quietly thanking us. “So, what exactly do you want to know?”

“Anything you feel like sharing. Hobbies. What you’re planning on majoring in. Stuff like that.”

“My only true hobby was dressage, but when everything with my father happened, I had to stop. I don’t really know what I want to do with my life now, so I’ll probably stay undeclared for the first year of college.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Cy says around a bite. “I was undeclared for the first two years of college, too.”

“What are you majoring in now?” She glances up at him, her eyes skimming over the exposed tattoos on his forearms .

“Art history.”

“That sounds interesting.”

“Cy is actually a really talented artist in his own right,” Emerson says proudly, causing Cy to scowl. His family doesn’t approve of his talent, they see it as a waste of time. It’s an unspoken agreement between Emerson and I that we will always give him the support they withhold.

“What kind of art?” she asks Cy.

“Mostly sculpting but some painting and pastels.”

“I’d love to see some of your work someday.”

“If you ever go up to the attic of our house, you will. He has the whole level as his studio and bedroom.”

“What about you, Emerson?”

“I’m pre-med, like everyone in my family. I’m also on the soccer team at Trinity with Declan.” He nods in my direction. “Between those two things I don’t have much of a life.”

“So you probably don’t have a lot of parties at your house?” She looks around the table at us.

“We do party, just not at the house.”

“Oh, good.”

I can’t tell if she’s happy with that answer or disappointed, so I decide to tease her. “Why do you ask? Does the preacher’s daughter want to rebel and party?”

“No.” Her cheeks redden, and her walls go up. “I was just curious what I should expect.”

“Do you party?”

She scowls at me. “What do you think?”

Her sassy response is as unexpected as it is hot, but before I can say anything, she continues.

“I’m sorry.” Her eyes drop to her lap. “That was rude of me.”

“Don’t apologize to that asshole,” Cy says. “Ninety percent of the things that come from his mouth are rude or offensive.”

I give him the finger, and he gives me both his right back.

She stands quickly and takes her plate over to the sink to rinse it off. Emerson rolls his eyes at us and stands to take his plate over also. Cy and I smirk at each other and try not to laugh. She’s gonna have to grow thicker skin to be around us.

“I’ll clean up dinner,” she says when Emerson stands beside her. “You guys fixed it.”

“Jared made it, we just heated it up. You’re not doing our dishes or cleaning up after us.” I move beside her making sure that my arm brushes against hers. She immediately steps to the side and looks away. “We were thinking about watching a movie. Do you want to join us?”

“No, I told my cousin I’d call her. She’s dying to hear about the wedding and catch up now that she’s back from France.” She grabs a glass of ice water and retreats upstairs, leaving us watching her go.

There are only two things that make me feel close to my mom. The scent and sounds of Catholic mass and flying through the clouds. Every Sunday I’m able to attend services, I do. Just looking at me you’d think I was a devout Catholic. I stand when I should and kneel when appropriate. I recite prayers, sing hymns, and receive communion. But it’s all empty. I don’t connect with God. I spend the entire time talking to my mom. If feels like she’s sitting beside me in the pew, her hand over mine while I hold her rosary.

No one knows this is why I still go, even my father refused to step inside a church following her funeral. We’ve never spoken about it. He, Emerson, and Cy are the only ones who know about this ritual of mine. I plan to keep it that way .

The scents of frankincense and myrrh invade my nostrils as Father Timothy passes by, swinging the thurible. Moving to the south wasn’t something I was excited to do, but I’m glad I found this church. It’s dark and gothic and a complete dichotomy from the massive mega churches and white chapels that make up a majority of the options down here.

I nearly didn’t come today, though. The thought of possibly missing an opportunity to mess with Harper was disappointing, but I need this. The Catholic church on campus isn’t as steeped in the rituals as Saint Andrews.

After communion I sneak out, Dad wants me to go through the mail and get rid of any of the letters Annabelle and Harper receive. Since Flynn was sent to prison, they have been inundated with letters, their contents spanning from run of the mill shaming to downright threatening. Neither of them had anything to do with the horrible shit he was convicted of, and they don’t deserve to be re-victimized.

The mailbox is full when I pull it open. I drop everything on the passenger seat of my car and drive up to the house, leaving the engine on while I scan through it all. There’s a lot of junk mail which immediately goes into the shred pile. I see letters from a bank and law firm for Annabelle, so I set those aside. There are two hand-addressed envelopes for Annabelle and Harper, one with no return address and one forwarded from their old house to ours from the federal penitentiary. I set those aside for Dad to deal with when he gets home.