Chapter 86 Chapter 85
Harper POV
The house is loud in the way only a sorority house ever is.
Someone is laughing too hard in the living room. The TV is on. A couple of girls are sprawled on the floor with notebooks and highlighters, arguing about something that sounds like it might be biology but might also be a boy. The kitchen smells like popcorn and burned coffee.
It’s normal. Familiar. Safe.
And I’ve never felt more emotionally drop-kicked in my life.
I push the door closed behind me a little too quietly and stand there for a second with my purse still on my shoulder, like I’m not entirely sure where to put myself.
My chest feels tight.
Not angry. Not exactly.
Just… humiliated.
“Harper?”
Lila’s voice slices through the noise.
I look up. She’s on the couch, pretending to watch TV and very obviously not doing that at all. The second her eyes land on my face, her posture changes.
“Oh,” she says, standing. “Oh no. That is not a ‘good date’ face.”
“It was fine,” I say quickly.
She squints. “That sentence is lying.”
I walk over and drop my purse on the entry table.
“You mean the hanging out?” I say. “It was fine.”
Her head tilts. “Why are you calling it hanging out?”
“Because it wasn’t really a date.”
That gets her full attention.
“What do you mean it wasn’t a date?”
I shrug out of my jacket. “Somehow it became a… group activity.”
Her brow furrows. “A group activity.”
“Yeah.”
“With who?”
I sigh. “He brought Cole.”
She just stares at me.
“…Like, emotionally? Or physically?” she asks.
“Physically.”
“Cole Cole.”
“Yes.”
“The human man. With a face.”
“Yes.”
“He brought another dude. On your date.”
“He said it would be more comfortable,” I say.
“For who?” she asks.
“…Him.”
She blinks.
Then she puts a hand on the wall.
“I need a moment,” she says. “My brain just blue-screened.”
“I didn’t realize Cole needed a chaperone either,” I mutter.
“A chaperone,” she repeats faintly. “I’m going to fight him.”
“Upstairs,” she says suddenly. “Before I commit a felony.”
She grabs my wrist and starts steering me toward the stairs.
⸻
My room feels quieter after the chaos downstairs.
She shuts the door and turns to face me. “Okay. Start from the beginning. And don’t skip the humiliating parts. Those are my favorite.”
So I tell her.
About the restaurant. About how Cole was already there. About how Logan looked like he wanted to crawl into the decorative plants and live there forever.
“And the worst part,” I say, sitting on the edge of my bed, “is that he kept asking if I was okay. Like I was a very unstable vase.”
She snorts. “Were you?”
“…No.”
She starts pacing. “Okay. I need to know one thing before I say what I’m about to say.”
I narrow my eyes. “That sounds like a trap.”
“Was Logan good in bed?”
I choke. “What?”
“No, don’t dodge. Was the sex good?”
My face goes hot. “Why is that relevant?”
“Because if the answer is no, I’m about to be mad for entirely different reasons.”
I hesitate.
Then sigh. “…Yes.”
She closes her eyes. “Damn it.”
“What?”
“Because that means he has no excuse.”
She throws her hands up. “Great. So now we know two things about Logan Shaw. One: very good at hockey. Two: very good at sex. And yet somehow, spectacularly stupid at everything else.”
She gestures wildly. “What is this, the 1950s? Does he also call you ‘m’lady’ and own a pocket watch?”
“He said he didn’t trust himself,” I say quietly.
“Oh good,” she says. “Nothing says romance like ‘I brought backup because I might emotionally malfunction.’”
I rub my face. “It’s not like he just met me online.”
“That’s the part that makes this worse,” she says. “You two know each other. You’ve slept together. You’ve already passed the ‘seen each other naked’ phase.”
She points at me. “So what exactly is he afraid of?”
I don’t answer.
She studies me. Then her expression shifts.
“I’ll tell you what the problem with Logan Shaw is,” she says. “He’s chicken-shit.”
“What do you mean he’s chicken-shit?”
“I mean he’s intimidated by you,” she says. “Which, by the way, is very rude of you. You should consider being less impressive.”
I huff a weak laugh.
“Maybe he’s emotionally unavailable,” she continues. “One of those empty-void guys who thinks feelings are a group project he can avoid. But a chaperone? That’s fear, Harper. That’s not temptation. That’s panic.”
I look away.
“He didn’t want to screw it up,” I say.
“And instead he professionally, Olympic-level screwed it up,” she says. “Very on brand.”
That gets a real laugh out of me.
Then it fades.
“I wanted it to be a real date,” I admit. “I wanted him to just… show up. Alone. And mean it.”
She sits next to me and bumps her shoulder into mine. “I think he does mean it. I just think he’s scared out of his mind.”
“That doesn’t make it hurt less.”
“No,” she says. “It just makes him tragic instead of evil.”
We sit in silence for a moment.
“I’m not chasing him,” I say.
“Good.”
“But I’m also not pretending this didn’t matter.”
“Also good.”
I lie back and stare at the ceiling.
Because the worst part?
I don’t think he doesn’t care.
I think he cares so much it scares him.
And I don’t know which is worse.