Chapter 28 TYLER
I’d seen her run past the gates yesterday, barefoot and crying. Knowing I was the reason, I’d followed—just to make sure she was okay. But I couldn’t bring myself to approach her; I’d still been too pissed about my own miserable situation.
I’d known she was lost when she stopped running, spinning in circles like she was trying to recognize something familiar. I was about to step in, but then I saw the black Honda pull over and figured she was in better hands than mine, so I turned back home.
Mom had been furious—yelling her head off about how I’d made the poor girl feel she was better off outside in the rain than in the warmth of our home. She was right. Harper hadn’t done anything wrong except try to help me.
That was when it hit me: I was better off alone. I was too messed up to be around anyone—too angry to think about their feelings until the damage was already done.
So, I decided to make up for it. Or at the very least, return the things she’d left behind in my room.
Using the location Peter had sent me after inviting me to the seniors’ party—the one I’d declined until he mentioned Harper would be there—I found myself driving to the estate where the party was taking place.
Music thundered from the speakers, echoing across the wide lawn, but it couldn’t drown out the chaos near the pool. Teenagers had formed a loose circle, voices raised, phones out, the air crackling with the kind of energy that meant something was about to go down.
I ignored them, uninterested in whatever spectacle had everyone’s attention, my gaze sweeping the compound for Harper. But then I saw Peter and Megan shoving through the crowd, their faces pale, frantic.
A chill ran through me.
Something was wrong.
The moment I stepped closer, the students began parting, their stares heavy and accusing—as if I were somehow to blame for whatever was happening. And maybe I was.
Because there, on the ground, was Racquel—flat on her back, her once-perfect hair wild and matted—as Harper straddled her, fists flying, each hit harder and angrier than the last.
Racquel clawed at her, screaming, while the crowd roared and recorded like it was a show.
I didn’t think. I just moved.
Grabbing Harper by the waist, I hauled her off Racquel’s body.
“Don’t just stand there—get her out of here!” I barked at Peter and Megan, who looked guilty as hell for being among the ones cheering moments ago.
“Let me go!” Harper thrashed, her voice cracking. “I’m going to kill her!”
“No. No.” I locked my arms under hers, dragging her back against me, her body trembling with rage. “You’re not killing anyone today.”
“She fucking started it!” Harper screamed, struggling harder. “She cut my hair! She freaking cut my hair—because of you!”
I froze. My grip faltered for half a second.
Harper shoved me away, hard, her small hands thudding against my chest.
“It’s your fault!” she cried, voice breaking. “All of this is your freaking fault! I tried to stay out of trouble. I kept my mouth shut even when I was being bullied—but she still wouldn’t leave me alone! All because I agreed to help someone who doesn’t even want my help!”
Her voice cracked, veins standing out on her neck, her chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. Her face was flushed, eyes red and glistening—not just from anger but hurt.
And I couldn’t say a damn thing. There was nothing I could say that would make her feel any better.
The crowd gasped as Racquel—face bloodied, lips trembling—pushed off Peter and lunged again.
Not this time.
Before she could reach Harper, my hand shot out, grabbing her by the chin. I shoved her back—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make her stagger. My grip kept her in place, though the fury shaking through me almost didn’t.
“You cut her hair?” I demanded.
“T-Tyler—” she stuttered, eyes darting wildly.
“Did you fucking cut her hair, Racquel?!” I bellowed.
The crowd went dead silent. The only sounds were the faint hum of the music and Racquel’s ragged breathing. Phones hovered midair, flashes going off in my face, but I didn’t care.
All I could think about was that day Harper had lied to her best friend, pretending she’d gotten her hair trimmed on purpose. She hadn’t wanted trouble. She’d just taken it quietly—because of me.
Racquel’s mouth quivered. “I-I did… but—”
“Why?” My voice dropped low—dangerously low. So quiet that only she could hear me.
Her eyes widened, reflecting every ounce of the fury I was barely holding back. She must’ve known that one wrong word would push me over the edge.
She said nothing. Smart move.
But it wasn’t enough.
Not even close.
I grabbed her arm, yanking her forward until she stumbled to her knees in front of Harper, who was still crying, still trembling, watching in disbelief.
“Apologize,” I ordered.
“Ty—”
“Apologize. Now!”
“I-I’m sorry,” she whispered, voice shaking, hands clawing weakly at my wrist.
“That’s not going to cut it.”
I scanned the area, my mind racing, fury thrumming through every vein. My classmates just stared—no one daring to move, no one brave enough to stop me.
Empty beer bottles littered the tables near the deck. Without thinking, I grabbed one and slammed it against the edge of the table. The sharp crack silenced the murmurs completely.
Racquel flinched, shrinking back, eyes round with terror.
“Take it,” I said flatly.
She shook her head, tears spilling down her cheeks, her lips parting like she wanted to beg. Her eyes met mine, pleading silently—please don’t make me.
“Don’t make me repeat myself,” I warned, voice low, deliberate.
Her trembling fingers reached out, curling around the jagged bottle neck. I let go of her, straightening, my chest heaving.
“Now look Harper in the eye.”
She turned slowly, her whole body shaking. Harper stood a few feet away, soaked from tears and sweat, eyes wide with disbelief and something else—fear.
I met Harper’s gaze, my voice rough but leveled. “I can’t change the past,” I said, each word slow, intentional. “But I can try to make up for it. Sorry doesn’t mean much when it’s not followed by action.”
Then I turned back to Racquel, gripping a handful of her dark brunette hair and holding it out to her.
“I want you to cut your own hair,” I said, my tone flat and cold. “At exactly the same length you cut Harper’s. No less.”