Chapter 62 TYLER
None of the ideas I’d come up with to make things right with Harper after the bonfire made sense. Every option felt stupid or over the top or just… wrong. I groaned, scrunching another sheet of paper and tossing it toward the trash can. It bounced off the rim pathetically.
“Why the fuck is this so hard?” I muttered into the empty room.
As if answering me, a loud crash sounded behind me, followed by faint cursing and heavy footsteps. Before I could turn, my bedroom door swung open.
Of course.
Peter stumbled in like he owned the place as usual, crouched on the floor and shoving his hands into the same oversized sack he’d barged in with earlier when Harper had been here.
I stared at him for a few seconds, debating if I should ignore him, but he was obviously doing that thing where he pretends to look for something just to get attention.
I nudged my chin toward him. “What’s with the sack?”
He shot to his feet instantly, holding what looked like some giant rectangular gadget. His grin was way too proud for someone holding literal trash.
“I’m glad you asked,” he said dramatically. “This is my cupid sack. Hosting all the instruments we need to make love bloom!”
I cringed. “I’m so glad you didn’t say that in front of Harper.”
He shrugged. “It’s our little secret. Couldn’t have my future sister-in-law finding out about my master plan too soon.”
I raised a brow. “And what plan is that?”
He poked me in the chest with the box. “Look at you. Asking all the right questions.”
I wanted to rip the thing from his hand. “You have five minutes to impress me. If not, I’m leaving my own room.”
“Fine. This,” he said, lifting the box, “is a boombox.”
“A what now?”
He gave me a pitying look. “Let me dumb it down for you, spoiled child of the new generation. A. Boom-box. Is. An. Instrument. Used. In. The. Olden. Days. To. Play. Mu—”
“Why the hell are you talking like that?” I snapped. “I know what a boombox is. I’ve just never seen one in real life.”
“Oh.” He perked up. “Even better then.”
He knelt again, rummaging through the sack and humming off-key. I rubbed my temple.
“I don’t even want to know what else is in that sack,” I said. “Just tell me why you have a boombox and how it’s supposed to help with Harper.”
Peter straightened with a proud, chest-puffed stance. “Because I figured Harper’s a romantic. So picture this: you drive to her house—”
“No.”
“You throw a pebble at her window until she comes out—”
“No.”
“Then she sees you outside holding this boombox over your head, blasting a love song—”
“Peter.”
“—and then you get on one knee and—aha!”
This time he lifted something small and delicate: a music box that opened to reveal a tiny sculpted couple, twirling together on fake ice.
I blinked. “Where the hell did you get that?”
“Nana, of course,” he said, like that explained everything. “Anyway! Back to the scenario. You go down on one knee, bring out this masterpiece, and read the most romantic poem you’ve ever heard, written by yours truly.”
He winked, wiggling his brows like a deranged cartoon character.
I stared at the boombox. Then the music box. Then him.
“I’ve got one word,” I started.
“Awesome? Amazing? Wow?” he cut in.
“More like ridiculous.” My expression dropped flat. “There are so many things wrong with this.”
He opened his mouth to argue, but I held up a hand toward the music box.
“First of all, I have one functioning shoulder. One. I can’t hold anything dramatically above my head. Secondly, do you even know where Harper lives? What if her window is nowhere near the driveway? What if her parents think I’m breaking in? Thirdly”—I exhaled, pinching the bridge of my nose—“I’m trying to give her a hint about my feelings, not propose to her like some maniac.”
A small part of me hated how much I’d hoped Peter would actually have a good idea. I continued anyway.
“I could go on, but I think I’ve crushed your ego enough.”
Peter let out an offended scoff. “Well, joke’s on you. That wasn’t the real plan. I just wanted to gauge your level of desperation for the love of your life.”
“Whoa.” I held up both hands. “You need to calm all the way down. For the last time, stop acting like this is some tragic Shakespeare romance. I don’t even fully know how I feel yet. And I definitely don’t know how she feels about me.”
“So you’re not in love with her?” he asked, tilting his head like a nosy therapist.
I opened my mouth… but nothing came out.
Because saying no felt like a lie. And saying yes felt like jumping off a cliff.
“Let’s just say I have… feelings,” I muttered.
Peter snorted. “Please. Having feelings can be platonic. Like me and you.”
“God, don’t say things like that.”
“It’s either you’re in deep or you’re not. So let me help you figure it out.” He crossed his arms. “Imagine this: you stumble on some guy confessing his feelings to Harper. How do you feel?”
I shrugged, trying to look unfazed. “Nothing. Just because someone likes her doesn’t mean she likes him.”
“Oh? Okay.” His eyes glinted. “How about Harper telling you she likes someone else?”
My stomach twisted. I didn’t answer.
He pressed further. “How about Harper kissing someone else?”
My fist clenched involuntarily.
“And saying ‘I love you’ to someone else?”
My pulse spiked.
Peter smirked like a cat stalking a mouse. “Even better… imagine Harper half-naked in bed, wearing nothing but—”
I snapped.
I grabbed him by the shirt and slammed him against the wall so fast the music box nearly fell from his hands.
“Don’t,” I growled. “Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t picture her like that. Don’t even joke about it.”
His eyes widened, but he looked more amused than afraid.
“Whoa, dude,” he said, half laughing. “Relax. I was making a point.”
“Yeah? Shove your point somewhere painful,” I snarled, shoving him aside and pacing the room to get the image out of my head.
My breathing was uneven. My mind felt like it was on fire.
Peter watched me with a slow, spreading grin.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” I snapped.
His grin widened.
“Because, my friend…” he said, spreading his arms like he was announcing a miracle, “you are so in love.”