Chapter 69 TYLER
Dinner felt almost normal.
Almost.
Dad had grilled steaks, Mom had made her garlic mashed potatoes, and Peter had invited himself over again, claiming he was “rebuilding family tradition” like we’d all been separated for decades. He sat across from me shoveling food like he’d never eaten before, humming in satisfaction every three bites. It should’ve made me laugh. It used to.
But I couldn’t feel anything except the constant, irritating buzz in my head.
Mark. Harper. Harper with Mark.
Every time I lifted my fork, my brain replayed the way he leaned in toward her earlier… and the tiny, tight knot that formed in my chest when she didn’t exactly pull away.
“Ty,” Mom said, voice warm. “You okay, sweetheart?”
I blinked, realizing I'd been staring into space. “Yeah,” I muttered. “Fine.”
Peter coughed loudly in a way that meant I was not fine, but I ignored him and cut into my steak—clumsy work with only one hand free. My shoulder burned beneath the sling. Mom tried not to notice, but she noticed everything.
She cleared her throat. “Tyler, don’t forget—you need to be up early tomorrow. You have an appointment.”
“I know,” I muttered, sawing through the steak. “You’ve said.”
She pretended not to hear the attitude. “How’s the shoulder now? Still catching? Any pinching when you lift it?”
“Mom… it’s fine.”
Peter snorted. “He nearly dropped a plate earlier.”
I shot him a glare. “It slipped.”
Mom frowned. “Tyler.”
“I said it’s fine.” I nudged the peas on my plate with my fork, hoping that would end it. Thankfully my phone vibrated, shifting her attention.
I didn’t look at it at first. Mom had a rule about phones at the table, and usually I respected it. But something tugged at me, something tight and electric in my stomach that wouldn’t go away. I turned the screen over.
Harper:
Are you doing anything tonight?
I'm hosting a party… want to come?
My world stopped.
A party? Harper? Hosting a party?
I must have made a sound because Peter leaned across the table and hissed, “Who’s that?”
Instead of answering, I pushed the phone toward him under the table.
Mom narrowed her eyes instantly. “No phones during dinner.”
Peter panicked.
“Uh—sorry! I, um, thought I saw… smoke.”
I stared at him.
“Smoke?” Mom repeated slowly.
“From the oven!” he added quickly. “Like… a ghost? Of smoke? I just wanted to… fact-check. Google. To see if smoke ghosts are… a thing.”
Across the table, Jacob snorted so hard milk nearly came out of his nose.
“Bro,” he choked out, wiping his mouth, “that is the worst lie I’ve ever heard.”
Peter shot him a betrayed look. “It could happen. Smoke ghosts are—”
“Not real,” Jacob said, grinning. “At all. Like, zero percent.”
Dad lifted a brow. “Smoke ghosts.”
Peter nodded aggressively. “You never know. Science is crazy.”
Mom turned to me. “Tyler?”
I kept my expression flat, cold, like the one I usually used when I wanted to be left alone.
“I want to go for a drive,” I said simply.
Dad frowned. “Tyler, your arm—”
“I’ll drive,” Peter blurted. “Obviously. Smoke ghosts and all.”
Jacob snickered again. “Yeah, keep an eye out. They sound dangerous.”
Dad looked between us like we’d all lost our minds. But arguing with me when I usually sounded calm but looked fed up rarely worked.
After a long moment, he sighed. “Fine. But be back before midnight.”
“We will,” I said.
Peter slurped down the rest of his drink. “For the record, if a smoke ghost appears in this house, I warned you.”
The second we got into his car, Peter exploded.
“A PARTY? HARPER IS HOSTING A PARTY? And she invited you? Oh my God, are we living in a movie? Am I the comedic best friend? Do I get a spinoff?”
I stared out the window. Snow drifted under the streetlights, soft and slow, coating the world in white. The cold bit at my neck, even through my hoodie.
“I don’t know why she invited me,” I said quietly.
“Ty,” Peter scoffed. “The girl stares at you like she’s trying not to stare at you. And you stare at her like she’s the last slice of pizza in the universe.”
I ignored him and typed back:
Yeah. Send the location?
Her reply came seconds later.
A pin dropped onto my screen—Maplewood Hall.
An event hall? Interesting. And inconveniently, my chest loosened a fraction.
When we pulled up, Peter whistled. “Whoa… holy shit. Did Harper really manage to rent all of this?”
It was a massive building—brick exterior, two floors, warm light spilling from the tall windows. The bass thumped from inside, vibrating the driveway. Cars lined the street.
I swallowed.
Inside, clusters of people filled every corner—laughing, dancing, drinking. Faces I recognized, faces from other school teams. I spotted two Westbrook guys I’d played against from my last game, but my attention moved past them quickly.
Because she was there.
Harper.
And she was standing with Mark.
My stomach dropped so fast it made me dizzy. Mark leaned into her ear, saying something that made her smile. I didn’t hear anything else after that, not the music, not Peter cracking jokes beside me, not the chaos around us.
Just the buzzing in my skull.
“Damn,” Peter muttered. “He’s really everywhere, isn’t he?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t.
But then her eyes found mine.
Small, piercing. Like she hadn’t expected me to actually show up.
Then she looked away—too quickly—and excused herself from Mark. She didn’t head upstairs or toward a crowd.
She slipped outside.
I didn’t even have to think. My legs moved before my brain caught up.
Cold air hit me the moment I stepped out. The porch was quiet, the distant hum of the party muffled behind the door. Harper stood a few feet away, hugging her arms, breath clouding in the air. Snowflakes clung to her hair.
“You okay?” I asked.
She jumped slightly, then turned. Her eyes were glassy—bright. Not drunk. But close.
“Tyler,” she said softly, almost like it hurt.
I stepped closer. “You’re… high?”
She nodded, cheeks pink. “Just a little. Don’t freak out.”
“I’m not freaking out.” I was. “I’m making sure you’re okay.”
“I’m fine.” Her smile turned wobbly. “Better than fine, actually.” She stepped closer. “I’m glad you came.”
Something inside me cracked.
“Harper…”
“You weren’t going to,” she murmured. “I thought… you’d just keep doing that. Shut me out.”
“I don’t—” I started, but she cut me off with a sharp breath.
“You do sometimes,” she said, voice low but tense. “You let me in a little, and then… you close off. And I never know which version of you I’m getting. Some days, you’re distant. Other days, you’re… not. And then…” She shook her head, frustration tightening her features. “I can’t tell how I fit into any of it. Or who I am to you.”
I stayed silent, the weight in my chest growing heavier.
Her hand brushed lightly over my chest, near my shoulder. The contact sent a pang through me, sudden and unexpected.
“And then there’s things like the bonfire,” she whispered, almost to herself. “You paid instead of… instead of… I don’t know—sometimes I wonder if you even notice how I feel. Or if I matter at all.”
Her eyes searched mine, sad and intense. “It’s confusing. And it’s exhausting. I just wish you’d… I don’t know… let me see more than what you choose to show. Stop building walls I can’t climb.”
The words tumbled out, raw and unpolished. She wasn’t confessing exactly—not yet—but the weight behind each one made it clear what she meant.
I felt the pull in my chest, the ache of knowing she cared, and that I’d been keeping her at arm’s length, intentionally or not.
I stared at her, every thought shattering at once.
“Harper,” I whispered, voice raw. “That’s not—”
She leaned in. Slowly, gently, like she’d been wanting to for weeks.
Her lips were inches from mine when the door swung open.
“Harper?”
We froze.
Mark stood in the doorway, confusion twisting into something else.
His eyes moved from her to me, then back.
“What’s going on?”