Chapter 2: Famous Last Words: Chapter 2

Mist hangs in heavy curtains along the craggy coastline, the gauzy drapes preventing a perfect view of the water. I shiver as I climb out of my car, immediately mourning the loss of heat. I tug the sides of my yellow raincoat closer together in an attempt to block out the chill sneaking beneath the thin layer of coated polyester. Then grab the coffee cup out of the cupholder, savoring the warmth soaking through the paper cup.

Fall in Washington usually contains a handful of sunny days.

Today is not one of them.

Salty air coats my hair and little exposed skin. The breeze swirling is rich with the ripe scent of fish and the bitter bite of winter approaching.

No one stops me or asks me what I’m doing here as I walk along the rocky shore and down the gangway. Everyone is too fixated on their own list of tasks to worry about me wandering around. After three years of loitering, everyone’s stopped paying any attention to the lone woman hanging around at all.

Well, everyone.

“Ah, you made it!” A broad smile transforms Samuel Prescott’s weathered features as I near the end of the dock. The corners of his eyes crinkle, forming lines that droop down into the creases around his mouth. “What a sight for tired eyes.”

“Me, or the coffee?” I tease.

Sam chuckles. “Caffeine’s no replacement for good company.”

“I won’t tell the crew,” I say, handing him the cup before I swing one leg over the side of the boat. “I did get you hazelnut today, though.”

“You spoil me,” Sam says, sniffing the small opening in the lid.

“I always stop anyway. And it’s the least I can do for you letting me tag along.”

Sam waves away my appreciation, just like I knew he would. “No trouble at all.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Brent just called. He and the boys are running a bit late. Timmy’s off fixing a net. We might get off behind schedule this morning.”

“I’m ready whenever.” An incoming wave rocks the entire boat. My grip on the side tightens.

“I know so.” Sam chuckles. “That exam you were worrying about last week go all right?”

“It did,” I reply. “At least, I think it did. I won’t get the grade for a few more days.”

“I’m sure you did well.” Sam offers me a reassuring smile. “You work hard. When I was in school, me and the guys I hung around with didn’t take tests too seriously.”

“That’s true of plenty of people at Holt,” I tell him.

One person in particular comes to mind, but I don’t say so. I don’t ever mention him. And Sam is a hockey fan.

“Net’s good to go.” Timmy appears. He tosses a ball of rope mesh into the open back of the boat, then climbs aboard. “Morning, Harlow.”

“Morning, Timmy,” I reply. I take careful steps toward the bow where my milk crate sits waiting.

Brent, his brother Jerry, and his two sons arrive a few minutes later, all four greeting me with friendly grins. They climb aboard and move around the boat like performers doing a well-choreographed dance, the routine of tasks a familiar ritual. Each piece of gear gets checked. Ropes are untied and knotted before we slip away from the dock. Nets are spread out in preparation for being dropped into the sea.

I yawn as we move farther away from the shore, hoping the caffeine I downed earlier will kick in soon. Cold, salty air blows straight into my face, pulling strands out from my ponytail.

Churning water becomes the only scenery as we chug deeper into the Sound. Lingering mist paints the fading coastline like a watercolor painting, smeared and cloudy.

A couple of hours pass.

I stare out at the water for every minute of them, never looking away from the choppy, gray surface of the sea as my eyes strain to look through the veil that never fully lifts. I mark each spot where we stop on the spreadsheet on my phone with a black to note the lack of any sightings.

“Apologies to the cetologist on board,” Sam bellows as we cruise back into the marina. “Fish were biting. Orcas were nowhere to be found.”

“Hopefully next week,” I say, trying to mask my disappointment with a smile.

I slip my phone into my pocket and slide my numb fingers beneath my thighs in an attempt to warm them up. Gloves would have been a good idea.

Witnessing whales in the wild is a privilege, never a forgone conclusion. Living in the Pacific Northwest, I’m luckier than most aspiring marine biologists. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve witnessed the majesty in person, but it never becomes any less spectacular. Holt’s location is one of the main reasons I chose to come to school here.

We tie up to the dock. Sam’s crew begins to unload the boxes filled with ice and today’s catches.

“Thanks, Sam. See you all next week!” I say as I step off the rocking boat and back onto the sturdy dock.

Most of the slips are still empty. Sam is nearing retirement age, meaning his trips are shorter than most making a living in the seafood industry. It serves my purposes perfectly. I love being out on the water, but not so much that I want to spend all day stuck on a boat.

The men call farewells after me as I head for the gravel parking area. It’s not quite as chilly as it was earlier, but the air temperature hasn’t risen by much. It’s a relief to climb into my car and start blasting the heat. I’m eager to get home and take a hot shower.

My phone rings as I’m pulling out of the marina’s parking lot. I smile when I see Landon Garrison’s name flash across the car’s display.

“Hey,” I answer.

“Why do you sound so awake? It’s barely eight,” my best friend grumbles.

“I went for a swim,” I lie. “I’m on my way back home now.”

For some reason, I’ve never told anyone about my weekly trips out onto the Sound in Sam’s fishing boat. I’m not really sure why. Anyone who knows me well is aware of my obsession with the ocean. That my dream is to make a career of studying the species who live in it.

My time on the boat is different. It’s separate from academics, not a school assignment or a research project. I’ll take notes on my phone of the pods we encounter. Their numbers, whether they’ve been tagged. But that’s just for me.

Being out on the water is freeing. It’s always been my happy place where fears and frustrations can’t touch me. Keeping my early morning outings to myself is my way of protecting that, somehow.

And I go swimming most mornings, so it doesn’t feel like a real lie. Just a small stretch of the truth.

“Wow. Swimming before eight on a Saturday. You must have had a crazy Friday night, huh?” Landon asks.

“Absolutely wild.” I match his sarcasm. “Eve and I had a James Bond marathon.”

“Since when do you watch anything besides nature documentaries and old sitcoms?”

“Eve chose. She has a thing for Daniel Craig. I mean, who doesn’t?”

“No one is immediately coming to mind,” Landon replies.

I snort. “What are doing up this early, rockstar?”

“Studio time. I was shocked, but not many people want the eight a.m. on a Saturday slot.”

“And you convinced the rest of the guys to show up?”

Landon takes his music very seriously. I’ve always gotten the impression his bandmates are in it for the free beer most of their gigs provide and the dream of one day having groupies.

“I think so? Adam will probably be late, but he promised he’ll show.”

“Are you guys recording new stuff?”

“No. That would require having new stuff record.”

“Ah, right.”

“Dad has started back in on the Plan B talks again.” Landon sighs. “Not even waiting until I’m a senior.”

“Just write a song that will win you a Grammy,” I suggest. “Then you can hold up a shiny gramophone every time he says anything about a back-up plan. Tell him to talk to the Grammy.”

“Oh, . Why didn’t I think of that?”

I laugh at his heavy sarcasm. “He wants you to succeed, Landon.”

“Yeah, I know. And it’s not like I don’t know music is a hard industry to break into.” He exhales loudly, then falls silent. “Did you see the email?”

I hit the blinker a little harder than necessary as I turn onto my street. “Yeah.”

“Did they ask you about it ahead of time?”

“No.”

“I’m sorry, Harlie.” Landon only breaks out my childhood nickname when he’s trying to annoy me or is worried I’m more upset about something than I’m letting on.

“It’s fine. They don’t need my permission. And it’s a really nice idea. It’ll just be…tough to get through.”

“Because it’s being run in memory of your parents or because it’s a marathon?”

“Both.”

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, I’ll definitely have a worse time than you. Not to mention my parents. I’m going to need to hire a personal trainer. I refuse to finish after them. Dad still goes for jogs all the time. Once a jock, always a jock.” He scoffs.

“You guys don’t have to run the full marathon. You can run the half. Or you don’t have to run at all.”

“Of course we’re all going to run it. They’re raising money by the mile. Besides, that’s what family does.”

A lump forms in my throat as I experience a swell of appreciation toward the people who took me in after my parents’ passing. Made me feel like I still have a home, not just a place to crash during Holt’s breaks.

After twenty years of friendship, Landon can sense I’m overwhelmed, even through the phone.

“Mom and Dad are talking about visiting Holt soon,” he tells me. “Mom said you sounded stressed last time you talked to her.”

“Senior year of college is stressful,” I tell him. “You’ll find that out next year.”

Landon is nine months younger than me, so we’ve always been a year apart in school.

“Can’t wait,” he deadpans.

“They don’t have to come here,” I say. “Thanksgiving isn’t that far away.”

“They want to visit you, Harlow.”

“I know, but…”

“They shouldn’t be unable to visit you just because of .”

I’m silent. The dysfunction that could be the plot for a semi-successful television drama is a minefield I do my best to avoid. I’m surprised Landon is bringing Conor up. He rarely does, unless there’s an opportunity to make a caustic comment. Landon is the friendliest, most relaxed person you’ll ever meet.

Until the topic of his half-brother is broached.

“Are you having another movie marathon tonight?” Landon asks after the silence has dragged for a few beats, not even bothering to act like it wasn’t a blatant attempt to change the subject.

“No. Eve wants to go to a basketball game.”

“Really?”

Landon has met my best friend and roommate Eve before. Her many eclectic interests include interior decorating and embroidery. Not sports.

“Yeah. She came up with this list of things to do before the end of college during our Bond-a-thon last night.

made the cut.”

I don’t share some of the other tasks that made the twenty-item list. Eve talks a big game, but I’m guessing—hoping—most of them will fall by the wayside.

“And you decided on basketball?”

“Are there other winter sports?” I ask innocently.

“Harlow…”

“I never even see him, Landon.”

It’s the second lie I’ve told my best friend this morning. I saw Conor Hart at Gaffney’s four nights ago. He ignored me, and I acted like he wasn’t sucking up all the attention and oxygen in the bar by simply existing.

“Good.”

I stop in front of my house and turn off the car. “I’d better go, Land. I just got home, and I stink like chlorine.”

Make that three lies. Although I do smell.

“’Kay. I’ll talk to you soon. You can always come to Brighton. Mom and Dad could visit us both.”

“Yeah, that would be fun,” I reply, despite knowing I probably won’t. I love Holt’s sprawling campus and living in sleepy Somerville. Aside from seeing Landon, Brighton University holds no allure to me. “Good luck recording.”

Landon snorts. “Yeah, thanks. Talk to you later.”

The call disconnects as he hangs up.

I remain sitting in my parked car, staring at the light blue exterior of the little house I share with Eve. I pushed the email I saw early this morning to the back of my mind. My conversation with Landon brought it right back to the forefront.

The tiny town on the west coast of Canada where I grew up hosts an annual marathon every summer. This year, it’s being run in honor of my parents to raise money in hopes of saving others from the same sad fate. I suppose they decided four years was enough time to commemorate. It’s a thoughtful, considerate gesture I should be and appreciative of.

It’s also a reminder of a night I like to pretend never happened.

I’m not in any form of denial that my parents are gone.

Their deaths are a reality I face.

How one stranger’s decision to get behind the wheel drunk forever altered my life.

How things you take for granted—like having parents—can vanish in the same short stretch of time it takes to blink an eye.

How unfair life can be.

Just because I accept it doesn’t mean I want to be reminded of it.

I climb out of my car and head up the front walk to the duplex I share with Eve. Aside from Landon, who’s known me practically since birth, she’s my closest friend. I’ve done a terrible job of keeping in touch with the people I grew up with. Just like the upcoming marathon, they’re a painful reminder of the past. I’d rather remember the good times with my parents. Not the sympathetic looks for the final year of secondary school. The grief group I attended sporadically.

It’s going to make for an awkward homecoming if I follow through on my plan to move back to the town I grew up in after graduation.

I unlock the front door and enter the small mudroom. Eve and I were lucky to snag this place for senior year. Houses close to campus and downtown move fast, and they’re usually hogged by sports teams. Two-bedroom places like this one are rare finds.

The kitchen is empty when I walk inside. I’m not surprised Eve is still asleep. Spilled popcorn is spread across the countertop from our movie night. I sweep the kernels into the trash before heading down the hall to my bedroom.

I’m very tempted to take a scalding hot shower. But my apprehension about the marathon isn’t just because of the painful memories it’ll drag up. I swim regularly, but running? That hasn’t happened in a while. I doubt I’ve run forty-two point two kilometers in my entire life, let alone in one day.

When I was a kid, the marathon was always a casual event. There are no medals or prize money offered at the finish line. It’s a fundraiser for charity.

It’s still a distance.

Landon was kidding about hiring a personal trainer—I think—but I might need to seriously consider it.

I sigh as I swap my yellow raincoat for a sports bra and fleece pullover, deciding I’ll jog downtown and back. Start somewhere. Swimming has always been my preferred form of exercise, an extension of my obsession with the ocean. I don’t know anyone who runs regularly for fun or for fitness. Masochists.

There’s still no sign of activity in the neighborhood as I head outside into the damp, chilly air and start to jog.

It’s not terrible. At first.

The pounding of my sneakers on the asphalt is rhythmic. Air gushes in and out of my lungs easily.

I don’t know if this is the runner’s high people talk about, but I’m feeling pretty damn good.

So good that I extend my original distance and run all the way down Main Street to the edge of Holt’s campus before turning back on to Spring Street.

All of a sudden, running isn’t quite so effortless.

It feels like the percentage of oxygen in the air has plummeted. Hitting the hard cement feels more jolting than relaxing. My calves cramp, protesting each step.

, I chant internally as I force myself to keep jogging and not slow to a walk.

I don’t know how far I’ve run, and I don’t want to.

I don’t want to know how abysmal an athletic achievement this is. Just like I wish I could lie to myself about how far I have to run still.

Six blocks.

One block later I pass Mr. Goodman, who lives across the street from me and Eve. He’s out walking his dog. I wave at him, hoping I look better than I feel.

He doesn’t call an ambulance, so I must.

Five blocks to go. Four. Three. Two.

I can see my car.

The front walk.

The front door.

I collapse on the lawn, not caring the grass is wet. It feels good, actually.

I pant and heave and stare up at the cloudy sky until I can breathe normally again.

My legs are not thrilled about more movement, but I can’t lie here all day. I stand on shaky limbs and head for the front door. My entrance is a ruckus. I toss my sneakers and topple the umbrella stand as I yank my fleece off, then stumble into the living room that transitions into the kitchen.

Eve is standing at the kitchen island, eating a banana.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“I went for a run,” I wheeze.

“

?” she asks, looking aghast.

Excellent question.

“I’m running a marathon in the summer.”

“Why?” Eve repeats.

I shrug. “It seemed like a good life goal. Character building, you know?”

She raises both eyebrows and takes another bite of banana. It shouldn’t be a persuasive expression, but it works on me.

“It’s being run back home. In memory of my parents.” I head for the fridge and grab the water pitcher to fill a glass. “The money is going to an organization that works to keep drunk drivers off the road.”

I take a sip of water and glance her way. Eve’s studying me.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I assure her.

Eve is the only person at Holt who I’ve confided in about my parents. That they’re dead and how they died. I’ve let all my other friends here believe the care packages the Garrisons send are from my parents, not my mother’s best friend and her husband. It’s just…easier.

“Do you need someone to train with you? Because I totally will.”

I smile at her, hoping it conveys my appreciation.

Coming from Eve, that’s a generous offer. She goes for long walks so she can listen to her favorite podcasts, but I know her preferred maximum speed is just that: a walk.

“I wouldn’t make you do that. I went by myself today, and it was fine.” I leave out the fact I’m not sure I’ll be able to move tomorrow. “I’m going to shower.”

Twenty minutes under a steaming stream of hot water helps wash away the traumatic memories of this morning’s exercise. I put on my comfiest pair of sweats and make myself a smoothie before snuggling on the couch with my laptop.

Eve has settled at the kitchen table to work on her latest art piece.

It’s a typical Saturday.

I lounge on the sofa, alternating between studying and watching old episodes of . I only move when my stomach starts grumbling, hobbling into the kitchen for some snacks.

Eve’s pencils scratch in the background the whole time as she sketches.

They don’t stop moving until it’s necessary to turn the lights in the living room on. Well, don’t turn them on. Eve does. I was content to keep lying in the semi-dark watching television. I squint at her.

“It’s time to go! The basketball game starts in twenty minutes.”

I rub my eyes and groan. “I thought you forgot.”

Eve makes a sound of disbelief, then points to the bulletin board hanging to the right of the stove. The senior year bucket list she scribbled last night is prominently displayed beside our small collection of takeout menus.

I sigh and roll off the couch.

“Ten minutes!” Eve calls after me as I head down the hall to my room.

I’m tempted to wear my sweats but resist the urge. I feel gross after lying around in them all day, and I’m guessing we’ll go out after the game.

I pull on my favorite pair of dark skinny jeans and a gray hoodie. My hair is a mess from drying while I was sprawled on the couch, so I pull it back in a loose bun I hope looks more intentional than lazy. A swipe of mascara, and I’m ready.

Eve is already waiting for me by the front door. She’s changed out of the leggings she was wearing into corduroys and a pink sweater. Most of her wardrobe consists of articles of clothing I could never pull off, but on Eve, they work.

“Ready?” She beams at me.

My expression is less enthusiastic. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“I’ll drive.” Eve spins her keys around one finger as I tie the laces on my sneakers and pull on a coat.

“Who knew you’d get this excited about sports?” I ask as we head outside.

“Mary said the games are super fun.”

“Mary likes basketball?”

Eve gives me a sly look. “Mary likes Clayton Thomas.”

I laugh. “Oh. Got it.”

I know next to nothing about basketball. I know Clayton is a popular figure on campus. Unlike the other well-known athlete—people call him , which is a stupid nickname but also catchy—Clayton is also a decent guy. We had a humanities class together last spring.

“I think Mary’s hoping you’ll introduce her,” Eve tells me.

“And the plot thickens,” I drawl as I climb into her car.

Eve shoots me a sheepish look. “I’ve heard about Clayton for weeks in our painting class, okay? I told Mary I’d try to strike up a conversation with him. But I’m not on a first-name basis with all the sports teams the way you are.”

“That’s a massive exaggeration.”

“The hockey team stopped to talk to you when we were at Gaffney’s on Tuesday.”

Not the whole team.

Conor strode past me without a word, and I wish I hadn’t noticed. Although a petty, vindictive part of me was glad he didn’t look pleased about his teammates talking to me.

“That’s just because of Jack,” I say. “You know that.”

I don’t entirely regret dating Jack Williams sophomore year, but if I could go back and change it, I would. I had no idea he was on the team until he mentioned it on our first date. I’d made a point to steer clear of any Holt hockey players until then. They were easy to spot, always wearing some item of clothing with the logo. Jack dressed like he was headed to a country club.

When I learned Jack was on the team, I decided not to let Conor influence my life. That stubborn stance drew my relationship with Jack out longer than I meant to let it last; something I feel guilty about every time I see him.

“Jack wasn’t even there,” Eve points out. “Just say hi to Clayton when we see him and if Mary and I happen to be with you, then you can introduce her.”

“When we see him? You know the team doesn’t come over and make chitchat with the spectators at halftime, right?”

“People talk plenty at the party after, though.”

I’m very glad I changed. “Uh-huh. And when were you planning to fill me in on the whole itinerary for tonight?”

“If you’d tried to leave the house in your sweatpants.”

I roll my eyes as Eve parks outside the sports building that houses the basketball gym.

Mary hurries over to us as soon as we enter the lobby. She’s an art major like Eve. Unlike Eve, she’s petite, blonde, and quiet. I’m surprised to learn Clayton Thomas is her type. He may not be a jerk, but he has plenty of other stereotypical jock tendencies. I don’t think I’ve seen him with the same girl more than once. He also spent plenty of our shared humanities class hitting on me.

“Hey, Mary,” I greet.

“Hi, Harlow,” she replies, giving me a shy smile.

“Harlow is on board with the plan,” Eve announces, winking at Mary.

“I really don’t know Clayton all that well,” I tell Mary. “But I’d be happy to introduce you.”

She blushes. “Thanks.”

The three of us head inside the gym, which smells like sweat and stale popcorn. Turnout is lackluster, the bleachers mostly empty.

I’m not shocked. Holt leaves a lot to be desired when it comes to school spirit. If a student likes sports, they’re usually playing on a team instead of sitting in the stands.

“Not much of a crowd, huh?” Eve reads my thoughts.

“No. But you should have seen the hockey game last night,” Mary tells us. “Completely insane. It seemed like the whole school was there.”

“Since when do you go to the hockey games?” Eve asks.

Mary giggles. “Darcy and Teegan wanted to see Hartbreaker play.”

I barely resist rolling my eyes. Of course.

“Did Holt win?” Eve wonders.

I could tell her the answer, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the Canadian in me—or that my dad was a big fan—but hockey is the one sport I have any interest in following. I read the recap of the game on my phone last night while Eve was making popcorn.

“Yeah,” Mary replies. “Conor scored both goals.”

“Damn. We should have gone to the game last night.” Eve looks to me. “And you should have gone for Conor Hart instead of Jack Williams. Conor is hotter.” Eve’s attention jumps back to Mary before I respond. Probably for the best. “She and Jack had a thing sophomore year, remember?” she asks Mary.

“Oh, yeah. Wasn’t…”

I tune out Eve and Mary’s discussion of my dating history.

I might have confided in Eve about my own past, but I’ve never told anyone about the tangled web that connects me and Conor Hart.

We have no trouble finding seats, and then it’s just a matter of waiting for the game to start. Mary and Eve chat about an art assignment while I scan the bleachers for familiar faces. Of the fifty or so people here, I’d say I know a quarter of them by name. One girl I had Advanced Biology with last fall waves at me.

The game begins without much build-up. One minute the players aren’t on the court, the next they’re shooting warm-up shots. Some go in, but most miss.

I start to get the sense this will be a long game.

Sure enough, it drags.

With ten minutes left, Holt is down by twenty points.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I tell Eve and Mary, then stand and skirt the edge of the court, heading out the first door I encounter.

Once I’m alone in the hallway, I release a long breath. It’s a relief to be away from lackluster clapping and the scent of burned popcorn. Someone at the concession stand must have fallen asleep on the job.

I look to the left. Then to the right. Both directions look identical.

The pool is in one of the other two athletic buildings. I’ve haven’t been in this part of Holt’s sports complex more than a couple of times. Both were for orientation events held in the gym I just left.

I opt to go right.

There isn’t a single door along the length of the linoleum hallway. I round the corner and stop dead.

I’m outside the entrance to a room filled with exercise equipment.

The lights are on.

The door is open.

And Conor Hart is lying on one of the black, narrow benches people use to pump weights. Doing exactly that.

I’m frozen in place as I watch him lift and lower the bar. Ironic, considering it feels like my body temperature has risen by a couple hundred degrees.

I don’t consider myself to be a shallow person. I judge people based on how they treat others. The things they say. The way they act. I’ve never been dazzled by good looks or clout.

Conor has both in spades. His attractiveness is a pretty illusion—skin-deep—and I haven’t forgotten that.

There’s just a of that skin on display. And it’s a view I drink in like I’ve been lost in the desert and am in desperate need of hydration.

He’s shirtless, wearing nothing except a pair of black mesh shorts that ride low on his waist.

. The carved V between his hips is fully visible. So is the trail of dark hair that disappears into the elastic waistband of his shorts. His abs clench and contract as he lifts a bar with a lot of heavy-looking weights on each end.

My gaze wanders down his sculpted torso to the muscular thighs straddling each side of the bench that doesn’t look sturdy enough to support someone in that sort of shape lifting that much weight.

.

I swallow rapidly a couple of times. My fingernails dig into my palms. I have no idea how long I’ve been standing here, staring at him. Checking him out, if I’m being honest.

Clayton Thomas is objectively as good-looking as Conor Hart is. He has golden hair instead of dark. Sweetness instead of swagger. Friendliness instead of derision.

I’ve spent the past hour watching Clayton sprint around and sweat. Had a front-row seat to his muscles and masculinity. Nothing. Nada. No effect.

I was so bored I made up a trip to the bathroom.

But watching Conor lift weights? I could stand here forever and not have my fill of this view. I rarely let myself look at him, and it seems to have had the unsettling effect of me not wanting to look away now that I have.

Metal clangs as he sets the bar back in its holder. Conor sits up, the muscles of his back rippling as he leans down and grabs the water bottle by his sneaker.

I don’t realize he’s standing and turning until it’s too late to react. I’m already frozen, but a fresh wave of heat washes over me when our eyes connect.

There’s a dizzying rush of horror and embarrassment.

Panic, about what he’ll say or do.

I’ve never given much thought to what Conor Hart thinks of me. But I’m uncomfortably aware I look like a stalker right now, standing here in an empty hallway watching him work out.

I wait, for a biting barb or a crude innuendo.

Nothing. Conor just stares at me, holding me hostage with his intense gaze. He looks as focused as he did lifting weights, except now that singular attention is aimed at . It’s the most thrilling and terrifying sensation I’ve ever experienced. Like seeing a five-thousand-kilogram whale breach a hundred yards away.

I have no clue what to say. And it doesn’t seem like Conor is going to speak.

So I turn and walk away, resisting the urge to glance back to see if he’s still looking. Fighting the urge to run and forcing my steps to stay a normal speed until I’m around the corner.

I don’t bother trying to find the bathroom. I head straight back into the gym. There are only a few minutes left in the game that I barely register a second of. According to the scoreboard, Holt ends up losing by twenty-eight points.

As soon as the game ends, Eve suggests heading to Gaffney’s. I agree quickly. Maybe a cold beer will bleach the sight of a shirtless Conor from my brain. Wash away the mortification.

The bar is packed, which is no surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever been to Gaffney’s and seen it crowded. There’s something to be said for limited options, but the relaxed, friendly feel of the place would probably ensure its popularity even if there were lots of other choices in town.

We can’t find a table, so we end up leaning against the bar to order and eat before walking to the house that is hosting the basketball crowd tonight. Along with anyone else who happens to wander in. That’s one of my favorite things about Holt. There’s no sign of the cemented social hierarchy present at so many other schools. The few times I’ve visited Brighton it was obvious the artsier crowd Landon is part of is separate from any sports teams. Here, they mingle freely.

Attendance at the post-game party far surpasses the crowd at the game itself. We have to push our way through the front hall and into the stuffy living room.

I spot Clayton standing in the corner with a teammate and nod in his direction. “Let’s go say hi,” I tell Mary and Eve.

Mary blanches. “Uh, no, that’s okay. He’s talking to someone already. I don’t want to interrupt.”

I glance at Eve, who shrugs.

“He won’t care,” I say. “Come on.”

Mary shoots Eve a panicked look.

“It’s okay. Harlow knows what she’s doing,” Eve assures her.

I snort as I head toward Clayton. He catches my eye as I approach. Clayton claps his teammate on the back before stepping around him and walking this way. If it wasn’t so conspicuous, I’d send Eve and Mary a look.

“Hey, Harlow!” Clayton greets me enthusiastically, even pulling me into a quick hug.

“Hey, Clayton. Nice game.” I smile at him, and he grins back.

“Were you at the same one I was playing in?” he asks dryly.

My smile shifts into a smirk. “Yeah. Condolences. Tough loss.”

Clayton shrugs, retaining his good humor. “You win some, you lose most. Right?”

I laugh. “Sure.” Mary and Eve reach us. “These are my friends. Eve and Mary.” I nod to each of them as I make the introductions.

“Hey, ladies.” Clayton flashes them both a charming smile. “I’m Clayton.”

“Hi,” Mary manages. Her cheeks are pink. Eve is looking back and forth between the two of them, grinning. Subtle, she is not.

“I was just heading to the kitchen. You girls want drinks?” Clayton asks.

“Sure,” Mary replies.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom. I’ll meet you guys in the kitchen,” I say, winking at my two companions and then heading for what I think is the dining room.

This time I have to go to the bathroom. If I can find one.

I push through the crowded dining room and emerge into a back hallway that looks promising.

“Hey, Harlow.”

I glance to the left, at Aidan Phillips leaning against the wall.

My steps pause.

“Hey, Aidan,” I respond, smiling as my stomach sinks. I had no idea the hockey team would be here. And they tend to move as a group. Aidan’s presence means Jack is probably here. Means Mr. I Work Out Shirtless is possibly here. “How are you?”

“We won last night, so pretty awesome.” He grins widely.

My smile stays in place. “Yeah, I heard. Congrats.”

“Thanks.” Aidan takes a sip from the cup he’s holding. “Hey, I was driving on Spring Street earlier. Was that you out jogging?”

“Uh, yeah, it was.”

He tilts his head. “Thought so. You a big runner?”

I snort. “No, not really.” I’m surprised—pleased—it wasn’t obvious I was close to collapsing on the sidewalk.

“Trying something new?”

“Sort of. I’m running a marathon in the summer.”

Aidan’s eyes widen. “No shit?”

I nod. “Shit.”

“Wow. What’s your training plan like?”

“My training plan?” I echo. He nods. “Uh, run a lot, I guess?”

Aidan laughs. “Freestyle. I like it. You know who you should talk to…” His eyes leave mine, looking at something—someone—behind me. He grins. “Hart!”

Immediate hot flash, knowing he’s near.

I to glance down the hallway and find out how close.

I know Aidan is aware of the fact Conor avoids me like an infectious disease. I’ve always gotten the sense he’s a shit stirrer. But he’s a decent guy and a loyal friend, which tells me he has no idea why Conor ignores me.

The only reason I’m not panicking right now is that I know Conor won’t come over here. Not toward me. Avoiding each other seems to be the one—and only—way in which we’re on the exact same page.

Except…he come over.

I smell his cologne or soap first, the scent of pine and salt making me want to inhale deeply.

And to . Too bad Conor wasn’t standing behind me when I was running earlier. My time would have been a lot better.

“What?” The word is a terse snap.

He’s in a bad mood. Shocking.

Aidan seems unbothered by Conor’s moodiness. Probably due to extended exposure.

I can’t claim the same.

“Harlow is running a marathon.”

“So?” I’d rate his tone a solid ten on the arrogant ass-o-meter.

“She needs a training plan. Her current one is to .” Aidan laughs like that is the funniest thing he’s ever heard.

I don’t see any issue with it, but saying so wouldn’t allow me to continue acting like it’s still just me and Aidan standing here.

“What does that have to do with me?”

Conor is next to me now. I can tell by the location of his voice. The second whiff of pine and salt. And also because it feels like the left side of my body is engulfed under a heat lamp.

The hallway isn’t narrow, but it’s not wide either. Conor Hart is inches away from me. Way closer than he’s ever been before.

“Dude, don’t be a dick.”

I experience a rush of affection toward Aidan Phillips.

“Hart goes running every day. And he’s made training plans for half the team. He knows his shit.” Aidan nudges my arm. “Go on, ask Hart for help,” he whisper-shouts to me.

Any good will vanishes.

I snort; I can’t help it.

Help is one thing Conor Hart will offer me.

But I decide, . I think Aidan is truly trying to help in his own meddling, mischievous way.

“Conor, will you help me train for a marathon?” I ask his profile the question—because of course he can’t even look at me—in the sweetest tone I can muster.

Just to mess with him. To force him to remind his best friend, and more importantly, me, what a selfish ass he is.

Silence.

Then slowly—

—he looks at me for the first time since his shock of an approach.

I’ve never been able to decide what color Conor’s eyes are.

It’s a stupid, unexplainable fixation. He rarely looks at me, so I haven’t had much time to figure it out.

They’re a mixture of blue and gray. Like the surface of the ocean when it reflects the clouds. One of my favorite shades, staring at me from an infuriatingly attractive face coated with contempt.

I can see every faded scar and each freckle on his face. Make out the individual water droplets clinging to his dark hair. It’s still damp from the shower he must have taken after working out. If I’d been this close to him earlier, when he was sweaty and shirtless, I might have passed out from heatstroke.

“No.” That’s all Conor says before he walks away, continuing down the hallway.

I’m not the least bit surprised. I learned a long time ago Landon isn’t exaggerating when he calls his half-brother a self-absorbed prick.

I scream at my traitorous libido.

Aidan sighs as he watches Conor’s retreating back. “Sorry. I don’t know what his…thing is with you.”

. What a lovely way of encompassing hatred.

“Yeah.” The word is wry.

I know what his “thing” is with me. And I’m not surprised Conor has never told anyone at Holt about it. His response is exactly what I expected from him.

What I can’t figure out is why I’m disappointed he didn’t stick around long enough for me to decide if his eyes are gray or blue.