We stand there for a moment—her lips against my bare shoulder, my face in her hair—before Harlow seems to remember herself. She straightens and I feel the absence of her immediately. My arms fall to my sides and I watch as she turns back to the counter and gathers up our plates.

“So, I guess we’re back to square one?”

I shove my hands in my pockets and rock back on my heels. “I guess so.”

Harlow cleans the rest of the mess up before reaching for her keys.

“Don’t you worry, Finnigan. I’m a genius and I’m not giving up yet. I’ll figure this out.”

“Harlow, I don’t need you to—”

“Again, Finn?” she says sweetly. “Shut up. Stop being so stubborn and let someone else shoulder the worry for a few hours, okay?” I’m not sure how to respond, and so I stand dumbly as she stretches up onto her tiptoes, and presses the briefest kiss to my cheek. “I got you.”

I USED TO think my dad was the most persistent person I knew. When I was eight, he was up and walking hours after major back surgery to fix two ruptured disks. When I was nine, he spent a winter fishing the shores off of Alaska, and lost the tips to three of his fingers when they were crushed between two steel crab pots. He went back again the next year. When we lost Mom, Dad buried himself in work, sometimes spending nearly eighteen hours straight on the boat. And when he had his heart attack the summer I turned nineteen, and the doctors told him to stay the hell off the boats, he insisted on showing up the day he was released from the hospital, just to make sure we weren’t doing anything wrong.

I fear he has nothing on Harlow Vega.

Two days after cinnamon rolls and hearing the words pecker spit come from Harlow’s mouth—I’m not sure I’ll ever become unhorrified—my phone vibrates on the nightstand. It’s hours from sunrise, and the little guest room in Oliver’s house is still completely dark. I reach for my phone—managing to knock over a bottle of water and I have no idea what else in the process—and stare with bleary eyes. What if something’s happened to Dad? Colton or Levi? The boat?

Make yourself pretty. I’ll be there in thirty minutes.

Harlow.

A glance at the clock shows it’s not even 5 a.m., and for a moment I consider texting her back, suggesting where exactly she should put her thirty minutes. I need to go back to sleep. I need to talk to Colton and Levi. I need to figure out what the fuck I’m doing with my life.