Oblivious to my mental breakdown, Oliver crosses the kitchen and pulls a cutting board out of a drawer. “So you and Harlow,” he says, reaching for a knife.

“Harlow?” I say, distracted, her name coming out a bit sharper than I intend. “There’s nothing between me and Harlow.”

“Course there’s not. Just noticed how cozy the two of you seemed today.”

Even with everything going on, I still manage to roll my eyes. “She’s a pain in the ass,” I tell him, and it’s such a lie. With most women, the novelty of a pretty face would have worn off and I’d be ready to move on. But with Harlow, I find myself liking her more and more with each conversation.

“You sure you’re okay?”

I turn to see Oliver watching me closely. “Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?”

He shrugs, looks like he wants to throttle me, but then he blinks and the expression has vanished, and I wonder if it was ever there. “Don’t know, really. Just... you never did tell me what you were doing out here. Everything good at home?”

“Great. Just here to meet with a few investors. Thinking about making some improvements during the off-season.”

I can see a flash of relief on his face. “Finn, that’s great. Look at us, look at our lives. Everything fucking coming up roses, mate.”

Right.

I blink away, looking out the window. There’s really only one person I want to talk to right now.

“Listen,” I say, shutting off the stove. “I just remembered I promised my dad I’d give him a call tonight. You’re okay eating without me?”

If Oliver is suspicious, he’s a good enough friend to not call me on my bullshit. “Yeah, of course. Think I’ll call Lola and see if she wants to hang out. You think you’ll be back?”

I reach for my wallet on the kitchen table and push it into my back pocket. “Not sure. Just save me a plate and I’ll heat it up when I get back. I just really need to make this call.”

Oliver is already nodding, dishing up his plate before he waves me off.

My hand is wrapped around my phone before I’m even out the door.

Chapter Seven

Chapter SEVEN

Harlow

I’M MOPPING THE floor. Why, when the house cleaner was at my parents’ house today, am I mopping their floor?

Because I can’t seem to focus on even the smallest task, and dropped an entire casserole dish of enchiladas on the tile.

Dad walks in, looks at me in my ripped jeans and his old flannel shirt, and then at the stained-red mop and the smear of sauce on the white tile, and doesn’t even say anything. He just walks to the fridge, opens it, grabs a yogurt for Mom, and kisses my head on the way back out.