I have so many thoughts about how this picture has been painted but only one conclusion. “You got into Princeton.” I don’t bother asking because I already know the truth. Harbor lied to get away from his cousin. “Do you want to be a doctor?”

He keeps his eyes forward on the blanket. “I have to be a doctor. For Lucas, to make his dream come true.”

“Why?” I sit forward, angling to face him. I need a better view of this man. I need to see his eyes, and the truth inside he won’t be able to hide. “What about your dreams? Don’t they matter anymore?”

Closing his eyes, hiding them from me, he shakes his head. He finally turns to me, and says, “My dreams died the day my cousin passed away.”

“No.” I cover his hands with mine. “That’s not how life works.”

“You’re right, but we’re not talking about life. We’re talking about his death.” His tone is firm, his eyes determined despite knowing he doesn’t believe the words coming from his mouth. “My aunt told me he would want me to still become a doctor. She told me over his grave and made me promise.”

“Who does that to someone?” He can’t answer that. No one can. It’s not her right to saddle him with the burden of her son’s life. “Harbor? If you’re living your cousin’s life instead of your own, you’re not living.”

“It’s all I know anymore.” His tone is resolved, the fight for his own life left his eyes long before I met him.

“I’ve met your mom, Harbor. You cannot convince me that this is what she wants for you.”

He levels a glare at me. “My mom is thrilled she’ll have a doctor in a family of lawyers.”

“Not at the expense of your happiness.”

The tips of his finger graze my neck as he slides his hand into the hair at the back of my head. “I’m happy, Lark. I’m happy with you.” Bringing me in for a kiss, he does it twice before saying, “Medicine is a noble practice.”

“Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself?”

“No one. I don’t have to convince anyone. It’s a done deal.”

“What if you don’t get into medical school?”

He scoffs, the sound more likened to an arrogant prince than Harbor. “Of course, I’ll get into medical school. I’m a Westcott.” It’s then that I realize. Right now, he’s not the guy who bandaged my chin with loving care. He’s the creation of what he thinks he’s supposed to be. He’s what happens when your life is formed from tragedy.

I move away, an inch at first, and then climb out of bed. He watches but doesn’t try to stop me. Grabbing my shirt from the floor, I put it back on and stand at the end of the bed. “You should go home and get some rest.”

“I’m not tired.”

“I am.”

The covers are flying so fast from his body that I flinch. Stopping, his shoulders are straight and muscles are tense. “Don’t do that, Lark.”