I spent the good part of the past few days kicking and cursing myself. “Of course she hates me.” This time saying it out loud, in the privacy of my office. This massive space that was like home to me, where I’d wrap myself in business calls, deals, meetings, contracts.

But now, it’s almost four and I’d done nothing but torment myself for the shit I’d pulled with Harper.

What gave me the right?

Knowing what I’d—what Troy had done. How he hurt her. The residual pain from it all that she finally let release on Wednesday night.

What am I going to do?

How could I make this right?

It was Monday and my assistant Debbie had been in here earlier, reading off the day’s events. It was the first time I didn’t memorize every word. The first time I checked out during a meeting and all the meetings that followed.

I made a mental note to ask Debbie to brief me on all the meetings I had today—even though I joined each one.

She could get creative, ask the clients for a summary of what they wanted, and another internal attendee to give her their notes.

But Debbie didn’t need ideas from me. The woman was able to get me out of dinners with my parents and my brother on a monthly basis without my having to ask.

Not that I avoid them often, just when it interfered with work. And anything that wasn’t work, was an interference.

My mother meant well but getting her to understand that my job didn’t end at five o’clock was trying.

At some point on Sunday, I stopped answering my brother’s calls when he started begging me to play one more for him. Just one more to prove he was back and that last week’s game, where “Troy” Hartman helped bring it home for the team, wasn’t just pure luck.

The man was hurting, I got that. But I wasn’t his therapist. I wasn’t his backup plan when shit went wrong in his life.

I sat at my desk, running my hands through my hair and resting my head in my hands. Images of Harper in pain back on Prom night when she pushed me away and ran out the door, seeing my brother in a compromised position.

“Why couldn’t I have covered for you then?” I murmured.

Troy kept me from going after her that night. “The Hartman boys don’t chase, August,” he’d snapped.

I turned back and shot back, “Last I checked, we didn’t get blow jobs on school grounds either, but that didn’t stop you.”

I had raced out to try and find her and ignored his call to “Let her go.”

I wouldn’t have if I were him.

Never.