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If Harlow really wanted to run away, then who was I to stop her? I understand what it feels like to want to just pack up and leave everything behind. I couldn’t fault her for it.
Still, I spent all night wondering if I would ever see her again. Andthen I got to thinking about my parents. I tried to remember what it was like for me right after they died. I was eight. Old enough to know what death was, but maybe not old enough to fully understand it. Could I even comprehend how permanent death was at that age? I wondered how long it took me to realize that. To come to terms with the fact that I’d never again wake up to my mom running her finger along my palm or my dad standing under the basket, throwing the ball back to me. I wonderedwhenit all became real for me… that I’d never see them again, never hear their voices, their laughter, their declarations of love for me and each other.
Now, I’m wondering how long it will take for me to come to terms with losing Harlow. Because I don’t think I have yet. Far too much has happened in between the breakup and now, and I don’t think I’ve had time to grasp the severity of it all.
I’ve lost someone I loved.
And I don’t know if I’ll ever see her again.
“Okay,” Mrs. Curtley says, standing in front of the class. “Well, if anyone can get a hold of Harlow within the next few hours, can you tell her assignment is due by the end of the day? It makes up a large percentage of her final score, so it’s imperative that she submit something.”
After the letter I read last night and the fact she’s been gone for days, I have a feeling school’s the absolute last thing on Harlow’s mind.
“Oh!” the teacher exclaims, tapping on her computer. “Looks like she just emailed her project.” She looks up at the class, as if weallcare about Harlow. The only ones who do are me and the cousins. “I think we’ll wait until she comes back so she can present it herself.”
Sure.
If she comes back at all.
78
Jace
I’m even more exhausted when I enter the classroom the next morning, but that passes quickly when I see Harlow sitting with her friends. Her car wasn’t at her house this morning or all last night, and maybe I’m dreaming. Maybe my mind’s just messing with me, because it doesn’t make sense.
I trail my gaze to the back of the room, where Jonah’s already seated, and question him with my eyes alone. He shrugs. Whatever that means.
“In or out, Jace,” Mrs. Curtley says, her hand on my back as she steps around me in the doorway. I push forward, keep my gaze downcast as I pass Harlow.
I have so many questions, so many things I want to say, but when?How?
“Harlow, you’re here!” the teacher exclaims. “Great, now you can present your project to everyone.”
I don’t look at Harlow when she replies, “You didn’t watch it yesterday?” There’s a shakiness in her voice—a sadness, afear, and I inconspicuously tilt my head toward her, watch her squirm with unease.
Mrs. Curtley clearly doesn’t pick up on any of this, because she says, all cheery and clueless, “Nope! We wanted to wait for you.”
I’m not sure who the “we” is she’s referring to, because no one else had shit to say about it.
“Jonah,” Mrs. Curtley calls. “Can you close the blinds for us? Harlow has a video presentation for us all.” It’s not the first video submitted for this stupidheroproject. Most guys on my team chose basketball players, obviously. Some girls chose singers or random people from social media who I’d never heard of before. I don’t even take communications or multimedia or whatever subject this assignment is for. I’ve tuned out of all the other presentations, but, for some reason, I’m almost nervous to watch Harlow’s.
Within a minute, the TV’s set up, lights are off, and the room is shrouded in darkness.
Harlow
“Is there anything you want to say beforehand, Harlow?” Mrs. Curtley asks.
I shake my head, doing my best to keep it held high. “No.”
I hoped that they’d watch the video yesterday, when I wasn’t here, because I knew the kind of stares and whispers that would come after. I wasn’t ready for any of it.
The night I powered up Harley’s laptop, I went through each and every one of the clips. Going by the title of the folder, my brother had planned to create a video of my life for my eighteenth birthday, but he never got a chance to complete it.
So, I spent that entire night, and most of yesterday, completing it for him. Only it wasn’t just my life. It was ours—Harley and Harlow.
Mrs. Curtley clicks on the file now, and I wait with bated breath as the opening clip unfolds. A four-year-old Harley runs through the grass, holding the bubble wand in the air, forming a mass of bubbles behind him. Seconds later, I appear on the screen with my own bubble wand, chasing after him. “Wait, Harley!” I yell on the video. In real life, I sniff back my emotions, watching the movie play outthrough tear-soaked eyes. “You’re too fast!” Three-year-old me trips and falls to the grass. I cry out loud on the video, like I silently do now, and Harley stops and turns immediately, then races toward me. “You’re okay, Harlow,” he says, dropping to his knees. “Where are you hurt?”
Little me points to my knee, and my brother—my sweet, protective brother—brushes away the grass and covers it with his hand. “You’re okay,” he repeats, and then he hugs me, and I hold him back. And just like that, my tears stop on the video, but not in real life. The camera zooms in on us, on our embrace, and Dad’s voice fills my ears, myheart.“That’s very nice, Harley.”