Page 74

47
Harlow
It’s a struggle to wake up the following day. I spent most of the night crying in between attempts to reach Jace. He didn’t answer once.
Dad gives me a ride to work, but my stomach drops when I see Lana behind the counter instead of Jace. I approach, a lump already in my throat before I reach her. “No Jace today?”
“He called, said he had to take a personal day. I think he was tired from carrying the entire team yesterday.”
“Right.”
I look toward the kitchen to see Jonah already there, and I try calling Jaceagainon the way to the office to clock in. He doesn’t answer. Fear forms a knot in my stomach, and I contemplate calling Dad to knock on their door, check if everything’s okay. But I worry it might make things worse.
The day drags, despite being busy, and by the time Dad picks me up after my shift, I’m in panic mode, worried beyond reason. Until a text comes through on the drive home.
Jace
I’m okay.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I inhale a full breath, let the oxygen fill my lungs, bring me back to life. I check for Jace’s van when we drive by his house, but it’s not there. As soon as I’m out of Dad’s truck, I make my way to my bike. “I’m going to pop in on Jace,” I tell him. “He wasn’t at work today, so I just want to make sure he’s okay.”
“Ask him to come over for dinner if he’s up for it,” Dad says, and I agree, though I know he probably won’t.
I race over to his house, knock on the door.
No answer.
I try calling again.
No answer.
I have dinner with my dad and retire to my room with the excuse that I’m tired. Sitting at my desk, I open my laptop and search two words I’d promised I never would.
Isaac Rivera.
I’d heard his grandpa say the name last night and can only suspect who it belongs to.
I hit enter, and suddenly, my screen’s filled with news stories from ten years ago. I click into the first one and cover my mouth to block the gasp from escaping. Dark brown eyes stare back at me. Inky blank hair. Slight freckles on his nose.
Jace is the spitting image of his dad.
My stomach turns, and I shut the screen, refusing to read the actual story attached to the images. Refusing to scroll down in case there are more pictures. I don’t want to know…
At least notthisway.
I crawl into bed, tears soaking into my pillow as I cry.
I cry for the little boy who lost his parents, and I cry for the boy I know now.
And I cry for myself.
Because I fear I may have just lost them both.
48
Harlow
Jace has college classes on Mondays, so I don’t expect him to be at school, but I at least expect—orhope—that he answers my call in the morning.