The dull staccato of crashing cymbals starts off the song. The guitarist, Adam, comes in a few seconds later. Then Landon steps up to the microphone standing in the middle of the stage and starts singing. He has a throaty, deep voice that I’ve always enjoyed listening to, even if his band’s music isn’t to my personal taste. I mostly listen to indie folk. I blasted The Head and the Heart for the drive from Somerville to Claremont earlier.
Landon’s band—whose current name I can’t remember because they’re constantly changing it—is more alternative rock. I think. I’m far from a music afficionado. My playlists are mostly songs that come up as suggested based on who I’ve saved as my favorite artists.
“Aren’t they incredible?” Simone shouts.
“Yeah,” I yell back at her.
I met Simone twenty minutes ago, when Landon and his bandmates headed backstage before their twenty-minute set. I’ve gathered she’s here because she’s hooking up with the shaggy-haired Adam, who has opted for the starving artist look for this gig. He’s wearing a ripped T-shirt that shows patches of the pale skin covering his lanky frame.
Landon’s gig is at a small club one town over from Claremont. It’s dark and kind of damp inside, sort of like a basement. A long bar takes up most of one wall, black leather booths lining the rest. Most of the space is open, a few hightop tables scattered close to the stage. The turnout is decent, at least sixty people clustered in here.
I’m sure Landon will be thrilled. This is, by far, the closest his band has come to a professional performance.
The song ends. Simone and I applaud loudly and there’s some scattered clapping around the room.
“I’m going to grab something to drink,” I tell Simone. “Want anything?”
She doesn’t take her eyes off the stage. “I’m good.”
I nod and then head for the bar, finding an opening about halfway down. The middle-aged bartender comes over a few minutes later, nodding when I order a sparkling water with lime. He returns with my drink right away, waving away payment when I offer. I thank him, shove a few dollars into the tip jar, and then turn around to head back toward Simone.
There’s a guy blocking the way, wearing a flirty smirk. His hair is messy and light brown, and he’s wearing a black T-shirt.
“Hey, I’m Macon.” Based on the way he says his name, I’m supposed to recognize it.
But I’ve never seen this guy before in my life.
“Hi…”
He chuckles, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Oof. I figured this was one place I’d get recognized. I’m the headliner.”
Macon nods toward the nearest booth. On the wall above it is a massive poster of his face, with Macon Gray written across his forehead in big, block letters.
“Oh. Uh, cool.”
“So…not a fan?”
“I’ve never listened to your music, so I couldn’t really say. I’m here to support my best friend.” I point toward Landon on stage.
“Ah. They’re decent.”
I nod.
“Can I buy you a drink, Red?”
I fight the urge to make a face.
I like the look of my red hair. It’s a connection to my mom, who had the same shade. A reminder of my heritage. But I hate—absolutely hate—being called Red. And I don’t get why so many guys do it. If I had dark brown hair, I’m positive he wouldn’t have asked Can I buy you a drink, Brunette?
“I have one, thanks.” I hold up my water as proof.
“Then how about a dance?”
“I have a boyfriend.”
The sentence I’ve never said before in my life spills out naturally. Usually I’d tell a guy I’m not interested or I’m here with friends. I’ve never used the boyfriend excuse, not even when I’ve been dating a guy.
I don’t have a boyfriend, but it doesn’t sound like a lie. Doesn’t feel like one either.
I wonder what Conor would do if he was here. He was definitely bothered by whatever Clayton said to him about me, which I’m guessing was some reference to the fact he’s been trying to hook up with me for a while. Was that part of some macho competition to be the biggest man on campus? Or was he jealous?
“Of course you do,” Macon says. “Could I take him?”
My lips quirk. “He plays hockey.”
“Damnit. Well, if that ever changes…look me up. Gonna be a big star one day.”
Macon flashes me a grin that makes me think he probably does have some groupies, and then heads toward backstage.
I find Simone easily. She’s by far the most enthusiastic audience member, jumping and waving her arms around. I doubt she noticed I was gone for so long.
Landon’s band plays another two songs, then head offstage. Simone and I migrate over to the bar to wait for them. It’s only a few minutes before the four guys reappear, all holding cold beers.
I suppress a sigh. I was kind of hoping to head straight home after his set. I got up early this morning to swim, had two labs, and then drove to the Garrisons’. I barely had time to dump my stuff before Landon and I left to come here.
“You guys were ah-mazing!” Simone trills.
“Really good,” I agree, nodding.
“You should bring some friends to our next gig, Harlow,” Adam suggests. “We need more fans.”
“When is your next gig?” I ask.
“We don’t have one,” Landon tells me.
“We will,” the drummer, Matt, predicts. “I told you my uncle’s bar is looking for acts.”
“Get us a tryout then,” Landon tells him.
We have to move away from the door so some equipment can get rolled through, ending up crammed into one of the open booths so the guys can drink their beers and relax. Rock music blares from the speakers as a couple of guys rearrange the stage. I sip my water, feeling a headache form. It’s too loud in here to make much conversation, the guys mostly nodding and grinning at each other. Jubilant after their successful show.
The speakers cut out and there’s a bunch of applause before a male voice says, “How’s everyone doing tonight?”
More applause. Landon and his bandmates are now looking toward the stage.
“Good, good. I’m Macon Gray. If you’re here, you probably already know that. Although…” He chuckles. “You might not. I’d like to dedicate this next song to the redhead who broke my heart earlier by falling for a hockey player and not waiting for me. Brains over brawn, baby.”
I almost laugh, until I realize everyone in the booth is staring at me. Landon, the hardest of all.
“What’s he talking about?” he asks me.
Guess I’m the only redhead in here.
I roll my eyes. “Nothing. He hit on me at the bar. I told him I wasn’t interested.”
“Because you’re dating a hockey player?”
“I told him athletes are more my type. He drew conclusions, I guess.”
My heart beats faster and faster with each lie that I tell.
Landon has no idea I’ve ever even spoken to Conor.
It’s the biggest secret I’ve kept over the course of our twenty-year-long friendship.
I didn’t feel like I needed to tell Landon about our talk in the kitchen. Or the run-in at the pool. Or the training at the track. I could even rationalize keeping the sex to myself, it’s not like I told him details about that before Conor happened to be the guy in question.
But every time I talk to Conor, text him, kiss him, touch him—all of which I’ve been doing a lot of lately—I feel guiltier and guiltier. Not that I’m doing it, but that Landon doesn’t know. Especially since my feelings toward Conor only seem to be getting stronger, instead of fading the way I assumed—hoped—they would.
“Huh.” Landon looks confused, not suspicious.
“Athletes?” Matt, the drummer, shakes his head. “Macon’s right. Mistake. They’re notorious fuckboys.”
“I’ve heard that about musicians too,” I say.
Matt winks at me. “Only successful ones.”
Landon punches Matt’s arm. Either because of the implication they aren’t ones or because he’s sort of flirting with me. He might be a year younger than me, but Landon has taken on the protective, big brother role since we were kids.
The guys finish their beers, Landon grabs his guitar, and we head out into the parking lot.
“So, what did you think?” he asks as soon as we start driving.
“I told you; you guys were great.”
Landon glances over. “Adam was in the wrong key for half the set.”
“Simone didn’t notice.”
He laughs. “Yeah. At least we have a groupie.”
“I was there too,” I remind him.
“Thanks for coming, Harlie.”
I shove away the guilt, focusing on the road. “Of course.”
We talk easily for the remainder of the drive, catching up on the past couple of months. With one notable exclusion on my side.
My stomach grumbles as I park my car in the driveway next to the big, brick house. Landon’s gig was at seven and it’s almost eight now. Allison promised to have dinner waiting when we got home, and I missed her cooking.
“Hungry?” Landon grins.
“Starving,” I reply, climbing out of the car and stretching before I follow him up the stone walkway to the front porch.
The door opens before we even reach it, and Allison Garrison steps out. She starts clapping, and Landon’s cheeks turn red.
“Mom. Stop it,” he grumbles.
“You wouldn’t let me come to your show, so this is my way of congratulating you.”
Landon rolls his eyes. “How many famous musicians do you think bring their moms along to their shows?”
I can’t resist saying, “Taylor Swift. Have you heard of her?”
Allison laughs, pulling me into another hug. “Ah, I missed you, Harlow.”
“I missed you too,” I say, resting my chin on her shoulder. She’s the closest link to my mom I have left. They were best friends for half their lives, meeting as freshmen at Holt.
Allison’s arms tighten around me, like maybe she’s thinking the same thing.
“The next Bob Dylan is back already?” Hugh Garrison steps out of the kitchen and into the front hallway. He smiles at Landon, then his gaze lands on me.
“Harlow,” he greets warmly.
He was at work when I arrived earlier. This is the first time I’ve seen him since I left for Holt in August. Hugh looks the same as he did then. Tall, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes as his younger son.
“Hey, Hugh,” I greet, stepping forward into his open arms.
For the first time, it occurs to me: I’m hugging Conor Hart’s dad.
He’s always been Landon’s father in my head. Allison’s—my mother’s best friend’s—husband.
I wonder if Conor has ever hugged his father. I doubt it.
“I just pulled dinner out of the oven. Your timing is perfect,” Allison says before heading into the kitchen.
I hang up my coat in the front hall and then follow her. It smells amazing, a tray of roast chicken and vegetables sitting out on the counter next to a green salad. Way better than anything I cook for myself.
Hugh and Allison barrage me with questions about classes and friends as we set the table and sit down to eat. It feels normal. Comfortable. A routine that’s taken place many times before, because it has.
They ask Landon questions about his gig, the pride unmistakable in their tones. Landon could probably decide to pursue a clown career, and they’d support it. And I know he appreciates that. But I can’t help but compare it to Conor. I don’t think his mom has been to a single game this season. If she has, he hasn’t mentioned it.
“You couldn’t have worn something nicer to perform in?” Allison is asking, eyeing Landon’s outfit critically.
“Seriously, Mom?” Landon glances down at the Brighton sweatshirt he’s wearing. “What’s wrong with this?”
“To start, it’s dirty.” Allison nods to a stain on the sleeve that looks like coffee.
Landon rolls his eyes, then pulls off his sweatshirt. Underneath, he’s wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt he slept in recently, if the number of creases in the cotton are any indication. “Better?”
“Worse,” Allison says. “I’ll put in a load of laundry after dinner.”
I bite my bottom lip to keep from grinning.
“Musicians have better things to do with their time than laundry.”
“Just because you want to be a starving artist doesn’t mean you need to dress like one,” is Allison’s response. I wonder what she would have thought of Adam’s outfit. At least Landon’s shirt is in one piece.
“Is Kelly visiting this weekend?” Hugh asks in an obvious attempt to change the topic.
“No. We’re taking a break,” Landon replies.
“Oh,” Allison says before exchanging a glance with Hugh.
Neither of them look dismayed by the news. I’ve never liked Landon’s girlfriend all that much, either. She spends an unhealthy amount of time complaining. He could do much better, in my opinion.
“What about you, Harlow?” Allison looks to me.
“What about me?” I ask, spearing some salad on my fork.
“Didn’t you say you were going out on a double date with Eve and her boyfriend a little while ago?”
“Oh, yeah. That happened.”
“How was it?”
“Not great,” I say bluntly. “We definitely aren’t soulmates.”
“What about that guy in one of your classes? Aaron?” Allison isn’t deterred. Maybe she feels like she needs to ask the questions my mom isn’t here to.
“Eric. We went out too,” I admit.
“And?”
I sigh. “He was nice.”
“That’s promising!”
“Nice is code for not interested, Mom,” Landon says.
I roll my eyes, acknowledging he has a point. “I don’t think we’ll go out again,” I tell her.
“Well, that’s fine,” Allison says. “There are plenty of great guys out there.”
“Plenty of jerks, you mean.” Landon scoffs. “Most of the guys at Brighton are total tools.”
“All of your friends seem perfectly nice,” Allison replies.
“Well, yeah. They’re not jocks.”
I have a feeling that comment is aimed at me and my alleged athletes are my type.
“That’s awfully stereotypical, Landon. Your father played sports.”
“Yeah, I know.” Landon rolls his eyes. “Apple fell far from the tree.”
There’s an awkward pause I don’t think I’m imagining. But maybe I am. I could count on my fingers the number of times I’ve heard Conor’s name uttered out loud in this house since I’ve been living here. But he comes up in innocuous idioms like the one Landon just spoke. On Father’s Day. Whenever Holt or hockey is mentioned.
He’s a shadow in the background.
Subtext in conversations.
I’ve always had some vague sense of it. I’m painfully aware of it now. Because Conor is no longer a shadow or subtext to me. He’s vivid color. Larger than life.
After dinner, a few of Landon’s high school friends come over to catch up. We end up lounging around in the den.
Landon’s friends are similar to him: sweet, slightly nerdy, and happier spending a night in than out. The decision to watch one of the Lord of the Rings movies is met with great enthusiasm—from everyone but me.
I entertain myself by scrolling through social media on my phone.
Suddenly, several of the guys stand up from the couch.
“Movie over?” I ask. Based on Landon’s eye roll, the question came out too eager.
“No. Popcorn break,” he replies. “Want any?”
“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” I snuggle back into the cushions.
All the guys leave the den except for Steve Essex. “Senior year going well?” he asks me, taking advantage of the extra space on the couch to spread out some.
Steve has always been more outgoing than the rest of Landon’s friends. He’s the closest person I have to a friend in this town where I hardly know anyone.
The Garrisons would always come to visit my family in Canada. Landon was still in high school when I came to live with them, but I only lived in Claremont for a couple of weeks before moving into Holt’s dorms to start my freshman year. This town doesn’t feel like home.
“Yeah, pretty good,” I reply. “Crazy to believe I’m almost done with college.”
“Tell me about it. I can’t believe I’m more than halfway done. All the senior guys on the team were messes at our last game.” Steve smiles. “Weird to think that’ll be me soon.”
I recall he plays soccer at a small college in Oregon. An exception to Landon’s my friends aren’t jerks because they’re not jocks rule.
“Did you guys have a good season?”
“Not bad. We’re Division III though, you know? Not the biggest deal.”
“Yeah, Holt is the same way.”
Steve glances at the sliding door that leads into the den, then back at me. “Not when it comes to hockey, from what I hear.”
I shift uncomfortably. “Yeah. Not for hockey.”
“I get why Landon hates him. I do. But I went to high school with Conor too. He had his moments…but he’s not a bad guy. Evan Sanford was on the soccer team with me. He was Conor’s right winger in the winter. Couldn’t say enough good things about the guy. I just…well, it couldn’t have been easy for Conor, either, you know?” Steve shrugs. “Nice to see some things working out for him now. I hope he makes it to the pros.”
I just stare at him.
My silence unnerves Steve. He glances at the doorway again before leaning forward. “This is just between us, right? You won’t…”
“I won’t say anything to Landon,” I assure him.
Steve lets out a relieved sigh. “Okay. Good.”
Loud chatter announces Landon’s return, along with the rest of the guys. When it comes to fantasy trilogies, they all have plenty to say. I shake my head when Landon holds the popcorn bowl out to me and keep my eyes fixed on the television screen as the movie resumes.
I’m too distracted to even attempt to immerse myself in the movie. I stare at the screen until the credits roll, then say good night to Landon and his friends and head up to my room.
It’s one of several guest rooms in the five-bedroom house. I haven’t changed any of the furnishings that were here when I moved in, despite Hugh and Allison encouraging me to make any changes I wanted.
I get ready for bed and then slide between soft flannel sheets, grabbing my phone off the nightstand. I chew on my bottom lip for a good minute before texting him.
HARLOW: Hey.
I wasn’t sure if he’d reply. It’s a Friday night. But he does immediately.
CONOR: Hey. You made it okay?
HARLOW: Yeah, the drive isn’t that long.
HARLOW: …which you know.
HARLOW: Did Cody decide the drills this week?
I’m surprised when his response is to call me.
“This is easier than texting,” Conor says when I answer. “I’m trying to ice my ribs.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Just Sampson being a dick. He claims I was about to score.”
“Were you?”
A pause. “Well, yeah.”
I laugh.
“And, yes, Cody had lots of requests this week, like always. He also told me I was skating too slow. He’s in for a surprise when he gets old enough to play with boarding allowed.”
There’s a muffled slam on the other end, followed by a faint version of Aidan’s voice.
“Do you mind?” Conor rumbles.
“I told you we were leaving at ten. What the fuck, Hart?”
“And I told you I’m not going. Look at this.”
There’s a rustle.
“Fucking Robby,” Aidan grumbles. “Fine, we’ll skip Gaffney’s. Can we get pizza? I’m hungry. Who are you on the phone with, anyway?
I hold my breath.
“It’s Harlow.”
“You mean your girl—”
“Out, Phillips! I’ll be downstairs in five, okay?”
“Fine. Tell the girl you’re fucking and talk to all the time that—”
There’s a thud on Conor’s end, then silence.
“How much of that did you hear?” His voice is normal again, no longer muffled.
“All of it.”
He sighs. “Fucking Phillips. If he wasn’t a good winger and a great friend, I’d never talk to him again.”
I play with a stray thread on the comforter. “How much did you tell him?”
“Absolutely nothing. He’s just the nosiest guy I know and happens to know my hockey schedule. And he made me and Morgan put our class schedules up on the fridge, so anytime either of us go anywhere that’s not either hockey or school-related, we get questions. Morgan hardly goes anywhere, so he doesn’t really care.”
“Maybe you should do the same thing to him. Ask Aidan where he goes all the time so that he realizes it’s annoying.”
“Tried that.” Conor sighs. “He loved it. He’s an oversharer anyway.” He pauses. “I’m not, Hayes. If that’s what you’re worried about.”
“I wasn’t.” Although it’s nice to know.
“I’d better go. Phillips will come back up here.”
“Yeah, I know. I’ll, uh, see you soon?”
He came over after his Wednesday practice and spent the night, but I haven’t seen him since. I was hyperaware of this trip looming, and maybe he was too.
“Yeah, text me when you’re back. Night, Hayes.”
“Bye.”
We both linger on the line for a few seconds, leaving space where there are other words we could say. Where I miss you might fit, or even another three-word phrase. But we both hang up without saying anything else.
I drop my face into my hands, rubbing my temples. It’s so strange being back here, where nothing has changed except me. Where I’m part of this tangible family that Conor’s a ghost in.
I just spent hours—natural, comfortable hours—with his father and half-brother, and as far as I know he hasn’t even talked to either of them in years. There’s a huge blockade up ahead, one I’m pretending not to see because it’s convenient.
Eventually, I’ll have to acknowledge it. And the deeper I get with Conor—and I’m already approaching Can’t see the shore or touch the bottom territory—the more it’s going to hurt.
There’s a soft knock on the door a few seconds later.
I clear my throat, then call “Come in.”
The door opens and Allison peeks her head in. “Hey. Do you need anything?”
I shake my head. “All good, thanks.”
“I thought I heard some voices in here…”
“Oh, yeah. Mine. Eve called because she couldn’t find some of her art stuff.”
I’m getting better at lying, and I’m not proud of it.
Allison smiles. “I’m so glad you found a friend like her. Reminds me of me and your mom.”
I smile back, nodding.
“I’m sorry if I was pushy at dinner, Harlow. I didn’t mean to put you on the spot, and I know I can never replace your mom. I just want you to know you can talk to me about anything.”
“I know that. Thanks.”
“All right. Sweet dreams.” She starts to close the door.
“Hey, Allison?”
“Yes?”
“Do you, uh, do you remember when my mom met my dad?”
“Of course.”
“What did she say about him? How did she…know? That he was the one, I mean.”
One of her eyebrows lifts. “So there is a guy, huh?”
“Yeah.” I look down, playing with the thread again. “But it wasn’t really dinner table talk. I’m sure Landon wouldn’t approve of him. And it’s more of a, um, physical thing. We’re not actually dating, or anything.”
Allison closes the door, then comes and sits at the end of my bed. “Why do you think Landon wouldn’t approve?”
“He, uh, plays sports.”
She smiles. “I think Landon might be a little unfairly biased there. He played football when he was younger, you know.”
“He did?”
As far as I can remember, Landon’s main interest has been music.
Allison nods. “I think he felt pressure to play because Hugh did. Pressure when he did play, to live up to Hugh’s legacy. It wasn’t a natural fit for him, and that was hard. All I’m saying is, don’t let Landon’s biases become yours. What else is there to know about this guy, besides that he plays sports?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, trying to decide how much else to share. She’s not biologically related to Conor the way Hugh and Landon are, but he’s technically her stepson.
“He’s…” I shake my head. “I don’t really know how to describe him. He’s infuriating sometimes, but he can also be really sweet. Thoughtful. He listens and pays attention to me. If I mention a lab report to him, he’ll remember to ask me about it when it’s due a week later. I never told him I love ginger ale, but I guess he noticed at some point because now it’s the first thing he offers me. He’s considerate and he challenges me and I…I’m, um, rambling.”
“He sounds wonderful, Harlow.”
I nod, swallowing. “Yeah, he is. But it’ll never work out between us. We’re too different, and he’s not interested in a relationship anyway. So I keep waiting for it to end, to fizzle out naturally, but it hasn’t. I just keep getting in deeper and deeper.”
“I think that’s why they call it falling in love, sweetheart. Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
“Well, I need it to.”
“Tell him, Harlow. Tell this guy how you feel about him. And if he’s everything you say he is, hopefully he’ll surprise you. Sometimes we need people to show us a different way to look at things, when we can’t see it ourselves. Were you expecting to have these feelings for this guy when you first met him?”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not.”
“See? You never know. Maybe he’s feeling the same way. And if he’s not, then he’s not the one for you and it’s his loss. Okay, honey?”
I nod, not sure it’s any solution at all. Even if Conor does have some feelings for me, they’re massively overshadowed by his hatred of the other people in this house.
Unless I turn my back on the Garrisons and decide to never speak to them again, I don’t see how any type of future includes us as a couple. And I’m not sure if I could live with myself. Whatever mistakes Hugh has made, whatever resentments Landon harbors…they took me in as family. They’re the closest connection I have to my parents.
I want them to be included in my life. I always figured I’d ask Hugh to walk me down the aisle if I got married. Have conversations like this with Allison, except using a guy’s name. That isn’t possible for me and Conor.
But he’s become an addiction. I couldn’t even go more than a couple of days without talking to him. I don’t know if I’m strong enough to walk away from him, even out of self-preservation.
Conor is going to have to be the one who ends things between us.
And he’ll earn his stupid nickname, because it will break my heart.
Allison stands. “Get some sleep. I made a brunch reservation and nail appointments for us tomorrow. Thought we could have a girls’ outing?”
I nod. “That sounds great.”
“Everything will work out,” she tells me.
I force a smile. “I know.”
I don’t, though.
“I’d love to meet him one day, Harlow,” Allison tells me, before heading toward the door.
You already have, I think.
