Harper's Rules 1 & 2

Chapter 56: Harper

"Fuck, I still can't get over these." Jake's chuckle vibrated through my and Li's room as. To my horror, he paused from the last bites he had in his to-go dinner box and panned his phone camera over her wall of posters. "The fact you see them every day when you wake up and before you go to bed? Hilarious."

"Nauseating," I corrected him, groaned quietly, and squeezed past him. "I try not to look at them, otherwise I have to bleach my eyes."

Thankfully for my pint-sized roommate's dignity, Li still wasn't back from her parents' house. What was very noticeably here was another poster of Kieran hung on her wall. This one showed number eighteen in his full Bruins' uniform and helmet in game action format. A ball was tucked under his elbow and legs positioned like he ran his ass off.

Even more thankfully for my sanity, Kieran number three hung on what looked like Li's last open wall space.

So, either no more Kieran or we're picking off Jake one-by-one.

Win-win.

While I'd actually planned to tell Jake about Ethan's confrontation, courtesy of Kieran's stupidity, Jake couldn't have surprised me more when he steered the conversation not one-eighty degrees but a complete seven-twenty and apologized. The date went from a lighter 'fuck why am I here?' to a steaming shit pile of heavy, emotional issues that I hadn't anticipated.

Especially an apology for Jake soul-crushing my fourteen-year-old self.

At the risk I came off a dismissive bitch, I hadn't reacted to Jake's apology because fuck, I couldn't. Those were the last words I'd expected he said but why he was sorry wasn't a direction I was ready to step towards. Fourteen-year-old Harper swooned happily at the idea Jake cared about my feelings but almost twenty-two-year-old Harper brain farted at an apology that was one dickhead short and six years past due.

I'm sure a nice person or even Hallmark card would acknowledge the 'better late than never aspect,' but fuck, why even bother at this point? Jake's already getting what he wants, easy access to another sure score.

As much as I forced similar thoughts and self-preservation reminders through my head as a defense mechanism, Jake and I's relationship felt so blurry that my brain physically hurt if I disentangled the details to focus on what they fuck we were anymore.

So instead of the mature, emotionally stable approach that we calmly hashed out our past emotional baggage, I sat largely silent during his apology and studied him more than the actual words he said. The soft glow of the restaurant's overhead hung lights shone dimly in his eyes. They were dulled over, heavy with guilt, and yes, I also noticed when he slipped one hand in between his legs like a junk shield.

The only reason I hadn't kicked his hand back into his own junk was how Jake spoke with a level of sincerity I hadn't heard in... ever.

The weight of how fucked up our relationship circled around his apology like a bad hair clog around a drain. My opinions clashed from relieved Jake finally admitted he'd screwed up to angry at myself for how fucking insane I was to even breathe the same air space as him after all the toxic shit we'd done to each other.

The fuck is wrong with me?

Why do I just keep going back to him? Over and over?

Back in my apartment, I mentally burned the same questions into the back of Jake's fat head but still came up short with any tangible answers.

I do like his hair longer. Mental note, tug on it more.

After Jake's vomited confession about his past mistakes, I was beyond thankful he changed the subject quickly afterwards because my feet had already planned their escape route out the restaurant. What surprised me most was my verbal response, not the words that expressed how I appreciated the detachment lesson but how hollow and rehearsed they felt. I'd always lived by those words but, at that moment, I wasn't sure I believed them.