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Above me, the sky is cloudy,
and it looks vaguely like it’s going to rain. There are a few picnic tables bordering the pathway leading to the coffee shop, one of which is occupied by an elderly man reading a trashy romance novel. I grimace. There is something utterly terrifying about an old man reading those kinds of books. I half-expect him to turn out to be Harper in pedophilic form.

When I reach the old coffee shop door, I t
ake one final breath, pull open the brass knob, and step inside, my heart pounding furiously, my mind racing with the possibilities, knowing that there is a good chance I’m about to meet Harper.

And… nothing.

I scan the coffee shop with my hands completely clenched, but aside from a bored-looking cashier and a twenty-something couple feeding each other marshmallows and giggling in a totally non-discreet romantic way, the place is empty. My stomach drops a little and I can feel the disappointment creep in already. I mean, I’m five minutes early, but I still hoped… that I could see her now, I guess. See her for real. Hoped I would not have to worry, to wait any longer for her.

I
just want to talk to her already, face to face, so I can tell her how I really feel, so I can finally get it out. And yeah, I obviously want her to feel about me as I feel about her, but even if she doesn’t, just loving her is gift enough. She could hate me, she could run away and never come back and even though I’d be hurt, even though I’d spend my nights crying and lying awake thinking about her, it will all have been worth it, because I will have loved her.

Sighing, I sit down, my
gaze on the front door. She’ll be here any minute, I tell myself. It’s both a terrifying and exhilarating feeling: that I could look up any second now and lay eyes on the girl I’ve been falling for all these months. My hands have not stopped trembling, and as I sit there and stare, it’s all I can do not to imagine what will happen when I see her. Will everything go in slow motion like in the movies? Will her face light up when she sees me? Will she run at me and jump into my arms, or just awkwardly walk over, nod, and sit down? And what exactly am I going to say to her, anyway? “Oh hey Harper, you’ve never even met me before in real life but I’m in love with you and will you marry and while we’re at it, let’s have kids together!” does not sound like the greatest plan. Then of course my back-up plan is, “uh… hi,” which also is not very smooth.

I close my eyes.
God, what am I even doing here? It’s so much easier to talk through the internet than in real life. She’ll immediately realize what a freak I am and then I can kiss goodbye to all hope that I’ll ever be with her.

Gaaah.
Was this a mistake? Did I rush it?
No
, I tell myself.
She suggested meeting up. Not you. Clearly she’s interested.
I take yet another breath. Okay. It’s okay.

After a while
I lean back in my chair, listening to the sounds of the couple to my right, who are now done feeding each other marshmallows and have moved on to whispering into each other’s ears and kissing rather passionately for a coffee shop. It’s like they’re
trying
to taunt me about being here alone. Without Harper.

I shift my gaze to my left, where a
cashier snores softly on the counter. The whole place is painfully quiet.

I just want Harper
to get here.

The thing is,
I’ve never seen her before and I’m therefore not entirely sure how I’ll recognize her, but I have this gut feeling that I’ll know who she is the moment I lay eyes on her. I’ll know she’s my Harper, the one who I can’t get out of my head, the one who I don’t
want
to get out of my head. The one who, all this time, I’ve been falling in love with.

I wait.

My eyes stay glued to the door for several more minutes, but there’s still no sign of Harper. After a while longer I pull out my phone and start wasting my time on random apps and memes, as well as by constantly refreshing my vlog page for no real reason. Where is Harper? She didn’t strike me as someone to be late to something like this.

Finally, forty minutes after she was supposed to get here
, when I’m just about ready to call it quits and leave, she messages me through our chatroom.

Hey
Sam,

Sorry I couldn’t make it. Something came up. I feel like an asshole,
because I still DO want to meet. Can we try again? Tomorrow maybe? Ugh, still so sorry for not being there. I’m an idiot.

My heart sinks a little further as I read it. I close my eyes, the defeat slipping in. I feel like a pouty five year old thinking this, but I want her here
now
.

Yeah sure…
I write.
Okay. Tomorrow. Same time/place?

Yes!
I seriously feel terrible for leaving you. I hope you weren’t waiting too long. Tomorrow, yes. I’ll be there. PROMISE.

With the Chewbacca glasses?

Hell yes with the Chewbacca glasses. How could you doubt me? Also, I think next time we need to wear something so we each stand out to each other… How about I wear a “I <3 Sam Green” shirt?

Yesss! And I’ll have on a custom-made “Harper Knight Is Cooler Than Pizza-Eating Cows” shirt.

And by custom-made I assume you mean made with markers from your house?

Of course.

I would expect no less.

They’ll be badass marker drawings, obviously.

Wait, really?

*waggles brows* Really.

Good. I should never have doubted you.

That is true. Now, promise to bring your
self tomorrow, too, k?

Of course. Prepare to be blown away by my drop-dead good looks.

Oh believe me, I am prepared, m’lady.

Coolness. See you tomorrow!

Bye!

I
start at my phone for a while after she logs off, re-reading the conversation again and again. After the third time, the reality sinks in. A smile flickers across my lips.

T
omorrow, I meet Harper Knight. For real this time.

Chapter 6

I spend my night filming another vlog and thinking about Mom. When I get home, aside from commenting once again on my dad’s lack of contribution to the family, I run upstairs, slam my bedroom door shut, pull out my camera, and begin filming. I try not to get upset about Harper, but the sadness just pours out of me.

My words come out in a jumbled mess. I sit on my bed and start talking about losing someone you care about, about death and hopelessness and being lost, and the next thing I know I’m staring into the camera, my heart pounding, my eyes fighting back tears, talking about Mom.
“I remember when I was in fourth grade and my mom took Cat and me to the local playground,” I say. “It was a normal day—the sun was out, there was a nice breeze, and kids all around us were dancing and laughing and playing on the slides and swings. When we got there, Cat and I squealed about how incredibly awesome the whole place looked. Then, she ran to the playground. I turned to Mom before following her, though, not wanting to abandon my mom. When I hesitated, she said to go on, that we had the whole afternoon to play, that she’d be there waiting. So I raced after Cat, grabbed her hand, and we headed first for the sandbox, where we built a replica of cake and then destroyed it, a process that slowly devolved into a sand-fight. Next we ran to the swings, then the slide, and we laughed and played and laughed some more. It was a great day, full of life and more importantly, full of my best friend. But, after a while, I remember turning back to look at Mom. She was watching me, her eyes sparkling and trained on mine, a huge smile on her face. Then I asked her if she was coming too.”

I shake my head and
grit my teeth. What am I even doing? Filming this? Spilling out all my inner emotions into a freaking
camera
? God, I really am hopeless. Pathetic. Maybe Dad is right; maybe I am a waste of space. I mean, it’s been six months. Shouldn’t I be past the crying stage? Shouldn’t I have moved on by now?

I take another hard breath.

I don’t know whether I should be.

I just know that I’m not.

“
She just smiled and shook her head like she knew something I didn’t. Then, she knelt down in front of me and said, ‘I love you, West. Now go on and play with Cat. I’m always going to be with you, watching and smiling from here. And even when I’m not
here
here, I’m still going to be with you. In here,’ she said poking at the ribs near my heart. At the time, I had no idea what she was talking about, but I still remembered it, and I think that was her point. It’s like she knew she was going to die on me and said that so that now,” I say into the camera, “whenever I think about her death, I remember that day, and I realize I’m not so alone after all.”

I tap my heart.

Then, my hands shaking, I reach out and turn off the camera.

I d
on’t publish the vlog, though, and I know I never will. It’s not something that will ever go on my channel; it’s not funny. It’s just a video for me.

As stupid as it sounds,
sometimes I just need to let out what I’m feeling. I usually ramble like this to Cat, who hugs and comforts me and makes me feel all warm and tingly again, but sometimes it doesn’t feel right to tell her. I don’t know why, but it just doesn’t. Talking to my best friend about love? That’s weird, right?

Point is,
I don’t tell Cat everything. And since my therapist is a freaking idiot and my dad is useless, oh, and my mom is dead, I turn to my camera, the only thing that keeps me sane nowadays. I always feel my best talking into my camera, and I make a lot of vlogs I don’t post—they’re just there to make me feel confident again, happy and light inside.

I shake my head
as I put away my camera. Jeez, I really
am
insane.

Strangely,
though, as I finish the vlog and turn to my computer to distract myself with emails from Harper, I feel kind of… good. Relieved, even. Like for the first time in the six months since my mom’s death, I feel a little bit of closure.

***

The stars are out as I walk a couple of blocks down the road to Cat’s house. The night sky is midnight blue, and there are no clouds shielding the moon. Aside from the distant whistle of a slight breeze through the tree branches and the chirping of crickets all around me, the whole neighborhood is silent. I walk slowly, calmly, letting the cool air brush against my skin, taking in the distant scent of fallen, rain-glazed leaves. A shiver races up my spine, but it’s a nice shiver, a calming one. I should be freaking out now, with that video I made and my meeting with Harper tomorrow, but I feel oddly calm, like the night has stripped me of all fear.

Whe
n I reach the end of Cat’s street, I stop. Her house is three times the size of mine between its new coat of green paint, its three stories of floors, and its—wait for it—
working doors
. It’s practically heaven compared to where I live. The grass in Cat’s front yard is entirely green, and her family even has a garden that’s blooming with roses, marigolds, and flowers I don’t even recognize. It’s a nice house, warm and safe and comforting. I know it like it’s my own home, and maybe, in a way, it is my own; I’m sure I’ve spent more nights here in the last year than I have in my real bed. Hell, I’m here so much that the Davenports even nicknamed their guest room “West’s room.”

After a second, I
turn my gaze back to the driveway where I lay eyes on Cat. She sits on the edge of her dad’s old red Mercedes, her long, slender legs hanging over the hood, her sparkling blue eyes trained on me. She’s dressed in ripped-jean short-shorts and an old white T-shirt. Moonlight pours down on her red hair, giving it a silvery glow. I let out a breath. If I weren’t her best friend, I’d think she looks really, well… attractive.

I push the thought away as soon as it pops into my head.

“Hey,” I say slowly, walking up to her.

“Hey
.” She cocks her head to the side when she gets a closer look at me. “You okay?” she asks, frowning.

“Wha—” Automatically, I reach for my face, trying to figure out what she’s talking
about. Then I remember the pink around my eyes—the dried tears.

“Oh. That,” I say
. I shake my head. “That’s… nothing to worry about.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t look convinced,
but she doesn’t press it, either.

I take a step forward. “Y
ou still fixing that up?” I say to change the subject, nodding toward the car.

She gives a di
stant little half-smile. “Yep,” she says, patting the hood.

Cat has been working on
that car for three weeks now. When her dad owned it, it used to be a great car, sleek and slim and luxurious, but the years of wear her dad gave it left it in its current state: peeling paint, failed engine, damaged interior, and scratches all over.