‘You’ve got to be kidding me!’ I shout. Yet again Harper’s left half of his outfit from last night all over the living room floor, and he’s already coating all of the kitchen surfaces in a loaf’s worth of toast crumbs.
Harper’s eyes shoot open from where he’s leaning, half-asleep, against the counter, feeding himself toast in just his boxers. If I weren’t so angry, I’d let myself appreciate the picture in front of me a little more.
‘What?’ he grumbles, rubbing a buttery hand through his curls to get them off his forehead. It’s gross, but the boner trying to make an appearance in my shorts doesn’t agree.
‘It’s disgusting in here, Harper. How can you live like this?’
‘Seriously, the sun hasn’t even come up. It’s like 8am. Why are you screaming?’
The blinds are still down and he’s clearly hungover – I can smell stale beer in the air – so he has no idea that the sun came up hours ago and it’s definitely not 8am.
I go round opening each blind one by one to prove my point. He covers his eyes, squinting and groaning. The Austrian sun’s not warm by any means, but it’s undeniably daylight.
‘We have to share this space,’ I say, gesturing angrily to the mess he’s generated in the wake of making a couple pieces of toast.
‘Okay, Grandad. I’ll clean up after a couple hours’ sleep. Give me a break.’
A break? He’s treating the whole of his racing adventure like one big break.
‘God, you’d think I was asking the world from you, not the bare minimum.’
Maybe this is the world for Harper. Like he’s never had to tidy up in his whole life. I don’t really know much about his background. Maybe he had a butler following him around with a dustpan and brush, or maybe this is a form of weaponised incompetence.
‘I always plan to clean up and then by the time I get to it you’ve already done it,’ he says.
‘Because you leave plates and bowls in the sink for days on end. We’re going to end up with a fucking fly infestation.’
‘They’re soaking. You’re meant to leave them to soak.’
We aren’t getting anywhere with this conversation and I know I’m just wasting my time. Leaving him to it in the kitchen to argue with himself, I grab my sports bag and give myself a once over in the mirror to make sure I’m presentable.
‘Where you off to?’ he asks, hovering over my shoulder as I try to sort my hair out in the mirror by the door.
I probably shouldn’t be worrying about what my hair looks like when I’m about to head to the gym and get sweaty, but there’s press and fans lurking everywhere right now. I have to pass through the access-all-areas point for fans in order to get to the gym and, call me vain, but I don’t need shit photos of me circulating on social media.
‘To the gym, not that it’s any of your business.’
‘Do you always preen this much to go and work out?’
‘I’m meeting Jackson.’ I’m not sure why I feel the need to add this. It’s not like we’re going on a date – it’s just the gym.
‘You two seemed to be joined at the hip lately. Anything you want to tell me?’
‘No.’
‘I’m just surprised. Didn’t think he was your type.’
‘My type to work out with?’ I shoot back, even though I know exactly what he means. Apart from the curly hair, there’s no other similarities between Harper and Jackson.
‘Hmm. Well, have a good day, I guess.’
He drops the subject way faster than I expect, returning to collect his half-eaten toast from the kitchen counter.
Infuriatingly, he leaves the knife – with butter smeared on both the blade and the handle – on the side, not bothering to even put it in the sink, never mind washing it up.
I’m tempted to do it for him, but he’s never going to learn if I do. So I leave, not caring if I’m too early to meet Jackson. I just need to be anywhere other than within throwing distance of Harper right now.
Jackson, unlike Harper, is punctual and doesn’t flake without letting me know, so he’s actually waiting outside the gym when I arrive. We’re both early, it seems.
