Page 2 of Glass Wings

And for some reason, I couldn’t stop watching her.

She’s in cutoff shorts and a white top that ties in the back, barefoot on the grimy carpet, and even though I put shoes in front of her, she won’t put them on. Her makeup is scattered across the bed like she’s building an altar to Sephora. She’s glowing, but there’s a tiny crease between her brows every time she glances in the mirror.

“You’re staring,” she says without looking at me, swiping gloss across her mouth.

“Maybe I like what I see,” I answer, leaning against the doorframe.

She tries to hide her smile, fails, and shakes her head. “You hate festivals.”

“Not true,” I say, stepping closer, wrapping my arms around her from behind. “I hate crowds. I hate overpriced drinks. I hate drunk guys who think they can put their hands on you. But I don’t hate festivals.”

She leans back against me, just for a second, and I feel her exhale, slow and shaky. I know something’s wrong. With Harley, it’s almost always tied to how she sees herself. The fight with anorexia has been a shadow she’s never fully shaken.

“You, okay?” I murmur into her dark hair.

“Yeah.” The words are soft, but her voice wavers like a string pulled too tight. “Just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

I don’t push. Harley doesn’t like being cornered, and I’ve learned she’ll tell me when she’s ready.

Instead, I kiss the top of her head and let her go. “Are you ready?”

She nods, still not meeting my eyes, and slips her phone into the tiny bag slung over her shoulder.

By the time we make it to the lobby of the hotel, she’s back to buzzing and is now talking about how Kennedy was already at the festival with “Miami Guy.”

“What’s his name again?” I ask, opening the front door of the hotel for her.

She laughs. “You’ve asked three times.”

“I keep hoping it’ll change.”

“Ethan,” she says, rolling her eyes. “And he’s harmless. Just … a little flashy.”

Flashy was code for asshole. I don’t say it out loud, but my jaw tightens anyway. Kennedy deserves better, and now I have to put up with an asshole for the whole day.

When we hit the entrance of the hotel, Harley slips her hand into mine like she’s done it a thousand times, mostly because she has, and tugs me toward the Uber.

“Promise me you’ll try to have fun.”

I glance down at her, at her blue and green eyes. They shine up at me, her glossed lips curling into the smallest smile. The one that always brings me to my fucking knees, and she knows it.

“For you? I’ll try.”

The Uber smells like sweat, and the coconut air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. The soft material of the rear seats of the Toyota Rav 4 feels dirty. Miami heat seeps through windows, and the AC fights a losing battle as we crawl toward the festival grounds. The driver doesn’t speak a lot of English; he muttered a hello when he climbed in, and when I tried to continue the conversation, he muttered a soft, “No habla ingles.”

I knew enough Spanish to understand that.

Harley’s been glued to her phone the whole drive, thumbs flying over the screen as a little smile tugs at her mouth. I glance down and catch a flash of the texts: Kennedy sending selfies, asking if we’re close.

“Did you show her your hair?” I ask, dragging my gaze out the window as another billboard for tequila blurs past.

“Of course! She loves it,” Harley says, turning the phone toward me. It’s a photo of Kennedy in some tiny metallic top, hair slicked into a perfect high ponytail, posing with two wristbands and a VIP badge. “She says Ethan’s friends rented out a lounge. Like … a private lounge, East.”

I grunt. “Of course they did.”

Harley nudges me with her knee, smirking like she can read my thoughts. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting.”