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Scottie nodded again and then said five little words that made Mason bristle.
“I want Harper to come.”
“Uh, I’m not sure—”
“Harper?” Scottie looked at me with big expectant eyes, and I couldn’t say it.
I couldn’t tell him no.
Even if I couldfeelMason silently telling me to.
“If Mason says it’s okay.”
The guy in question sucked in a sharp breath but managed a curt nod as he murmured, “Fine. We can go to the diner next door.”
We headed back into the locker room and traded our skates for sneakers. Mason didn’t say a word to me, and he didn’t need to.
Hostility rolled off him in angry waves.
He was pissed.
Again.
Sometimes, I wished I wasn’t like this. I wished I could just say no and refrain from overstepping, from inserting myself where I wasn’t wanted. But you couldn’t change your heart. And mine was broken, bruised, and starved for affection. Constantly searching for a quick fix.
I liked making people happy. I liked feeling like I was a part of something. Craved it even if I didn’t always know how to handle it.
I followed Mason and Scottie out of the rink, both of them deep in conversation about the Lakers games against the Huskies. Neither of them tried to include me, and, for a second, I wondered what the hell I was doing, encroaching on their brother-bonding time.
Until Scottie glanced back and said, “Do you like pancakes, Harper?”
“I… who doesn’t like pancakes.” The words spilled out before I could stop them.
Crap, I hoped they did a gluten-free option. But when I spotted the little diner on the street corner, my hopes were dashed.
“It’s a bit rough around the edges,” Mason said as if he sensed my thoughts. “But the food is good.”
“I’m sure it is.” I pressed my lips together, mentally drumming up a list of excuses as to why I wouldn’t eat more than some granola and fruit.
“We can share a stack,” Scottie said, ducking into the diner.
Mason turned to me and said, “You didn’t have to come,” but it sounded a lot like,‘I didn’t want you to come.’
“Don’t worry. I’m only here for Scottie.” I slipped around him and joined the younger Steele brother.
“Table for three?” A woman called from behind the counter.
“Yes, please.”
“Grab a booth, and I’ll be over to take your order.”
Scottie chose a booth by the window, giving us a front-row seat to the street and beyond. I picked up a menu and scanned it, hardly surprised there was no mention of any gluten-free options.
Ugh.
“Problem?” Mason asked, noticing my frown.
“Nope.” I dropped it onto the table. “I think I’ll have the fruit salad and some granola.”
