Page 52 of Spring Tide

“Dammit, Taylor,” I mutter. “This isn’t a fashion show.”

“Yes, it is. Now, go, go!”

I jog down the hallway, listening for the signature sounds of Harper’s animated voice. As soon as the front door swings open, I retrieve Taylor’s shopping bag and shuffle into my bedroom.

Of course, the clothes Taylor bought me look fucking ridiculous. There’s a pair of dark-wash jeans, charcoal trousers, a button-up, and this heather-gray sweater. An actual fucking sweater. I think it’s been about fifteen years since I’ve worn something like this.

I shake my head, grimacing as I assess my appearance in the mirror. I feel like a complete phony, but I don’t have time to fret over it right now. Besides, as if I needed the constant reminder this whole thing is fake in the first place.

But at least for right now, it’s officially showtime.

“Harper,” I greet, clearing my throat as I re-enter the kitchen.

She’s on her knees on the hard tile floor, scrubbing her hands through Bentley’s shaggy fur. Her chin tilts up at the sound of my voice, cheeks brightening with a sweet smile as she rises to greet me.

Her golden-brown hair is styled into a wild mix of braids and waves. She’s wearing a muted green dress that stops midthigh. It’s not tight, but it pools and dips along all the places where her body curves. At the mere sight of her, I swear something in my chest draws tight, a low and pleasant hum warming my blood.

“Hi,” she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder for a beat. My gaze cuts in that direction, noting my sister’s not-so-inconspicuous stare. Harper steps forward, fingers brushing across the side of my jaw, soft and slow, voice dipping as she says, “You look handsome.”

I might assume the words aren’t truly meant for me, that they’re a mere cover-up for our lie ... but she’s whispered them. There’s no way Taylor could even hear what she’s said, not over the sound of King Princess playing in the background or the sizzle of our dinner on the stovetop.

I swallow back the lump in my throat. That ridiculous feeling from earlier, the one I had when I was staring at this godforsaken button-up/trouser combo, has suddenly disappeared.

It feels pretty fucking nice.

“You look great, too.” I glide my fingertips from the top of her bare shoulder down to the crook of her elbow. “Beautiful.”

A warm, peachy heat colors her cheeks. “Thank you.”

“Hey, lovebirds,” Taylor cuts in, her voice filled with unfiltered glee. “Our dinner’s ready. Take a seat at the table so I can serve us up.”

* * *

The food is great,the wine Harper brought is perfect, and she and Taylor get along like they’ve known each other for ages.

They’ve even developed some sort of inside joke about hot sauce. I won’t try to understand it, but it’s nice they’ve bonded this quickly. Even after three years, Taylor never formed a lasting relationship with my ex. In fact, Sofia was always much closer to my parents than she was to my siblings.

Now that we’ve been broken up for ages, Taylor always reminds me to move on and move up. In her words, that is. She always thought I could do better, but at the time,Ithought Sofia was better. Or that she was the best fit for me, anyway.

My be-all and end-all.

Now I know that’s not the case. Not that Harper is meant for me, either, considering we’re not actually together. I haven’t fully deluded myself into believing that much, but at least I’ve gained a real friend out of all this. Someone who understands me.

It’s been a while since I could say that about anyone and truly mean it.

“I have a bartending shift in a half hour,” Taylor says, swiping a napkin over her lips. “Do you think you could take care of this?”

Harper shoots out of her chair, already gathering up the dirty dishware from the table. “Of course! You don’t even need to ask,” she insists, prying used cutlery from my hands. “You cooked, so we’ll clean.”

“I knew I liked this one.” Taylor pushes up from her chair, reaching out to pat my fake girlfriend on the top of her head. Harper simply grins at the affectionate gesture.

“She’s not Bentley, Tay,” I mutter, gathering up the empty wineglasses. “You can’t just give her head pats for a job well done.”

“Sure, she can.” Harper giggles, soft and sweet, as she turns on her heel. The dishes are piled high into the sink—pans, cutting boards, plates, glasses, and bowls. It’s a disaster, but I suppose it’s a sign of a well-loved meal.

“Thank you for dinner,” I tell my sister. “We’ve got this, no problem.”

“Thanks, you two. I’ll be home late, so—”

---