“Harper? Are you … crying?” “No.” I sniff again. Totally busted. Giving up on the idea of not moving, I shift to wipe my damp cheeks. “You are,” he says, concern rising in his voice. “Harp, what’s wrong?” What isn’t wrong? I feel like I’m standing in the doorway of a trashed hotel room, with only the vague memory of trashing it myself. I am the only one who can clean up the mess. No one is coming to save me. And I don’t need them to. But I do need to stop the waterworks so I can talk to Chase without my voice trembling and my nose running all over my face.
