Page 84 of On the Breakaway

Harper shifts toward me, laying her head in my lap. Without thinking, I start combing my fingers through her hair.

“I feel stupid,” she murmurs.

“You’re not stupid.”

“I’ve built my entire life around him.”

The terrifying thing is, I understand how that happens.

It happens slowly. One compromise at a time until you wake up one day and realize you’ve been orbiting someone else for so long you forgot how to stand still on your own.

“I know,” I say.

“You’d never do something that stupid.”

Her green eyes focus on me, waiting for me to agree.

But I can’t.

Because I was that stupid.

I force myself to forget Grayson in the front seat, who might be hearing every word out of our mouths.

“It’s not stupid, Harper. Loving that way is brave. And you’re not the only one who changed herself for a man. I hardly even recognized myself by the end of my relationship with Damon.”

Her brows furrow. “Why do we do that?”

“You did it,” I sweep her hair off her forehead, “Because you love James so wholeheartedly that you put him above everything. See? Brave.”

“Is that the same reason you changed yourself? Because you loved Damon like that?”

My eyes burn, and I swallow. “I did it because I wanted Damon to love me like that, and I thought that was the only way anyone ever could.”

“But I love you that way already, and Wesley does too.” Her hand reaches up, brushing my cheek.

The lump in my throat gets worse because Harper says things like that so easily, as if it’s the simplest thing in the world. Even as her marriage implodes, she loves like love’s never once betrayed her.

A smile twitches at the corner of my mouth. “I love you too.”

Harper’s eyes are almost closed now. “I think something’s really wrong with my marriage.”

“You’ll be okay.”

Silence fills the car the rest of the way to my place. When we park out front, I tap Harper to get her back awake and off my lap.

“Okay,” I murmur, “We’re home.”

“I’ll help…” Grayson starts.

“No.” I shake my head. “Just wait out here?”

Something flickers across his face at the request, but he nods. “Yeah. Of course.”

I help Harper out of the car, one arm around her waist, while she stumbles slightly in her heels.

Getting Harper upstairs is slow but manageable. Once inside, I guide her toward the couch, but she points down the hallway.

“My makeup,” she says with drunken seriousness. “If I sleep in mascara, I’ll look haunted tomorrow.”