The Calloway dining room hasn't changed since I was twelve. Same mahogany table that seats fourteen. Same crystal chandelier casting warm light over plates we're not allowed to touch until everyone is seated. Same suffocating formality that makes every meal feel like a performance.
I take my usual seat across from my mother, who's watching me with an expression I can't quite read. My father pours wine without looking up.
"So." Mom sets down her napkin, perfectly folded. "Ethan Reyes."
Here we go.
"I saw the photos from the coffee shop." She smiles, actually smiles, and the warmth in it catches me completely off guard. "Harper, why didn't you tell us you two were back together?"
I blink. "What?"
"I always liked him, you know. Even back in high school." She reaches for her wine, still smiling. "He was so polite whenever he came over. Good manners, genuine respect. Not like those other boys your friends dated."
My father nods, finally looking up. "Strong work ethic too. I remember reading about his scholarship story. Single mother, worked her way up from nothing. That kind of background builds character."
I stare at them both, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The criticism. The disapproval. The reminder of everything that happened three years ago.
It doesn't come.
"I have to admit, I was worried after the breakup," Mom continues, oblivious to my confusion. "You were so devastated that summer. But young love is complicated, isn't it? People make mistakes. The important thing is that you've found your way back to each other."
My throat tightens. This is worse. This is so much worse than anger.
"He's going to be drafted, isn't he?" Dad's voice carries that familiar calculating edge. "First round potential, from what I've read. Smart choice, Harper. Very strategic."
"It's not strategic. We're just—"
"Oh, don't be modest." Mom waves her hand dismissively. "You've always been practical. It's one of your best qualities. A professional athlete with his trajectory, your career in sports management—it's a perfect match."
The food arrives, some elaborate dish I don't taste. I push it around my plate while my parents continue their analysis of my relationship. His injury recovery timeline. His endorsement potential. How this could benefit my career. How lovely it would be to have him at the holiday gala next month.
They're happy. Genuinely, completely happy about something that isn't even real.
Every word of praise feels like a knife twisting in my gut. I'm lying to them. Sitting at this table, eating their food, letting them build fantasies about a future that doesn't exist. They're talking about grandchildren timelines and I signed a six-month contract with an expiration date.
"Harper?" Mom's voice cuts through my spiral. "You've barely touched your dinner. Is everything alright?"
"Fine. Just tired."
"You should bring him to dinner next week." She's already planning, already mentally rearranging seating charts. "Your father and I would love to catch up with him properly. See how he's grown."
"I don't think—"
"Nonsense. If you're serious about this relationship, we should get to know him again." She pats my hand across the table. "I know the breakup was hard, sweetheart. But sometimes the best love stories have difficult chapters in the middle."
I can't breathe.
The room feels too small, the chandelier too bright, their approval too heavy on my shoulders. I want to scream the truth—it's fake, all of it, a business arrangement with contracts and scheduled Instagram posts. I want to tell them I haven't forgiven him, that I don't know if I ever can, that every moment with him is a battle between my body's memory and my mind's resistance.
But I can't defend him too hard. Can't show too much emotion either way.
Because if I do, they'll see it. The crack in my armor. The part of me that still responds to his name like a reflex I never unlearned.
"I should go." I push back from the table. "Early practice tomorrow."
"But we haven't had dessert—"
"I'm not hungry." I'm already grabbing my bag, moving toward the door. "I'll call you this week."
Mom's face falls slightly. "Harper, what's wrong? I thought you'd be happy we approve."
That's exactly the problem.
"Nothing's wrong. I'm just tired." I kiss her cheek, mechanical and brief. "Thank you for dinner."
I make it to my car before the shaking starts. My hands tremble against the steering wheel, my breath coming in short, sharp bursts. I pull out of the driveway and drive on autopilot, not sure where I'm going until I'm already parked outside my apartment.
The guilt sits in my chest like a stone. My parents are planning dinner parties and holiday introductions for a relationship that has an expiration date in a spreadsheet. They're genuinely happy for the first time in years about something in my life, and it's all built on lies.
I climb the stairs to my apartment, exhaustion settling into my bones. All I want is silence. A dark room and a locked door and the freedom to fall apart where no one can see.
I reach my door and stop.
Ethan is sitting on the floor outside my apartment. His back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him, crutches propped beside him. He looks up when he hears my footsteps.
"How did you know I was—"
"Location sharing." He pulls himself up, wincing slightly at the weight on his ankle. "Part of the social media coordination, remember? Vance wanted us to seem connected."
Right. The tracking app he made us install. So we'd always know where each other was for "spontaneous" photo opportunities.
"I saw you were at your parents' place. Then I saw you leave after an hour." He studies my face, his expression unreadable. "Figured that wasn't a good sign."
"I'm fine."
"You're shaking."
I look down at my hands. He's right. The tremor hasn't stopped since the dining room.
"Harper." His voice is soft, careful. "Let me in. Please."
I should say no. Should tell him to leave and deal with this alone, the way I've dealt with everything for three years. But my hands are shaking and my chest is tight and somehow I'm unlocking the door, stepping aside, letting him follow me into the darkness of my apartment.
I don't turn on the lights. Just stand in the middle of my living room, arms wrapped around myself, trying to remember how to breathe.
"Sit down." He guides me to the couch, his hand warm on my elbow. "Do you remember the breathing exercises? In for four, hold for four, out for four."
I remember. He taught me these in high school, during my first panic attack before a chemistry final. I was hyperventilating in his car and he held my hands and counted until the world stopped spinning.
"In for four." His voice is steady, anchoring. "That's it. Hold for four."
I follow his counting, his rhythm, until my heartbeat slows and my hands stop trembling. He sits beside me on the couch, not touching, just present. The silence between us feels different than before. Less hostile. More fragile.
"My parents are happy," I whisper finally. "About us. They think we're perfect together."
He doesn't respond. Just waits.
"My mom said she always liked you. That young love makes mistakes but we found our way back." My voice cracks slightly. "She wants you to come to dinner next week."
"Harper—"
"They don't know it's fake." The words tumble out, jagged and raw. "They're building fantasies about a future that doesn't exist, and I'm just sitting there letting them believe it. Lying to their faces."
"That's not—"
"My parents remember what you did." I turn to look at him, finally. "They remember the summer I barely left my room. The promises I made to myself about never letting anyone hurt me like that again. And now they're happy because they think I've moved past it."
He opens his mouth. Starts to say something—I can see the words forming, something important hovering on his tongue.
Then he stops. Closes his mouth. Looks away.
The moment passes.
"You should get some sleep," he says quietly, standing. "I'll see myself out."
He's gone before I can respond, the door clicking softly behind him.
I lie on the couch for hours, staring at the ceiling, replaying that moment. The words he almost said. The way his face changed when he stopped himself.
What was he going to tell me?
And why does my parents' approval bother me more than their hatred ever could?