Don't Promise Me Forever

08 | in which Harper and Lawson are alone in a bedroom

Something in his chest twisted. Ah. It hadn't even occurred to Griffin that he would have ulterior motives, had it? Griffin trusted him implicitly, which was rare; people didn't usually trust Lawson, and for good reason. He had a habit of letting people down.

But not Griffin.

Out of all the boys, Lawson was always the most careful around him. Hurting Griffin was like kicking a puppy. A slightly maniacal puppy that liked to explode things, mind you, but a puppy nonetheless.

"Alright." Lawson shrugged. "I'll go find her, then."

Ten minutes later, Harper Lane was in his bedroom. She was dressed in a pair of black trackies and an oversized t-shirt, her curly hair pulled up in its usual knot. Lawson swallowed. He wished that he didn't know Harper well enough to know that she had a "usual." He wished that he'd never spent forty minutes alone with her in an airing cupboard.

But alas.

"What's her name?" Harper asked.

She was crouched by his desk, examining a blue fish with a feathery mop of red fins. The Siamese fighting fish was hurling itself repeatedly at a mirror. Lawson sighed. He really ought to take that damn mirror out of the tank.

"Fish," Lawson said.

Harper arched an eyebrow. "You named your fish fish?"

"Well," Lawson said mildly, "it makes more sense than cat, doesn't it?"

"Okay." Harper straightened, picking up a wooden paddle. "And this?"

"Cricket bat."

Her eyebrows rose higher. "You play?"

"Yeah. Semi-professionally."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Lawson tried not to be offended by her surprise. Okay, so he wasn't exactly Joe Root, but come on; he'd been captain of the team at Exeter. Surely that counted for something. "I mean, I'm mostly just mucking about for the summer. I'll need to get a proper job soon."

Soon. It was what he kept telling his parents, anyway. He'd only graduated last month, Lawson reasoned. But then again, Alisdair and Griffin had graduated in April too, and both of them had jobs. Hell, even Haz was working at a luxury car dealership, fixing up old BMWs.

Harper set down the bat. "Cricket could be a job."

"Not for me," Lawson said. "I'm not good enough."

He said it like a fact because it was. Only a handful of cricket players went on to become professionals, and even fewer became successful professionals. Harper began shamelessly rifling through his cricket medals and ribbons.

"Would you want to do it full-time?" she asked. "If you could?"

Lawson shook his head. "Do you see that maroon one?" He nodded at the ribbon in her hands. "That's a coaching award. I spent a full summer teaching around Scotland, driving around in this beat-up van. The kids were so damn happy just to be playing. And to see them improve..." He looked away. "Anyway. That's what I'd want to do."

Harper set down the medals. "Live in a beat-up van?"

"Hilarious, Ohio."

Her lips quirked. "I think you'd make a great coach. For the record."

Surprise flitted through him. "You haven't seen me play."

She shrugged. "Even so."

Lawson picked up a cricket ball, throwing it up in the air. He didn't want to face Harper. Didn't want to see that, embarrassingly, her words had affected him. Great, she'd said. Not adequate, or passable, or good. Great.