The living room was occupied.
Lawson stood in the doorway, blinking. Yellow rubber gloves. Buckets of soapy water. A hoover covered in a fine layer of dust (or maybe soot — it was difficult to tell, in their flat). And there was Griffin, down on his hands-and-knees, scrubbing the floor with single-minded determination.
Lawson cleared his throat. "What are you doing?"
"I'm cleaning," Griffin said.
"Cleaning?"
Griffin looked up in surprise. "Should I not be cleaning?"
He sounded uncertain, as if Lawson might be genuinely offended that he was making their flat hospitable again. An invisible cloud of bleach hung in the air, and Lawson did his best not to cough as he walked into the kitchen. No need to discourage Griffin from any future cleaning. This was an early Christmas miracle.
"Yes," Lawson said. "I mean, no. It's just..." He surveyed the fridge shelves soaking in the sink. "When will you be done?"
"Soon," Griffin said.
"When?"
Griffin tilted his head. "Wednesday?"
Lawson's horror must have shown on his face because Griffin frowned, rising. He crossed to the bookshelf, picking out a book. It took Lawson a moment to place it: Diana's Sunday Times bestseller, How to Clean (And Change Your Life). She'd given it to them for Christmas two years ago. It had sat on their shelf ever since, collecting dust.
Griffin waggled the book. "Do you know there's something called tile grout?"
"I'm familiar with the concept."
Griffin shook his head, leafing through the book. "You have to pour cleaning stuff on it and then scrub it off with a toothbrush. Mad."
Lawson hid a smile. This was typical Griffin; he got obsessed with projects. Lego-building. Poker. Mapping the best pubs in Clapham. At Wilder Academy, Griffin had even drawn up an Excel spreadsheet to track the best time to shower and still get hot water. It was no surprise that he would get obsessed with cleaning the kitchen and living room, too.
Then Lawson remembered why he needed the living room in the first place, and his amusement evaporated.
Ah. Shit.
"Right." Lawson cleared his throat. "I need to see Harper."
Griffin flipped a page. "You see her all the time."
"No, I..." Lawson twisted his signet ring. Realized what he was doing. Dropped his hand. "I need to speak with her. And I can't do it with you banging about in the kitchen."
"Oh." Griffin shrugged. "Go into your room, then."
"Really?"
Griffin gave him an odd look. "Why wouldn't you?"
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.
Not that she knew him.
A lot of people, Lawson reflected, thought he was great at first — and then they got to know him. A flame was made to burn. Lightning was made to scorch. The brightest things hid the darkest hearts.
He should know.
"Anyway," Lawson said, "it doesn't matter." He tossed up the ball. Caught it. "In our social circles, you either become an engineer, doctor, or lawyer. Or you go into business. That's what I studied at uni."
Harper set down the ribbons. "Sounds limiting."
"It is what it is."
"Still."
He shrugged. "Dalton had it the worst. I can't really complain."
When Alisdair had taken a marketing job for £20k a year, his father had refused to speak to him for two weeks. For a second, Lawson was tempted to tell Harper all of it — the blazing row, the flowerpot thrown out a window, the way Alisdair had looked his father dead in the eyes and called him a "narrow-minded blunderbuss" — and then he caught himself.
Wilder Boys didn't share secrets. Not with outsiders, anyway.
Lawson had never had to remind himself of that before. Never had anyone that he'd wanted to share them with, really.
"What are these?" Harper asked.
She was admiring a drawing hung up on the wall — a pencil sketch of an orange — and Lawson threw the ball up.
"Paige did that," he said.
"Oh, right." Harper tilted her head. "She's an artist, isn't she?" When Lawson nodded, Harper turned back to the sketch. "She's good."
"She used to send me letters," Lawson explained, "while I was at university. She'd draw something she'd seen that day — a funny-looking potato, or a dog chasing a squirrel — and then add a little note on the back."
His first-year flatmate, Tom, had taken the piss out of him every time a new drawing arrived. Then Tom saw a photo of Paige and pronounced her "fit as hell." Lawson frowned, catching the cricket ball. Come to think of it, his flatmate Tom had been a bit of a dick.
"Bit wet, I know," Lawson continued. "Having the drawing framed."
"Wet?" Harper echoed.
Ah. Lawson mentally translated into American.
"Pathetic," he offered. "Sappy."
Harper shook her head. "I never had any siblings. Before Griffin, I mean. I would have loved having an older sister that sent me cards." She straightened, adjusting her bun. "Will I meet Paige? At the garden party?"
"No," Lawson said. "She won't be there. I—"
He broke off, watching as Harper took a seat on his bed. Her t-shirt shifted, revealing a creamy slice of shoulder, and Lawson looked away. Hot blood pounded in his ears. It was stupid. So stupid. He wasn't exactly a stranger to having girls in his bedroom; how many had there been this year? This month alone?
And yet. There was something about Harper Lane that made him want...
Well.
Just want.
She was Griffin's little sister, Lawson reminded himself grimly. Griffin's sister, Griffin's sister, Griffin's—
Harper looked at him expectantly. "You...?"
"Never mind." Lawson's voice came out rough, even to his own ears. "We should make a start on the photos."
"Right."
Lawson pulled out his phone, scrolling through his text messages until he found the photos that his mum had sent. Mercifully, Harper yanked her t-shirt back up. There was something about the way she crossed her arms — almost self-consciously, as if she, too, had just realized that they were alone in a bedroom — that made him soften.
"Ohio?" Lawson prompted. She looked up, and he smiled. "I've not forgotten about my half of the bargain."
Colour crept into her cheeks. "It's not important."
"We made a deal," Lawson said. "I'll find you a date tomorrow." The words tasted sour, but he pushed on. "What's your type?"
Harper blinked. "My type?"
"What do you normally go for?"
"Er. Men?"
"That's a good start," Lawson said. "Cuts it down by half."
Harper pursed her lips. "Nice men."
Ah. Lawson scratched the back of his neck. He privately thought that cut things down by another forty per cent — himself included. "What about Parker? Is he your usual?"
Harper's brow furrowed. "I'm not sure that I have a usual."
"Everyone has a usual."
"Not me." Harper shifted on the bed, kicking her legs a little. "I'm not sure if you remember what I told you at the party—"
"I remember," Lawson cut in.
"Oh." Harper's eyes were trained on her feet. "Well, I meant what I told you. I don't think you get to choose who you love; you just meet somebody and realize that you do. There's no metaphorical checklist." She looked up. Lawson's face must have changed because she frowned. "What?"
He set down the cricket ball. "Nothing."
"You're judging me."
"I'm not," Lawson said truthfully. "I'm envious."
"Of what?"
He held her gaze. "Your belief that things will always work out for the best."
"Oh." Colour spread down her neck. "Well, thank-you. I think." Harper cleared her throat. "Do you have those photos?"
It was a clear change in subject, and Lawson was grateful for it. The sight of Harper in his bedroom was already testing his self-control. He sat beside her — a healthy distance away — and pulled out his phone again.
"Right," Lawson said. "Let's start with the pansies."
Hello lovely readers!
Okay, first of all, I'm so sorry for the late update — I have a major case of holiday brain at the moment (I definitely thought today was Tuesday lol). Anyone else having troubles switching back to work mode?
Question of the Day: do you have a New Years resolution for 2022? I'm pledging to drink more water, although I pledge that every year and it has yet to happen...
Affectionately,
J.K.
p.s. the garden party scene is coming your way next Tuesday, and I can confirm that it's ~scandalous~ ;)