Too Late To Love Me Now Chapter 2

"Why are you still up? Are you really still pouting about dinner?"

Connor’s arms wrapped around my waist from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder. His tone was indulgent, like a parent humoring a toddler. "You’ve gotten so temperamental lately, Harper."

I turned around. I didn't pull away, but I looked him dead in the eye. "Connor, I don't want Piper living here anymore."

His brow furrowed instantly. The warmth drained from his posture. "When we got married, you told me you never felt the warmth of a real family. That’s why I brought your sister here. To give you that."

"And now you want to kick her out?" He shook his head, morally outraged. "Piper hasn't done anything wrong, Harper. She’s not the one who should be leaving."

I stared at him, the air leaving my lungs. "Are you saying I should leave?"

He cleared his throat, suddenly finding the hardwood floor very interesting. "Piper wants to start a lifestyle vlog on TikTok. Having too many people in the house ruins her shot backgrounds. I was thinking... maybe you could get an Airbnb for a month? Just until her account takes off, then you can come back."

When I was sixteen, Piper told our parents she didn't like the way I looked at her. That same night, the Evanses packed my bags and kicked me out. I had no money. I lived in a freezing, poorly insulated garage apartment behind a laundromat.

The winter water had felt like broken glass against my skin. Without a washing machine, I scrubbed my clothes by hand in a utility sink. That was how the dyshidrotic eczema started. The ugly, blistering rash that covered my hands, itching and burning so badly that steroids barely took the edge off. It had kept me awake for years.

Assuming my silence was submission, Connor pulled me back into his chest, his voice softening. "Tomorrow is Piper’s graduation brunch at the club. We have to be up early. Just come to bed."

I lay there listening to the steady, even rhythm of his breathing. I didn't sleep a wink.

My hands were burning.

The first year of my flare-ups, he had held my hands and said, The treatments will get better. Just wait.

The second year, his mother came to visit, saw me looking at appliances, and sneered, A dishwasher? Are you too good to use a sponge?

The third year. Now.

The dishwasher was never coming.

I slipped out of bed, opened my laptop, and began quietly submitting my resume to open positions.

Maybe a dishwasher wouldn't cure my hands anyway. What I needed was to pull myself out of the toxic, suffocating rot of this environment.

The graduation brunch at the country club the next day was an extravagant affair.

Everyone was there for her. They clapped when she gave a rehearsed, teary-eyed speech. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Evans, stood by her side, dabbing their eyes. Even Connor was looking at Piper with a glowing, unmistakable pride.

I remembered the summer I finished high school. I spent it in the sweltering back kitchen of a diner, scraping dried ketchup off ceramic plates just to afford community college tuition. The sweat had stung my eyes. It had hurt so much.

After dessert, the extended family gathered on the manicured lawn for a group photo.

The event coordinator enthusiastically arranged the chairs. "Alright, everyone squeeze in!" he called out. Then, waving a hand in my direction, he added, "Excuse me, can the catering staff step out of the frame? You’re in the shot."

It took me a second to realize he was talking to me.

My parents turned. The look of cold, aristocratic disdain that washed over their faces hit me like a physical blow. Suddenly, I couldn't breathe.

"Harper," Connor called out. His voice was gentle, but the words were a scalpel. "Your outfit really isn't right for the aesthetic anyway. Why don't you just sit this one out? We'll get a picture with you next time."

They were a picture-perfect family of four, wearing color-coordinated linen and silk. Nobody had told me about the dress code. I was wearing a plain, sensible sweater and no makeup.

Of course I looked like the help.

"Oh, right, that’s their older daughter," an aunt murmured loudly to her neighbor. "She’s just… not as polished as Piper, is she?"

"Right? Who doesn't prefer a girl with some charm?"

The whispers were like needles being driven directly into my eardrums.

Remaining there would only strip away whatever dignity I had left. The tears threatening to spill were swallowed down with sheer force of will.

I turned around and walked off the lawn.

By the time I reached the edge of the property, the sky broke open. A torrential, blinding downpour.

I pulled out my phone to order an Uber, but a text from Connor popped up on the screen:

Harper, everyone is talking about your little stunt. Piper is crying in the bathroom. Do you really have to be this embarrassing? Come back inside and apologize.