Page 120 of Until the Ribbon Breaks

“You kind of have to. We’re trying to get into the same college.”

“Tell me yours first.”

“Three point eight.”

“I’m going to drag you down.”

She giggles, nudging her elbow into me. “Shut up. No, you aren’t. It can’t be that bad.”

“No, I’m just teasing. I think I’m pulling a three point five.”

“Thank god. You had me worried.”

“What? You thought I was all looks and no brains?”

“Why are you assuming I think you’re good-looking?”

Tilting my head up to her, I give her the most charming smile I can, but her façade is strong, and she doesn’t even crack a smile.

“I’m home,” her mother announces when the front door opens. “Oh.” She stops when she sees me and shifts the bouquets of flowers she’s holding. “Hi, Sebastian.”

“Hey.”

“What are you two doing?”

“Looking at colleges,” Harlow tells her.

“I remember my days as a Husky,” she reminisces as she strolls into the kitchen and out of our view.

The two of us chuckle under our breath.

“We should schedule a tour,” she calls out. “You would love it there. It’s so beautiful when all the cherry blossoms are in bloom.” She peeks her head around the corner, adding, “You know I was a Chi-O, which makes you a legacy.”

I try to hold in my laughter. This woman is delusional and completely unhinged if she thinks Harlow has any interest in joining a sorority.

Harlow closes the laptop and grumbles something under her breath as she sets it on the coffee table.

“I should probably go ahead and drop the bomb on her that I’m not staying in Washington,” she whispers with dread in her eyes.

“You want me to stay for moral support?”

She shakes her head. “You should probably save yourself and go.”

“I was hoping you’d let me off the hook,” I tease to try to make her smile, and it works, but it comes with a slug to my arm.

As Harlow walks me out and we pass the kitchen, I shout, “Later, Mrs. Stephenson”

“Goodbye.”

“Call me and tell me how it goes,” I say as we walk over to my car.

“I will. Have you told your mom yet?”

“There’s no point in telling her. My trust fund became my own when I turned eighteen, so it isn’t like I need her permission or anything.”

She drops her head, and I see the tension building in her.

“What’s wrong?”

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