Page 33 of Jack
Hellooo—it’s me. Do that thing you do and I’ll call you back. Toods!
Harper hung up and dropped her phone on the bed.
She heard Jack in her brain.“I saw her talking with Conrad earlier. Maybe he charmed her away from the party.”
She brushed her teeth, fluffed her short hair, then dressed in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt and headed down to the kitchen.
Time stopped, right then, as Harper entered the doorway.
Five of the Kingston siblings sat around an old oak table—laughing, passing syrup, Doyle serving up eggs, Austen adding pancakes to a plate. Steinbeck sat beside Boo, reaching over her for the butter.
Jack had taken the end chair, wearing a flannel shirt, his dark hair wet as if he’d showered, still wearing the dark beard.
Sure, they were older and grown up, but seeing them together—almost healed from the terrible rift that had torn their family apart—stirred old longings inside her.
From back when she’d had a place at the table, her feet swinging from a chair, hoping eighteen-year-old Big Jack might walk into the room, his hair mussed.
For some reason, his mumbled words from last night about the fight raked up.“I was just trying to?—”
What?
She didn’t have time to pull the words apart because right then, Conrad walked into the room, showered and wearing a Blue Ox pullover. “Wow, you guys are loud.”
“What are you doing here?” The words just spurted out, and maybe she wore a hint of horror in her expression, because even Steinbeck put down his fork.
Quiet.
“What do you mean? I’m here for a wedding?” His brow rose.
“No, I mean—you’re not with Penelope.”
He stilled. “Should I be?” He looked at his siblings, back at her.
“Penelope didn’t come home last night.”
Conrad frowned, his blue eyes wary. “Why are you giving me that look?”
“Because . . . well . . .” She glanced at Jack, then back to Conrad. “We thought that maybe you two had . . .”
“We?” Conrad glanced at Jack. “What?”
“Hey,” Jack said, lifting awhoahand. “Her friend disappeared from the restaurant. I just said that maybe you . . . might have . . . um . . .”
Conrad shook his head. “Don’t believe everything you read online.” He turned back to Harper. “I haven’t seen her since last night at the restaurant.”
Boo got up. “She didn’t come back?”
“Her bed isn’t slept in. We ordered an Uber last night, and she left without me.” Harper glanced at Conrad again.
“I promise you, I don’t know where she is.” He folded his arms across his athletic chest. “And I know better than to do some late-night field trip right before a game.”
“You have a game?” This from Austen.
“A doubleheader. Tonight and tomorrow night.” He held up a hand. “Don’t worry—I’m stopping by the tux rental today on my way back to St. Paul. And”—he pointed his gaze to Boo—“I’ll be back for the rehearsal dinner.”
Boo shook her head. “Fine. Whatever. What about Penelope?”
Steinbeck had risen with Boo, his question directed to Harper. “Did you try calling her?”