Harder (36 page)

Then Caroline’s sinking to her knees, down to her hands, her hair hanging down in the dirt, because she’s laughing so goddamn hard, she can’t keep herself up.

I was missing this. I can’t believe I let myself miss this.

Can’t believe I got here, that I get to have it now.

We’re thriving.

All three of us. Not just surviving—thriving.

And seeing that, I think about Silt. How I went home thinking I would never lay eyes on Caroline again.

How I thought nothing could be harder than walking away from her, but it was.

Hard. Harder.

Too hard to take.

I went home thinking I was the sheriff, and my fight was with my dad. But the fight I got wasn’t the one I expected. The gunplay all happened on someone else’s watch. I ended up alone on the streets of a ghost town in full daylight, with the black borders closing in on me.

Caroline’s the one who pulled me out through that pinhole, back into the light.

It’s always been Caroline, because from that first day when she groped me at the library, rode my thigh, and then told me
to leave her alone—as if that was a thing that could ever happen—she saw me in a way I’d never seen myself.

She knows who she is. She knows who I am. How we fit.

I’ve been a lot of things since I met her. Guide, villain, pioneer, exile. But I’ve never been the sheriff, because I didn’t understand what it takes.

The sheriff isn’t there to vanquish evil. He’s there to keep an eye on the future. He’s the guardian of the law, the protector of the rules, the fists that keep chaos at bay.

You can’t be the sheriff if all you’ve got is someone to fight against.

You’ve got to have something to fight for.

Something like Frankie with Quinn on the sidelines of a rugby game. My sister in jeans and a hoodie that actually fits, her hands in her back pockets, talking and smiling and squinting into the sun.

Something like Caroline rolling over onto her back, flinging out her arms, laughing up at the sky.

A sketchbook full of ideas. A pile of copper tubing. A plan.

All of it easy.

All of it mine.

I always put a lot of myself in my stories. This time, I drew deeply on what I’ve learned about love, life, and what it means to survive and thrive. I’m grateful to have grown up with love and opportunity all around me, and with a life full of beauty, art, and possibility. Thanks to my parents for giving me the wide-open horizons West wants for his sister. I hope I did West and Caroline justice. I certainly tried.

As I wrote the manuscript of
Harder
, Mary Ann Rivers helped me figure out what to do when I got stuck. Serena Bell reminded me not to lose sight of the love story. My agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, held my hand, and my editor at Bantam, Shauna Summers, told me how to fix the parts I’d gotten wrong. Be glad you didn’t read the book without their input.

At the research phase, I relied on a number of friends with expertise, friendly experts, and expert friends. Thanks to Erin Rathjen, Holly Jacobs, Erica Johnstone, Jeni Mokren, Marian Houseman, and Patrick Wilson for being willing to
answer odd questions and talk to me about all manner of things.

Raffe’s video art installation is inspired by a wonderful piece I saw at the Milwaukee Art Museum. If you’re ever in Wisconsin, I can’t recommend a visit too highly.

Thanks, finally, to my readers. You guys are the best.

R
OBIN
Y
ORK
grew up at a college, went to college, signed on for some more college, then married a university professor. She still isn’t sure why it didn’t occur to her to write New Adult sooner. She moonlights as a mother, makes killer salted caramels, and sorts out thorny plot problems while running, hiking, or riding her bike.

www.robinyork.com
Facebook.com/writerrobinyork
@RobinYorkNA