The Guy in the Middle (The Underdogs 3)

“Really?”

“Yep. And the other guest room bed is really uncomfortable, so you would need to share a room with me.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’d rather sleep with the cows.”

I lean in and wipe the chocolate from the corner of her mouth with my thumb before sliding it over her bottom lip. “You sure about that?”

Her lips part and I know she’s close to biting my thumb when I pull it away. She licks the chocolate from her lip. “I’m sure they’re more conversational than you. More honest.”

“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? This is my break from all the bullshit.”

“Is that what this is?” She asks with an edge of hurt to her voice.

“What did you want it to be?”

She shakes her head and hands me back my cup. “You win, I’m done with the questions.” Not long after we leave the rink, I get lost in my head, and she’s in front of me again as I stare at the entrance of Radio City. She taps my temple. “What’s going on in there?”

“Nothing?”

“Doesn’t look like nothing,” she regards me carefully.

“It’s been two minutes, Priss, and already more questions.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“I just told you I didn’t.”

She shakes her head. “That’s not what I’m talking about.” She glances away, and I know exactly what subject she’s broaching. She can feel my resentment, no matter how much I’ve tried to hide it.

Do I want to talk about it? Yes. But I don’t think I can yet without unleashing some of the lingering anger I feel. But the longer I’m with her, the more resentful I’m becoming. Because of the way we fit, the way we’ve always fit. I hadn’t imagined a single moment of it. I’d romanticized nothing. We were—and still are—as good as my memory of us, and even now, I can’t understand why she walked away completely. “Nah, really, I’m good.”

“You’re a terrible liar.” She squeezes my hand, and I didn’t realize I’d taken hers again. Or that sh

e’d taken mine. Either way, there’s been little time today where we haven’t been touching. But it’s as if we’re both too afraid to push beyond that.

“So, there’s a tour here,” she says as we walk inside the building. “It’s about the Rockefellers, and it’s crazy. When you see just how much of their agenda was hiding in plain sight, it’s just…baffling. It’s less touristy than the studio tour but still touristy. You in?”

“Sure.”

Some time later, after walking most of the building while the tour guide explains the meaning behind every painted mural, I realize I’ve spent more time memorizing Harper than I have paying attention to the socialist agenda of the rich and powerful. It’s surreal being here, knowing she was always just a plane ride away. She did everything she set out to do. I’m proud of her. In a way, I envy her. I feel like I have so far to go, and she’s accomplished so much. Toward the end of the tour, we’re led outside to see the Rockefellers’ purposefully constructed middle finger amongst the New York City landscape. I stand transfixed on the statue just outside the building across the street from St. Patrick’s Cathedral. A bronze Atlas stands a story tall, holding a globe-shaped sphere on his shoulders.

“Atlas was installed in 1937 and created by the sculptor Lee Lawrie. The piece has since been appropriated as a symbol of the Objectivist movement, the philosophy being the ideal man be a producer who lives by his own effort and does not give or receive the undeserved, who honors achievement and rejects envy. Objectivism holds that there is no greater moral goal than achieving happiness. But one cannot achieve happiness by wish or whim. Can anyone tell me who a major player was in bringing this movement forward?”

“Ayn Rand. Atlas Shrugged,” someone pipes up from the mixed crowd.

“Correct. This is bold capitalist agenda…”

The tour guide’s voice falls away as I look on at the statue.

“It’s such a thin line, isn’t it?” Harper whispers, standing next to me.

“What?”

“Between being a realist, believing only what you can see, and believing in what you can’t, entrusting faith.” She turns to look up at me, but my gaze remains on the statue. “It’s you,” she says softly beside me, grabbing my hand, “it’s the way I’ve always seen you, Lance, with the whole world on your shoulders, but never aware of just how much you shine. It’s like you’re paralyzed by the weight when just a few steps away,” she nods toward the church, “you can accept a little faith and just let some of it go.”

It’s then I take my hand from hers. “Maybe some of us only believe what we can see.” My tone is harsh, cold, but I can’t bring myself to apologize for it.

“I’m sorry. I overstepped. Maybe that’s not you anymore.”