The next few days pass by in a painful blur. I’ve barely moved, rotating only between my couch and my bed. I haven’t shaved or showered, and the smell coming from my T-shirt is proof of that. I’ve only gotten up to use the bathroom, or to answer the door for the take-out food I’ve been living on for the past three days. I look like s**t, but I feel even worse.
Shifting on the couch, I grab my phone. I have a couple of missed calls from Grant and Owen, and an unread text message from my sister. But no response to the dozens of text messages and phone calls I’ve made to Harper. The evening after Grant’s party, I went to the coffee shop where she has her book club meetings, but she wasn’t there. On Wednesday, I went to the animal shelter, only to find out she wasn’t volunteering. They said i
