Chapter 30
A few things to note about Harry Greene: he never wanted to be a teacher. In fact, he never wanted to step foot in a classroom again after graduating.
Harry was good at football—good enough to land a spot on Harvard’s team, good enough for a full-ride scholarship, good enough to have money left over, a future lined up in sports. He saw himself working in team management, maybe as a physical therapist, maybe as a sports agent. Something hands-on, something close to the game, something that kept him in the world where he thrived—where he belonged.
But then, three weeks before Otis died, everything changed.
They were in the library, Harry half-focused on his notes, Otis flipping through a textbook, barely looking up when he spoke. “If anything happens to me, promise you’ll look out for Nick.”
Harry had laughed, shrugged it off. “Don’t be fucking weird, nothing’s going to happen to you.”
But Otis had been serious. He closed his book, met Harry’s eyes, and said again, “Promise me.”
And Harry, still thinking it was some strange, overdramatic joke, had promised.
And then something did happen.
And Nick was left shattered, broken in a way that no one—not Harry, not their teammates, not even his mother—could seem to reach.
So a week after the funeral, Harry changed his major. Dropped everything he thought he wanted, everything he thought he was supposed to be, and restructured his entire life around a promise made in a quiet corner of the library.
He walked the graduation stage alongside Nick, took his diploma, and a few years later, found himself nearly thirty, standing in front of a classroom full of preschoolers—kids too young to understand why their teacher, built like an athlete, always seemed like he was watching someone else's back.
Because Harry Greene wasn’t just watching kids.
He was watching Nick.
Still keeping his promise.
Harry likes Nick. Well, he tolerates him, at least. The kids are a handful, and Harry doesn’t see himself falling in love anytime soon, so he takes care of them and watches Nick’s back. Sure, the way he does it might be unorthodox, maybe even a little cruel at times, but let’s be real—Nick isn’t the only one who lost Otis. Harry did too.
Harry has always been a little rough around the edges, a little mean, a little too sharp for most people’s liking. After Otis, he became even more so. But deep down, buried somewhere in the wreckage of who he used to be, he still cares. He wouldn’t be here otherwise.
He doesn’t hate Nick. He never could. But it’s hard not to resent the fact that Nick seems to have figured things out, that he’s somehow managed to piece himself together when Harry is still stumbling in the dark. Nick has a job he loves, a mother who adores him, and now—some curly-headed boy who looks at him like he hung the damn moon. Harry? Harry has a job he never wanted, a house too big for just himself, and a sick dog that will be gone before the year is over.
He hates the way his nicest suit is the one he wore to Otis’s funeral. Hates the way his old football mates have moved on, scattered to different corners of the world while he’s still here, stuck. Hates the way his parents still look at him with disappointment, like he threw away a golden ticket when he walked away from the life they had planned for him.
Harry never wanted to be a teacher. Never wanted to deal with snotty noses and tiny hands tugging at his sleeves, never wanted to be the one responsible for molding young minds. But Otis was good. Otis was kind and funny and dirty-minded and everything a college boy should be. And Otis was also sad. Lonely. Hurting in ways none of them saw until it was too fucking late.
And Harry—Harry was part of that hurt, wasn’t he?
So yeah. One dead friend and a lifetime of regret later, and here he is. Trapped in a life he never wanted, fulfilling a promise that can’t bring back the only person who would have made it all worth it.
Harry remembers it vividly. The flashing lights, the bass rattling through the floor, the heat of too many bodies packed into a too-small space, the sticky-sweet scent of spilled beer and cheap vodka coating every surface. They had just won a game—his team, their team—and of course, that meant a party. A celebration.
And Otis was there. He always was. Laughing, hyping them up, drinking just enough to keep pace but never enough to lose himself entirely.
Harry, on the other hand, was gone. Too many shots in, too many arms slung around his shoulders, too much noise clouding his head. He remembers that part in a blur—someone handing him another drink, someone throwing one at him, the way he lost sight of Otis in the crowd somewhere between it all. He should have gone after him. Should have stuck by his side like he always did, like he always promised to.
Instead, he had turned, caught sight of Otis deep in conversation with some guy Harry had never seen before. Some guy who was standing too close, smiling too wide. It struck him as odd—Harry had never thought about Otis that way, never really considered if he swung that way—but it wasn’t his place to judge. He was too drunk to care, too drunk to think about much of anything except how the guy had dimples, deep-set and inviting, and how—if he were just a little drunker—maybe he’d reach out and poke them.
But he didn’t. He shook the thought away and grabbed the nearest girl, let himself get lost in the taste of cheap liquor and cherry lip gloss instead.
By the time he blinked back into focus, Otis was gone.
For a split second, he saw him—stumbling, heading up the stairs, head ducked, shoulders hunched like he was trying to disappear. Something in Harry’s gut twisted. Maybe he should’ve followed. Maybe he should’ve checked in. But then someone was tugging on his arm, dragging him into another drink, another shot, another distraction.
Otis would be fine.
Except he wasn’t.
Otis got hurt that night. And then, because of that hurt, he died.
And that was on Harry.
It doesn’t matter that no one else blames him, that no one else connects the dots the way he does. He does. He knows. If he had just kept his eyes on Otis, if he had just gone after him, if he had just—
But he didn’t.
So now, Harry carries the weight. It’s a silly promise to most, but to him, it’s everything. If Otis couldn’t be here, then Harry would make up for it. He’d be what Otis would have been. He’d look out for the people around him, make sure they didn’t get lost, didn’t go too far up the stairs alone.
He’d live for Otis.
Because Otis never got the chance.
This promise is what leads Harry to follow Nick down the hallway, his curiosity piqued after witnessing something that was so unlike Nick.
Nick is a golden retriever in human form—soft-hearted, gentle, all sad eyes and a tail tucked between his legs when things go wrong. He’s the guy who lets kids paint his nails during recess and volunteers to cover classes when no one else will. But what Harry had just seen? That wasn’t golden retriever Nick. That was something else entirely.
Nick had slammed Ben against the wall. Hard.
And the rage on his face? The sheer fury rolling off of him in waves? That was something Harry hadn’t seen before. Not from Nick.
Which is why he doesn’t hesitate. He follows, his promise to himself to at least try to be a decent person pushing him forward, and by the time Nick reaches his classroom, Harry is right on his heels, barging in after him without so much as a knock.
No kids. No teachers. Just them.
“So,” Harry starts, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. “We’re assaulting bosses now?”
Nick doesn’t even look up, just lets out a sharp breath through his nose as he tosses his bag onto his desk. “Oh, fuck off, Harry.”
“Yeah, nah, not gonna do that,” Harry says, stepping further inside. “Kinda hard to, after I just saw you slam our boss into a wall.” He pauses, tilting his head. “Look, Ben seems like a bit much, but he is in charge now. I know you don’t like change, but—”
Nick’s head snaps up at that, his glare sharp and cutting. “Yeah, well, you seem pretty buddy-buddy with him. So why don’t you go kiss his ass instead of getting in my business?”
Harry scoffs. “Right, my bad for wanting to check on my friend.”
Nick lets out a sharp, humorless laugh. “We aren’t friends, Harry.”
Harry’s jaw tenses. “Yeah? You sure about that, mate? ‘Cause last I checked, I was the one who helped you get your first bloody teaching job. I was the one who backed you when people were questioning if some ex-footy player was really fit to be in a classroom.” He huffs. “But sure. We’re not friends.”
Nick clenches his jaw, the muscle in his cheek twitching as he drags a hand through his hair. “You don’t get it, Harry.”
“Then make me get it,” Harry fires back. “Because right now? All I see is you losing your shit over something—someone—that, yeah, might be an asshole, but is still the guy signing your paycheck.”
Nick’s hands slam down on his desk. “Ben isn’t just some asshole, Harry! He—” He stops himself, breathing heavily, nostrils flaring. His fingers curl into fists on the desk before he exhales, shaking his head. “Just drop it.”
But Harry doesn’t. He’s never been one to back down, and sure as hell isn’t starting now. “What the hell did he do to you?”
Nick laughs, but it’s bitter, humorless. He shakes his head, grabbing his bag, already done with the conversation. “You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”
Harry watches him, watches the way Nick’s shoulders are tense, the way his whole body is coiled tight like he’s two seconds away from either exploding or collapsing in on himself.
And suddenly, Harry isn’t so sure he wants to know what Ben did. Because whatever it was?
It fucked Nick up. Bad.
Harry doesn’t expect Nick to react well. Hell, he expects to get punched in the face for this conversation, but someone has to say it.
Nick has been spiraling. It’s obvious in the way he drags himself through the halls, in the way he zones out even when he thinks no one’s looking, in the way his shoulders hang heavy like he’s carrying the weight of the fucking world. And Harry isn’t some soft-hearted saint—he’s an ass most days, he knows that—but he’s not about to watch Nick slip through the cracks like Otis did.
So yeah, he’s pushing. And yeah, he’s doing it in the only way he knows how—by being a blunt, sarcastic asshole.
“Fine,” Harry sighs, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall, watching Nick with narrowed eyes. “Believe it or not, I do care. Shocking, I know, since my personality is basically venom and spite, but Nick—whatever the fuck has got you all riled up and brooding, fix it.”
Nick scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Oh, fuck you, Harry. Don’t bring Otis into this.”
And there it is. The reaction he was waiting for.
Harry clenches his jaw, taking a slow breath through his nose. Nick doesn’t know. He doesn’t know about the promise Harry made to Otis. He doesn’t know that Otis saw his own death coming long before it happened, that he asked Harry to look out for Nick—to make sure he didn’t follow.
And Harry sure as hell isn’t going to tell him now.
So he does what he always does—deflects with a sharp tongue and a heavier truth.
“You always make it about Otis,” he snaps, pushing off the wall and stepping forward, staring Nick down. “Like he’s the only fucking reason people care about you. Do you not get it, man? You think you’re the only one who lost him? You think I didn’t fucking love him too? But you—” He points at Nick, jabbing a finger toward his chest. “You walk around like you’re the only one allowed to grieve. Like you’re the only one who got hurt. Like no one else fucking matters because your pain is bigger than ours. And maybe it is. Maybe you had more of him than we did, but that doesn’t mean you get to wallow until you become a goddamn ghost yourself.”
Nick flinches. Just barely. Just enough for Harry to know he’s struck something deep.
Good.
Because he’s not done.
“I can be a dick, sure. But don’t you fucking dare be one too. It doesn’t suit you,” Harry mutters, shaking his head. “You don’t get to act like this is just your pain to carry. Talk to someone. Anyone. If not me, then someone who actually gives a shit about your well-being, because I can’t watch another friend fucking die. I won’t.”
Nick stares at him, expression torn between anger and something raw, something close to breaking.
Harry sighs, running a hand through his hair. He’s exhausted. He doesn’t know if this will get through to Nick, but he has to try.
“Just be Nick, alright? The Nick people actually love. The Nick who doesn’t drown in his own guilt. Just… talk to someone.”
He turns before Nick can respond, before this can get messier than it already is.
He hopes Nick listens.
Because Harry might be an asshole, but he’s not about to watch another friend fade away without a fight.
And so Harry is a dick.
Harry doesn’t like kids. He doesn’t do relationships. He keeps people at arm’s length because that’s easier, because closeness leads to disappointment, to failure.
Harry saw a man get too close to Otis, and he didn’t do anything. Didn’t say anything. Didn’t intervene. And now Otis is gone.
Harry is the reason Otis got drugged.
Harry is the reason Otis is dead.
And no one knows. No one says it out loud, but he feels it, in the way people look at him, in the way Nick tenses around him, in the way every reflection in the mirror sneers back at him.
Harry hates his job. He hates pretending he cares, hates the fake smiles, hates the bureaucracy, the rules, the constant noise of children with futures he can’t even begin to comprehend.
Harry doesn’t have supportive parents. He lost most of his friends. The ones that mattered. The ones who might have saved him. The ones he should have saved.
Harry doesn’t agree with Ben, but he stands beside him anyway. Because Harry has always been shit at leading. Because siding with the wrong people is easier than standing alone. Because it’s what he knows. Because redemption is a foreign concept to him.
Harry watches over Nick because of a promise. A promise he never should have made, a promise that keeps him tethered to the past, a past he can’t escape, a past that whispers in the quiet, a past that won’t let him breathe.
Harry isn’t a good person.
And he knows it.
Harry, Harry, Harry. The name echoes in his head like a curse, like a weight he can’t put down, like a verdict already passed.
Harry is a dick.
And he always has been.
Yet even with all his bitterness and self-loathing, Harry still goes home to a five-bedroom house that’s far too big for one man and a sick dog. He drowns himself in whiskey, lets the burn settle deep in his chest like it can hollow out everything else, and mindlessly scrolls through Grindr—not because he wants to, but because it’s routine now. A habit he hates, a habit that makes him sick, but one he clings to anyway.
Because he’s straight. He knows he is. But beautiful women don’t seem to want him, and he doesn’t seem to want them, and it all just circles back to failure. So he lets off steam in the easiest way he knows how. Lets himself be touched, lets himself forget, lets himself disappear for a few fleeting hours in someone else's bed, only to come home and scrub his skin raw under scalding water—washing away the hands, the breath, the echoes of pleasure that never actually satisfy anything.
Then, like clockwork, he wakes up, puts on a suit that doesn't fit right, and steps into a job he hates, plastering on a smirk as he gives half-assed pep talks to kids who hang on his every word.
He is a dick. He is hopeless. He hates his life.
And worse than that—he hates himself.
But what he hates most of all is how Nick’s moods shift like a goddamn storm. Happy, then sad, then hollow and lost. Harry knows that look. He knows it too fucking well. It’s the look Otis had before he—
No.
He won’t let it happen again.
He didn’t intervene last time. He didn’t watch closely enough. He let his best friend slip right through his fingers, and now Otis is six feet under.
He won’t let Nick be next.
So he stays. Stays in this miserable job. Stays in Nick’s orbit. Stays close, because if there’s one thing he refuses to fail at again, it’s this.
If Nick starts to fall, Harry will catch him.
Even if it kills him.