“So, who’s Mark?” I ask.

Harper grins as she puts two plates on the dining table.

Here we go again. There’s that pang in my chest again. Why is it that as soon as I mention his name, she grins like the sound alone makes her happy?

“You don’t usually ask me questions,” she says as she takes her seat across the table from me.

She has cooked breakfast—bacon, sausage links, and eggs. It’s still so hot there’s white steam rising from the food. It smells good.

I shrug. “Just making conversation.”

Harper sighs as she pours orange juice from the carton into two clear glasses. “Mark . . . was my boyfriend.”

I gathered that much. “Yesterday you said he ghosted you.”

Harper laughs, but there’s no joy in it. Her eyes are sad. She lets out another sigh and half-heartedly picks up a sausage link with her fork.

“Mark didn’t ghost me. He wouldn’t do that. He was the sweetest guy ever.” Harper keeps her gaze down on her food like she doesn’t want to meet my eyes. “He . . . He died.”

I fall silent and watch as Harper chews her food.

Judging by the way Harper looks, she’s probably in her early twenties. Her dead boyfriend couldn’t be much older than that. And, he’s dead?

“How?” I ask.

“It was a car accident. He was on his way to my place in the middle of the night. It was dark and the roads were slippery.”

I stare at her, dumbfounded. “It must’ve been hard for you.”

“Yeah.” She sighs again. Obviously, this is a difficult topic for her to talk about.

“When did it happen?”

“Five years ago. Almost exactly five years ago.” She smiles wryly. “On my birthday.”

“Jesus.”

“He was on his way to give me a midnight surprise. There was a cake in his car.” Harper’s green eyes take on a faraway look. “It was just the kind of thing he used to do for me.”

I feel bad for ruining breakfast when she has woken up early to prepare it for me. More than that, I feel bad for making her cry so early in the morning.

But the more time I spend with her, the more I want to learn about Harper.

I hope telling me about it helps her in some way. People always say talking about their problems make them feel better, although I haven’t found that to be true for me.

I get up and move to the seat next to her. Placing one hand on her back, I tell her, “It wasn’t your fault.”

Harper’s fork clangs as it hits the plate. She turns to look at me, her eyes filled to the brim with tears.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I repeat.

It’s like watching a dam break. Suddenly, the strong, persistent Harper is gone, replaced by this fragile, beautiful little thing. Tears flow, unbidden, down her beautiful face.

“I know,” she says with a sniffle.

“Do you really?”

“Yeah.” She grabs a napkin and wipes her tears away. “I have a therapist. She tells me that all the time.”

“Do you believe her?”

“In my head, I do. But, in my heart . . .” Harper’s voice gives way to heartbreaking sobs. “I can’t stop feeling like he’d still be alive if it weren’t for me.”

To be fair, she’s not wrong. He would. But it still wasn’t her fault.

“I don’t know the guy, but if he’s as nice as you say, he probably wouldn’t want you torturing yourself over this,” I say softly as I rub her back over the shirt she was wearing at the cemetery. Obviously, she washed and dried it yesterday when she was wearing the towel.

Harper nods. “I know.”

“At the cemetery . . . Was it . . . Were you there to visit his grave?”

“Yeah. I do it every year at the anniversary of his death.”

“You mean, your birthday?” I ask.

Harper laughs, even as tears continue to stream down her cheeks. “Yeah. Believe me, I know how sad it sounds. You don’t have to tell me.”

“I don’t think it’s sad. I think it’s sweet.”

Harper’s eyes widen as she stares at me. “Really? Nobody has said that before. People think I’m crazy.”

“I don’t. I think you must’ve loved him a great deal.”

“I did.” Harper pauses. “And . . . I still do.”

“It kind of makes me jealous.”

She studies my face like she’s looking at me for the first time.

“Did he really look like me?” I ask.

“Splitting image.”

“Do you have a picture of him?”

Harper smiles wryly. “Is the Pope Catholic?”

I chuckle. She still has a sense of humor—that’s great.

“Can I see it?” I ask.

“Yeah.” Harper grabs her phone, taps a few times on the screen, and shows it to me.

“Holy fuck,” I curse.

Maybe I shouldn’t curse at a picture of a dead guy. There’s probably a rule against it somewhere. But, I can’t help it.

The guy is my doppelgänger. I mean, was. He was my doppelgänger.

If someone were to show me this picture without telling me anything about Mark, I would’ve frowned and asked, “When did you take this picture?” Because I’ve never played tennis in my life, and the guy is holding a racket and a small, yellow ball.

Harper giggles as she wipes her nose. “I told you.”

“I didn’t think he’d look that much like me.” To be honest, I thought Harper was just grasping at straws. Grief does strange things to people, after all.

“You also have similar mannerisms. Like, the way you move. Even the way you smell. He had a leather jacket that looked a lot like yours, too. Sometimes, looking at you makes me feel like he’s come back to life.”

“Sometimes?” I ask, ignoring the jealousy that’s gripping my chest.

Harper has stopped crying. Maybe talking about the present takes her mind off the painful past.

I don’t know what it is, but she awakens something deep in my soul. I don’t normally feel for people. I’m not exactly a warm, empathetic person.

But when it comes to Harper . . . I don’t know. She’s different. So pure. Unlike anyone I’ve known before. Unlike anything I’ve ever come across.

Something as beautiful as her shouldn’t be in pain. If there’s anything I can do for her to take that pain away, even just a little bit, I’d do it in a heartbeat.

“Yeah, sometimes,” Harper says.

“You mean I don’t remind you of him all the time?” I wonder if that’s because I’m not “the sweetest guy ever” like Mark was.

“No. Mark was younger when he died, and . . . Hey, when was your birthday?” Harper asks suddenly, staring at me intensely. “I can’t believe I didn’t ask you earlier.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have done you any good,” I tell her. “I have no idea when my birthday was.”

“What do you mean? Don’t you have, I don’t know, a birth certificate?”

“I do.” I take a deep breath. I don’t like to talk about my childhood but since Harper has cried her soul out . . . “I grew up in an orphanage. Apparently, someone just dropped me off at the door without so much as a note. So, nobody knows my birthday. Not even me.”

“How old are you, though?” she asks again.

“Twenty-eight.”

“You’re the same age as Mark would’ve been.” Harper smiles. “Maybe you’re twin brothers.”

I feel a dull ache in my chest. Just my luck. When I was just a boy, all I wanted was a family. Now, when I’m all grown up and don’t need one anymore, I find out I had a brother but he’s dead.

“Yeah. Maybe.” I shrug.

Harper smiles as she huffs a sad sigh. “I wish Mark had the chance to meet you. He would’ve freaked out.”

“I probably would’ve, too. Just seeing that picture of him on your phone was enough to freak me out. I don’t know what I’d do if I saw him in real life.”

“Too bad it’ll never happen now,” she says.

I watch as her face fills with sorrow. The sight makes me feel like someone has reached into my chest and gripped my heart, squeezing it until it’s about to burst.

It doesn’t make sense. I barely know Harper, but I’d do anything to ease her pain. Could it be that what people say about the connection twin siblings share isn’t just bullshit after all?

“Harper,” I say gently.

She looks up at me with those big, sad, doe eyes.

I don’t know what she sees. Is she seeing me? Or, is she just seeing the shadow of her dead boyfriend in me?

Suddenly, it doesn’t matter. I couldn’t care less what goes on in her mind as long as it makes her feel a little better.

“I’ll answer any questions you have. You can go through all my things, too, if you think that will help.”

“Thank you, Logan,” she says softly.

I think about my next words carefully. I don’t know if I’ll regret this, but I can’t not give it to her,when it know it could be the salve that could somewhat ease her pain.

“And . . . You can pretend I’m him if that’s what you need. Use me. I don’t mind,” I hear myself say.

There’s no surprise in Harper’s eyes. Just recognition for someone who’s just as much a misfit as she is.

I don’t know how she knows I’m broken because I’ve never told her, but the way she looks at me . . . There’s no doubt about it. She knows.

“Thank you. That’s really sweet of you,” she says.

Her eyes—they’re not just a window to her soul. They’re a window through which she sees the world more clearly than anyone I know.

She parts her lips and says, “I don’t know if I can help you, but if I can . . . You can use me, too, Logan. I don’t mind.”