Four Of A Kind

Chapter 32: [2.5] Crimes Against Organization

I looked at it.

The screen displayed what could generously be described as a calendar. More accurately, it resembled the final thoughts of a dying AI that had been fed nothing but energy drinks and motivational posters. Appointments overlapped. Colors clashed. Some entries were just emoji. One block simply read “that thing with the bows!!!” with no date, time, or additional context.

“That’s…” I searched for the diplomatic word.

“A disaster?”

“Creative.”

Harlow beamed. “See? You get me!”

She leaned closer to scroll down, and her chest pressed against my bicep.

I kept my eyes on the phone screen.

“This entry here,” I said, pointing at a purple block. “What does ’remember the thing’ mean?”

“Oh! That’s the charity dinner! I think! Or maybe it’s the photoshoot? One of those!”

“When is it?”

“Thursday? Or Friday? The one with the day in it!”

“All days have days in them. That’s what makes them days.”

Harlow laughed, and the motion made her shift against me. Her perfume invaded my senses.

She smells like a bakery had a baby with a fruit stand, I observed internally. Dangerous. This is dangerous.

“You’re funny!” She bumped her shoulder against mine. “I didn’t know you were funny!”

I took the phone from her hand. “Give me that.”

“Okay!”

The chaos was worse than I’d thought. Seventeen different reminder apps. Three separate calendar systems, none of which synced with each other. Screenshots of text messages saved as “schedule references” that provided no actual scheduling information.

This isn’t a schedule, I thought. This is evidence in a court case about crimes against organization.

But I’d dealt with worse. Three years of balancing school, work, Iris, and sleep deprivation had taught me that any system could be salvaged if you approached it with enough spite.

I opened the calendar app I’d set up that morning. Created a new shared calendar. Named it “Valentine Household – Official” because professionalism mattered even when everything else was on fire.

“What are you doing?” Harlow had shifted even closer, her chin nearly resting on my shoulder as she watched my fingers move across the screen. Her breath was warm against my neck.

“Color-coding.” I selected a shade of pink that matched her hair highlights. “Your personal events go here. Appointments with your sisters get different colors. Work obligations are another.”

“You’re giving me my own color?”

“Organizational clarity requires visual distinction.”

I entered the fitting appointment at four, pulling the information from her text screenshots. Added the Fashion Club meeting at six. Set reminders for thirty minutes and ten minutes before each event.

“Now watch.” I demonstrated how to add a new event, how to set reminders, how to share the calendar with others. “You can sync this with your sisters’ schedules. Everyone sees the same information. No more conflicting appointments.”

Harlow stared at the screen like I’d just performed actual sorcery.

“You’re like a wizard,” she breathed. Her face was inches from mine. Purple eyes wide. Lips slightly parted. “A hot, organized wizard.”

Hot, my brain repeated. She said hot. That’s an adjective typically reserved for temperature or physical attractiveness.

“I’m a guy who knows how to use a calendar app.” I handed the phone back. “It’s not magic.”

“It IS magic! Dark magic! Organizational dark magic!”

“The darkest.”

And then, before I could prepare, Harlow Valentine threw her arms around my neck.

The hug involved her entire body pressing against mine from the side, her chest flattened against my shoulder, her face buried somewhere near my collarbone, her arms locked around my neck with the grip strength of someone who probably did pilates or yoga or whatever rich girls did for exercise.

“Thank you, Isaiah!” Her voice was muffled against my uniform jacket. “You’re the best guy ever!”

The cafeteria went silent.

Harlow pulled back.

She was smiling. Completely unaware of the social earthquake she’d just triggered. Completely oblivious to the fact that every single person in the cafeteria was now staring at us.

“Same time tomorrow?” She bounced in her seat. “We can make this a regular thing! I’ll put it in my new calendar! My color-coded, organized, magical calendar!”

“Sure.”

Harlow stood up, adjusting her uniform with the casual grace of someone who had never worried about wrinkles in her life. “I should go find Cassidy. She has that tutoring session with you after school, right? I should make sure she actually shows up instead of hiding in the tennis teams locker room again.”

“That would be appreciated.”

“Great! See you later, Isaiah!”

She bounded away, her rose-gold hair bouncing with each step. The crowd of polo-shirt guys fell into formation behind her, but not before Chad shot me a look of pure murder.

I watched them go.

Then I looked around the cafeteria.

Every eye was on me. Conversations had resumed, but they were hushed. Pointed. Phones that had definitely been recording were hastily pocketed.

This is fine, I told myself. I am a professional providing professional services. Nothing about this situation is unusual or concerning.

The whispers were getting louder.

“Did she just hug him?”

“Who IS that guy?”

“Is that the scholarship student?”

“Since when does Harlow Valentine hug scholarship students?”

“Maybe he’s her new boyfriend?”

“No way. Have you SEEN the guys she usually dates?”

“He’s kind of cute though…”

“Cute doesn’t pay for yachts.”

Then my phone buzzed.

I pulled it out with my free hand, taking another bite of sandwich as I checked the screen.

The message was from Vivienne.

Why is my sister sending me screenshots of her calendar with heart emojis and the caption ’ISAIAH IS A WIZARD’?

I stared at the message.

Somewhere in the cafeteria, someone was definitely taking a photo of me staring at my phone while eating a cold sandwich alone at a wobbly table.

This was my life now. This was what ten thousand dollars a month bought.

I typed back a response, keeping it professional: Professional services rendered as per contract.

The three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Vivienne was typing something. Deleting it. Typing again.

Finally: We need to discuss boundaries.

I considered my response options. Something professional. Something that would defuse whatever concern Vivienne had developed about her sister’s enthusiastic appreciation of basic organizational skills.

Acknowledged, I sent. Available after Cassidy’s tutoring session.

The three dots reappeared immediately.

My office. 6 PM. Don’t be late.