Chapter 44
Harper
I have rearranged the living room furniture twice.
I know this is a me thing. I do it when I can’t fix the actual problem and need somewhere to put my hands.
I have been doing it since I was nine years old and my mother told me we were having company, and I responded by reorganizing my entire bookshelf by color while the actual problem—a sink full of dishes—remained entirely unaddressed. Some things do not change.
The actual problem is that my parents are coming to dinner in two hours.
I leave the armchair where it is and go start the pasta.
Except first I should change out of the bathrobe, so I go to the bedroom to pick an outfit, but on the way I notice the bathroom mirror has a water spot on it and that is genuinely going to bother me all night, so I go get the glass spray and the paper towels, and while I’m under the sink, I remember I meant to replace the cabinet liner in here weeks ago and it’s still a little crooked on the left side, so I fix that, and then I’m putting the spray back and I realize I never started the pasta.
I go start the pasta.
The sauce goes on first and then I need to let it come up to heat so I have a few minutes, so I go get dressed, but I pass the entry table on the way and the mail is sitting there from three days ago still in the little pile I made when I told myself I would sort it later, so I sort it now, and there’s a card from my aunt and I read it, and then I respond to a text from Olivia who is asking how I’m feeling, and then I’m looking at my phone and seventeen minutes have passed and I can smell the sauce.
I run to the kitchen.
The sauce is fine. It’s barely even bubbling, which means I turned it down too low at the beginning because I was worried about exactly this scenario, which means I planned ahead, which means somewhere underneath all of this I am actually a functional adult.
I go get dressed.
I make it as far as the bedroom doorway before I remember I was going to set the table first. I set the table.
I light the candles on the table. I light the candle on the bookshelf, and then I’m looking at the bookshelf and my Bible is sitting out, open, and I close it gently and set it on the coffee table instead because it feels like the right place for it tonight.
I look at the time.
I have just under an hour, and I am still in the bathrobe.
I go to the bedroom. I pick up a shirt, decide it’s wrong, pick up another one, put the first one back in the wrong drawer, take it out of the wrong drawer, hang it back up, and sit down on the edge of the bed for a second with the second shirt in my hands.
Breath Harper.
The sauce is on. The table is set. It’s time to focus on getting ready.
There’s a knock on the door at 4:15.
He said 4:30.
I look at myself in the hallway mirror—still in my robe, but at least my hair and makeup are done.
I answer the door.
Micah is standing on my welcome mat holding two bouquets, and for a second I just take him in the way I’m still getting used to being allowed to.
He’s in a navy dress shirt that does something unfair to his shoulders, sleeves pulled up, collar sitting just right. Glasses straight. He smells of cedar and something clean and faintly like the warm air outside.
He is, objectively, a very good-looking man. He has always been a very good-looking man. The difference is that I am now allowed to think that without immediately finding some reason to be annoyed with him.
He is also mine. Which is still the strangest, truest thing.
He opens his mouth.
Nothing comes out.
He just looks at me. His eyes track from my hair, which is in loose curls, down to the robe covering my body and to my bare feet on the wood floors. For one full second, Micah Sanders, who always has something to say, has absolutely nothing to say.
Then he clears his throat.
He sets both bouquets carefully on the entry table. And then, without a word, he reaches over and pulls the shoulder of my robe up where it’s slipped down, and tugs the knot at my waist until it’s actually secured.
He takes a small step back.
“There is a specific scenario,” he says, in a very measured tone, “that men who aren’t married should avoid.”
I raise my eyebrows. “And what’s that?”
“Alone in an apartment with a woman in a robe.” He keeps his expression entirely neutral. “I’m going to assume you have nothing on under that, which means my brain is currently going places an unmarried man has no business going.”
I stare at him.
Then I turn around and walk back to the stove and pick up the wooden spoon.
“Well,” I say, giving the sauce a stir, “you know what you could do about that.”
“Harper…”
“Put a ring on it.” I say it lightly, eyes on the pot. “Then your brain can go wherever it wants.”
Silence.
I glance back over my shoulder.
He is still standing in my doorway with an expression on his face that I have never seen before. Not flustered, not composing himself—just very, very still.
I face the stove again and say nothing, because that banter was already too honest, and I know it, and the sauce needs attention, anyway.
I hear him step inside; the door closes behind him.
Then I hear him cross the kitchen, and his hand finds my waist and he turns me gently but completely around, away from the stove, and his eyes meet mine.
“Go,” he says. And I can hear the desperation in his voice. “Put clothes on. Right now.”
“The sauce…”
“I’ll handle the sauce.”
“But the simmer time…”
“Harper.” There is something underneath the patience, warm and certain, and the way he’s looking at me makes my whole chest go off balance. “Clothes. Now.”
I hold his gaze for one more second. Then I push up onto my toes, kiss the corner of his jaw, and pat his chest once.
“Sauce is on medium-low,” I say against his cheek. “Don’t let it boil.”
Then I go.
I come out in jeans and my cream sweater.
The apartment smells like garlic and herbs and the good kind of warmth.
I walk to the living room doorway and stop.
Micah is standing at the coffee table holding something. He’s very still. Careful still, like he’s found something he didn’t expect.
I see it before I crossed the room.
The photo strip.
My Bible is on the edge of the table, open to the passage I read this morning.
“I use it as a bookmark.” I say.
“I can see that.”
I cross to him and he holds it out. I take it and look at the four frames.
The first two we’re mid-laugh. The third one is posed, barely.
And the fourth—the fourth one, neither of us is looking at the camera.
We’re looking at each other, and whatever was happening in that photo booth was already something, even then.
Even before I had words for it. Even when I was still calling it nothing.
“Did you keep yours?” I ask. Like I don’t already know.
“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”
I look up.
He takes the strip gently from my hand and sets it back on my Bible.
Then he closes the space between us, and his hand finds my face as he kisses me.
Not the soft, unhurried kind. The kind that says something. His hand slides from my jaw into my hair and I grab the front of his shirt with both hands and hold on.
When we finally pull back, we’re both a little breathless.
He rests his forehead against mine. His hands are still in my hair. My fists are still curled into his shirt.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” I can hear the smile in it.
We stay like that for a moment, just breathing, and then he says, “Can I pray with you? Before we finish up in there.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Please.”
He pulls back just enough to take my hands, and he bows his head.
“God, we need You in this room tonight.” His voice is quiet and completely steady.
Not polished, not performed. Just honest. “Give Harper peace right now. Not the kind that makes sense, the other kind. The kind that holds even when things aren’t perfect.
Help her know she doesn’t have to prove anything tonight.
” A pause. “Let tonight be good. And if it gets hard, let us get through it together. Amen.”
“Amen,” I whisper.
I stand there for a second with his hands around mine. I think about all the ways I have tried to make myself enough for this moment.
I am the vine; you are the branches.
That verse comes to me instantly and I am reminded to remain in Him.
And for the first time all afternoon, I actually feel like I might be able to.
“Okay,” I say. I squeeze his hands and release them. “I need to finish our meal.”
He follows me into the kitchen, and I pull the index card from where I tucked it under the edge of the fruit bowl. It’s handwritten, front and back.
“Okay,” I say, smoothing it flat on the counter.
“So the sauce has been going; the noodles just need to finish. Just so you know, the secret to the sauce is this specific brand of sausage and these exact noodles.” I point to the brand name, which I have underlined twice and then circled for emphasis.
Micah lifts the card and reads it.
“Your parents will really notice,” he says slowly, “if you don’t use those exact things?”
“Um,” I look at him. “Yes. Absolutely.”
He looks at me. He looks at the card. Then he looks back at me.
“Well,” he says, setting it down with great seriousness, “let’s get it mixed together.”
He reaches past me for the colander, and I pull the sauce off the heat, and we finish it together, the two of us moving around my small kitchen until the rigatoni is plated and the salad is tossed.
He carries the salad bowl to the table. I light the two candles I’ve already lit once today, because they burned down a little while the afternoon happened around them.
It actually looks really nice in here.
I’m standing there looking at it when the doorbell rings.
Micah steps up beside me and reaches for my hand. His fingers wrap around mine, warm and certain.
“Hey.” Quiet. Just for me. “You’ve got this.”
I look at him.
He smiles, and then he leans down and presses a kiss to my cheek, slow and deliberate, the kind that says I’m right here even after he pulls back.
I walk toward the door slowly.
Take a breath.
Then open the door.