12. Harper
TWELVE
Harper
Wednesday, February 18
Mason’s Apartment
2021 Park Place, Apt. 1502, Birmingham
7:06 PM
Mason’s apartment is everything you’d expect from a man with a flair for the dramatic. The walls are a deep emerald green, offset by gilded mirrors and oversized art that screams, “I’m fabulous, and you’ll deal with it.”
A plush velvet sofa in royal blue anchors the space, adorned with an absurd number of throw pillows in clashing patterns. A bar cart gleams in the corner, fully stocked with high-end liquors and a crystal decanter that looks more decorative than functional.
He flits around the room in a silk robe printed with peacocks, holding a glass of rosé like it’s an extension of his hand. “So, Nurse Drama,” he says, gesturing for me to sit on the sofa, “what’s the latest bloody soap opera from the ER?”
I drop into the velvet cushions, momentarily distracted by how they sink like quicksand. “You joke, but this weekend might have topped the one before when I was held at gunpoint.”
"Oh, dear Lord, how is that possible?"
"Jane Doe, beaten to the brink of death, amnesia, and all tied back to the one person in this town I've been trying to avoid."
"This sounds better than the latest Harlan Corben novel. I need more. Now I understand why you went into ER nursing."
"It's not for the drama, I can assure you."
“Whatever,” he says, collapsing into the armchair like a stage actor delivering his final monologue. “Enough with your petty denials. Let's get back to the amnesia, mystery injuries, and the scandalous backstory.”
“Check, check, and... still working on that last one,” I reply, kicking off my shoes. “This young lady came in beaten to hell—no ID, no family. Scared the crap out of me. I thought she wouldn’t make it. I was on stepdown that day, so no sooner than we got her stable and in ICU, they sent her back down to me.”
Mason narrows his eyes, swirling his wine like he’s in a melodrama. “Do you always have such theatrical cases, or does Birmingham just bring out the chaos?”
“The bigger the city, the bigger the blood, drama, and horror,” I say, smirking. “It’s like a magnet for mayhem.”
He leans forward, chin in hand. “And let me guess: you, the ever-compassionate Harper, took this Jane Doe under your wing?”
I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “What can I say? She didn’t have anyone, and I couldn’t just leave her to feel alone. You were out of town, so I didn't have anything to do that night, so I took a second shift to make sure she was okay.”
His gaze softens for a beat, and then he straightens, a sly grin creeping across his face. “A modern day Mother Theresa right here, Ladies and Gentlemen. Alright, cut to the juicy part. I want less M.A.S.H. and more General Hospital. Cut to the scandalous backstory.”
I hesitate, my fingers toying with the hem of my sweater. “Well... turns out Jane Doe is Jonah’s sister.”
Mason’s eyes widen, and he nearly spills his wine. “Stop. You’re telling me the damsel in distress is related to Doctor Hot Mess himself?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.” I laugh, shaking my head. “But it wasn’t like she remembered him right away. Her amnesia stuck around for a full thirty-six hours. By Monday midday, things started coming back to her. She remembered her full name—which, of course, is Bellinger. Then she mentioned her brother was a surgeon, and that’s when I put two and two together. She’s Jonah’s sister.”
Mason’s jaw drops, his wineglass frozen midair. “Stop it. You mean to tell me this woman, who you’ve been Florence Nightingale-ing all weekend, is related to the Jonah Bellinger?”
“That’s exactly what I’m telling you,” I reply, the absurdity of it all not lost on me.
“And you just casually reunited a battered Jane Doe with her long-lost brother? What even is your life?”
"I'm not going to lie, it was emotional."
Mason gasps theatrically. “Wait. So you’ve already seen them together? Did he cry? Was there a dramatic reunion?”
“It wasn’t like that,” I say, though the memory of Jonah gripping Lila’s hand stays fresh in my mind. “He was... grateful. More than that, actually. He really loves her. I saw a deeper side to him, which was refreshing.”
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t that the Jonah Bellinger Special? Charming, lovable, and emotionally unavailable?”
I snort. “This was different. Seeing him with Lila—it’s hard to explain. He’s not just some smooth-talking playboy. He cares, Mason. And he apologized to me. For everything.”
“Hold up,” Mason says, leaning forward. “Like, an actual apology?”
“An actual apology,” I confirm, swirling the last of my wine in the glass. “And he asked if we could talk. Like, really talk. We grabbed a drink the other night.”
Mason leans forward, his eyes glittering with interest. “Oh, you did, did you? And, how was it?”
I shrug, trying to keep my tone casual. “It was... a little tense at first, I’m not going to lie. But by the end, it was like old times. Short and sweet—I had plans to meet my mom for dinner—but it felt like a good step. Like we could maybe smooth over the mess and get back to our friendship. We both agreed we missed it.”
“And?” he prompts, waving his hand in a circular motion. “How are you feeling about it?”
I pause, thinking it over. “I appreciated the effort. I can tell he’s really trying to be a better friend. Honestly, I think we might be able to put it all behind us.”
Mason raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you think you might?”
“I know we can,” I insist, sitting up straighter. “We’re supposed to work out together Friday afternoon. I'm off, and he gets done around two, and I desperately need to get back in the gym.”
Mason clasps his hands together dramatically, practically vibrating with glee. “Oh, honey, you’re done for.”
I glare at him, but a reluctant smile tugs at my lips. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” he says, his tone teasing as he takes a victorious sip of his wine. “Just don’t come crying to me when the sparks start flying and you accidentally fall into his bed again.”
“Please.” I roll my eyes, setting my glass on the table. “We’re friends. That’s it.”
“For now,” he sing-songs, leaning back against the couch. “But I’ve seen this rom-com, darling. And let me tell you—it never ends with just the workout.”
I shake my head, standing to clear the glasses. “You’re the only person I know that accidentally falls into bed with the wrong man.”
“And you’re in denial,” he calls after me when he gets up and heads to the kitchen.
Friday, February 20
X ? Downtown BHAM
1901 2nd Avenue North, Birmingham
2:44 PM
The scent of eucalyptus hits me the second I walk through the sliding glass doors of Jonah's fancy gym, and I can’t help the small smirk that tugs at my lips. Of course, Jonah would belong to a place like this—polished floors, minimalist decor, and a smoothie bar that probably charges twenty bucks for a kale shake.
“This is lavish,” I say, glancing around the sleek lobby. “Do they pump the eucalyptus into the air to make you feel rich, or is that just a bonus?”
Jonah laughs, handing me a guest pass. “Mock all you want, but I’ll have you know their smoothies are life-changing.”
Of course they are.
“Oh, well, if smoothies are involved,” I say, rolling my eyes but smiling anyway.
We make our way to the fitness floor. The hum of treadmills and clinking weights fill the air. The place is spotless—rows of pristine equipment line the mirrored walls, and everyone looks like they just stepped out of a fitness catalog.
“You sure this isn’t some kind of secret surgeon’s club?” I ask, tying my ponytail higher and glancing around at the rows of pristine equipment and perfectly sculpted people all around.
“Just making smart use of my paycheck,” Jonah says with a grin. “I’m efficient that way.”
He gestures toward the gym floor. “Weights are on the left, cardio upstairs, and there’s a stretching area in the back. Or you can stick with me for leg day. I can create a routine for you to put those muscles to work.”
I glance at him, noting the way his T-shirt clings to his broad shoulders and how his athletic shorts show off legs that look like they’ve seen their fair share of squats and lunges. Not that I’d ever tell him that. “Disciplined and dedicated,” I say, smirking. “Impressive. I guess that’s why you’re always so good in the OR.”
Jonah’s grin deepens, and he tilts his head. “Was that almost a compliment?”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I shoot back, heading toward the stretching area. “I’ve got my routine. But I’ll meet you after—say, forty-five minutes?”
His grin widens, and there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—maybe amusement, maybe appreciation. “Deal. Try not to outshine me, though. This is my gym, you know.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, already heading toward the stretching area. “See you in a bit, Bellinger.”
As I walk away, I can feel his gaze lingering for a moment before he turns toward the weight rack. I allow myself a small smile. It’s nice to feel like things between us are starting to loosen up, like we’re finding some semblance of the easy rhythm we used to have.
I’m toweling off near the smoothie bar, feeling that satisfying ache in my muscles that only comes from a good workout. Jonah had been in his zone, switching between free weights and cardio, but I’d caught him sneaking a glance or two my way. Not that I minded. It’s not every day I get to see him like this—more skin and fewer white coats. There’s something about the way he carries himself here, all confidence and driven, that’s… distracting.
Shaking off the thought, I head to start my warmup, already anticipating our next round of banter.
“Feeling good?” Jonah asks, grabbing a water bottle from the bar.
“Always,” I reply, stretching out my shoulders. “What’s next? Do you want to go back to your fancy surgeon club locker room and call it a day, or do you think you can keep up with me for another round?”
He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Another round? How about a game of racquetball? Or are you too scared to lose?”
I snort, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “Me? Scared? Please. But are you sure you’re ready to get your ass handed to you by your guest?”
“Big talk,” he says, already leading the way to the courts. “Let’s see if you can back it up. Follow me.”
“You know the rules, right?” he asks, spinning the ball on his palm. “I’d hate to stop mid-game to explain how this works.”
I give him a sweet smile, adjusting my grip on the racquet. “Oh, I know the rules. The real question is, do you?”
He serves first, sending the ball flying toward the wall with a sharp smack. I dart to the side, returning it with a quick snap of my wrist. The game is fast-paced from the start, each volley sharper and quicker than the last. Jonah is good—really good—but I’m better, and I can tell it’s getting under his skin.
“You’ve been practicing,” he says, jogging to the back wall after one of my returns nearly clips the corner.
“Not really,” I reply with a grin. “Maybe you’ve just lost your edge.”
His laugh echoes off the walls. “Keep talking, Gray. Still full of hot air.”
After some intense back-and-forth, I land the winning shot. I can’t help but throw my arms up in victory, laughing as Jonah groans dramatically.
“I believe that makes me the winner,” I say, leaning on my racquet.
“Barely,” he mutters, though he’s grinning. “Rematch next time?”
“Anytime,” I say, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “But maybe pickleball next time. You might stand a chance.”
"You should come work out with me while you're in town. It's good for me to get some healthy competition."
"Do you think I could get a short-term membership? Don't most gyms require a commitment?"
"Come with me. You don't have to do anything. Remember, no commitments."
I see what he did there. Making a commitment joke without being crass. I can handle that. I can't ask a zebra to lose his stripes, after all.
"I'll think about it. I'm more of a commitment girl, myself."
We head toward the locker rooms, still catching our breath. I glance at Jonah out of the corner of my eye. There’s a bead of sweat sliding down his temple, and his usual polished charm is replaced with something looser, unguarded. He looks… normal. Real. Not the Jonah who’s always juggling life-or-death situations in the ER or flashing a grin to charm his way out of trouble. Just Jonah, my old friend, who’s annoyingly good at everything—including making me forget, even for a second, why I’ve been keeping my distance.
It’s weirdly easy, falling back into this—joking, competing, not tiptoeing around old wounds or misplaced comments. For the first time in what feels like forever, we’re just... us.
“Hey,” he says, stopping outside the locker rooms. “Thanks for coming. I enjoyed doing this with you.”
I smile, the sincerity in his voice catching me off guard. “Me too, Jonah. You act like this is goodbye! Go shower, and I'll see you in five.”
The last thing I need is for Jonah to go from completely un-self-aware to gushy. Pull those reins back, Buddy!