Chapter 19 Lucy
Lucy
To say things with Harris are amazing would be an understatement.
Blissful.
Exciting.
Fun.
Much better description.
I tuck the phone between my ear and shoulder as I stir the simmering pasta sauce on the stove. The air is thick with the scent of garlic and tomatoes, warm and homey, but my mind is miles away—specifically, the times I’ve spent in bed with Harris Bennett and when everything felt less complicated.
Annabelle’s voice crackles through the speaker. “You sound suspiciously happy. Like, glowing-skin, smiling-to-yourself, post-good-sex happy.”
I grab a handful of cherry tomatoes and slice them in half with a little too much force. “No comment.”
“Lucy,” she says, voice sharp with accusation. “That’s basically a comment.”
I sigh, tossing the tomatoes into the pan. They sizzle instantly. So satisfying . . .
I nudge the fridge door shut with my hip, then snatch a handful of fresh basil from the counter. “Look, all I’m saying . . .” I trail off, stirring the sauce again, letting the words linger.
Annabelle makes a knowing noise. “When are you going to admit out loud that you’re developing feelings for him?”
I freeze, wooden spoon hovering midair. “I have feelings about a lot of things. Sunshine. Good coffee. Pasta.”
“Harris.”
“Yes, him too.”
The second the words leave my mouth, my stomach plummets.
My eyes widen. My hand slaps over my mouth. “Did I admit that out loud?”
“Yes!” Annabelle screams. “Holy shit! You said it out loud!”
I frown. “I am not catching feelings.”
She sighs. “You’re already in the feelings, Lucy. You’re marinating in them. You’re like the saucy sauce on your stove right now. Simmering goodness.” She pauses. “I am so fucking jealous of you right now.”
I scoff. “Why?”
“’Cause my love life is so boring.” Loud sigh. “Can I confess something to you, and promise you won’t repeat it?”
I shift the phone to my other ear, lowering the heat on the stove. “Of course. You know you can trust me.”
Annabelle hesitates, which is so unlike her. “I broke things off with Tim.”
“What?” I’m not sure I heard her correctly.
“I ended it,” she says quickly, ripping off the Band-Aid. “Two nights ago.”
I rack my brain. “Tim?” Pause. “The Tim?”
“No, Lucy—some other Tim I’ve been secretly dating behind his father’s back,” she deadpans. “Yes, Tim.”
I set my sauce spoon on the counter with a clatter. “But . . . why? You two were—” I stop myself, because they weren’t actually much of anything. They weren’t bad together, but I wouldn’t call them soulmates either.
I can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “It wasn’t working. I don’t know. I kept waiting for that feeling, but it didn’t come.”
I press my lips together. I do know that feeling. Or at least, I think I’m starting to.
I prod her for more details. “And?”
“And . . . he’s a great guy. You know all this. He’s nice, smart, totally dependable. I felt nothing. Like, zero butterflies. Zero excitement. It was like dating an oatmeal-flavored protein bar.”
Translation: boring.
I shake my head, stirring the sauce again. “So you’re done done?”
“Well, yeah—obviously.” She says it as if it’s the simplest thing in the world to do. “It wasn’t fair to him. Or to me. I don’t want to be with someone because it makes sense on paper.”
No, she wouldn’t stay in a relationship that felt stale. Annabelle has always been the kind of person who chooses more. More passion, more excitement, more feeling. She doesn’t waste time on anything that doesn’t set her heart on fire.
“Besides,” she goes on. “It was mostly sex anyway. It’s not like Tim was taking me on dates.”
True. Tim had always been a little detached. Routine. The kind of guy who sends thumbs-up emojis instead of an actual reply.
“No regrets?” I ask, even though I already know the answer.
She exhales, thoughtful. “Only that I didn’t do it sooner.”
“I’m proud of you.”
Annabelle made a choice. A clean break. She let go of something that wasn’t serving her, because why settle for lukewarm when you could have something electric? I, on the other hand?
I have spent my whole life choosing the safe bet. I cling to routine like it’s a life raft, convincing myself that predictable means stable. That steady, quiet affection is enough.
Simple means right.
But Harris?
Harris is none of those things.
And now, with Annabelle’s voice still humming in my ear, I realize something terrifying.
I don’t think I want safe anymore.
I want fire.
I want electricity.
I want something that shakes me awake, something I feel in every nerve ending—something like him.
“Are you still there?” Annabelle’s voice cuts through my spiral, pulling me back to reality.
I blink, gripping the edge of the counter. “Of course I’m here.”
There’s a beat of silence before she hums knowingly. “You were thinking about him just now, weren’t you?”
I exhale sharply, but I don’t bother denying it. “Yes.”
“So what’s stopping you?”
I open my mouth, then shut it.
What is stopping me?
On the other end of the line, I hear Annabelle starting what sounds like the bathtub. “Look. I’m not saying you have to marry the guy, but at least let yourself have fun.”
Marry the guy . . .
Marry.
The word lodges itself in my brain like a rogue splinter. I shake my head, forcing out a laugh.
“I will not be dating him, let alone marry him.” I nibble on my bottom lip. “He lives a plane ride away.”
Annabelle makes a noncommittal noise, and I envision her dusting her bathwater with lavender Epsom salts. “So?”
“So?” I repeat incredulously. “Hello! Long distance? Have you met me? I can barely keep up with my own schedule, let alone coordinate FaceTime calls across time zones.”
She exhales. “God, you’re exhausting.”
I frown. “Excuse me?”
“Lucy.” Her voice is patient but laced with amusement. “I said fun—not forever. No one is forcing you to pick out a wedding dress.”
Agitated, I aggressively stir the pasta water, staring into it to see if it’s boiling. “Then why did you put that word in my head?”
She laughs.
“How did this conversation go from you dumping Tim to my relationship issues?”
“Stop projecting.” Annabelle huffs. “You don’t need a five-year plan. You don’t need a color-coded itinerary mapping out your emotional availability. You need to . . . I don’t know—do what feels good for once.”
I roll my eyes. “I do what feels good all the time. I’m making pasta right now.”
“That is not the same thing.”
I stop stirring. “Annabelle—he is leaving. Why start something when it’s going to end?”
She goes quiet for a beat, and for a second, I think I’ve won. But then she says, “Why are you assuming it has to end? Did he tell you he didn’t want to see you anymore?”
“No,” I admit, gripping the spoon a little tighter. “He didn’t.”
I’ve been daydreaming about going to see him in Arizona but know I can’t afford it.
My pasta water finally starts to boil, little bubbles rising to the surface, but my thoughts are suddenly nowhere near my kitchen.
“Right. So let me get this straight—he’s offering to see you again, and you’re over here acting like you two are Romeo and Juliet, doomed from the start?”
I scowl. “That’s not—”
“It is, though,” she interrupts, amused. “You’re grieving something that isn’t even dead. You’re so busy bracing for impact that you won’t even let yourself be happy.”
Well. When she puts it in those terms . . .
I groan. “This is a disaster.”
Annabelle cackles. “Babe, this is romance.”
I roll my eyes and stab at my pasta with a wooden spoon. “If this is romance, it’s stressful.”
The sound of her bathwater sloshing in the background fills the silence. Then, “Love is supposed to be a little stressful. That’s what makes it interesting.”
Interesting? Ha!
Before I can respond, a thump echoes from the living room.
I freeze. The kind of freeze where your whole body goes rigid, your breath locks in your throat, and your heart hammers so hard it rattles your ribs.
“Annabelle.” My voice drops to a whisper.
She doesn’t catch on to my fear. “Oh no. Did I break you? Are you having a feelings-induced crisis? Because if so, I am so proud of yo—”
“Shh!” I hush her, clutching the phone tighter, straining to listen for more sounds. “I think someone’s outside.”
Silence.
Then—
“What?” Annabelle is suddenly alert. I hear more sloshing as she sits up in her tub. “What do you mean, someone is outside?”
Another thump—closer this time. A scrape against the glass.
I grab the nearest weapon, which happens to be a wooden spoon, because of course. “I heard something by the window.”
“Lucy,” Annabelle hisses. “Are your doors locked?”
Panic floods my chest. My front door is locked . . . but is it? Did I lock it when I walked the groceries up? My brain scrambles, trying to retrace my steps from earlier.
Another noise. A soft rustling, like someone—or something—is moving outside. A wild animal? A cat?
My grip tightens on the spoon. “Shit. What if it’s a murderer?”
“Ya think?” Annabelle practically screeches. “Call the police. Now.”
“It’s coming from the window.”
I inch toward the living room, keeping my steps light, heart slamming against my ribs. The curtains are drawn, but there’s a faint shadow shifting against the window.
I barely manage to swallow the fear in my throat. “There’s definitely something out there.”
Annabelle curses. “Lucy, do not open the door. Call someone—call Harris for the love of G—”
Before I can answer, a loud bang erupts against the glass.
I scream.
Annabelle screams with me.
And then—
A low, snuffling grunt.
I clutch my chest, heart racing. “OhmyGod, ohmyGod, ohmyGod,” I chant.
Annabelle is still screaming in my ear. “What is it? What’s Happening? Are you dead?”
I suck in a sharp breath and continue forward, my grip tightening on the wooden spoon as if it were a real weapon. The shadow outside shifts again, larger this time—less wild animal, more horrifying intruder.
My stomach plummets.
I reach for the curtain, fingers shaking. Slowly, I peel it back an inch—
And that’s when I see him.
“Harris?”