Chapter 15 Harper
The streets are empty on my way home Saturday morning, the sky gray, my breath fogging on the windshield. The drive is too short for the heater of my ancient Toyota to kick on before I make it home, so I just shiver in the chilly air. The first snow’s not far away.
My house seems especially quiet and small after the friendly bustle of Ryan’s party, his open arms and finished basement and bedrooms to crash in. I’ve never had a party here, and I wouldn’t know how to do it if I wanted to. Instead of a basement, we have a cold, damp crawl space.
My skin is too tight over my bones. All I want is to hole up alone in my room until I feel like myself again. I slip in the front door as quietly as I can, but it’s no use.
“Hey, sweetie,” Mom calls from the kitchen table, where she’s grading math tests.
Dad’s across from her, absentmindedly eating leftover pumpkin pie from the tin.
He’s wearing his same old tattered robe; one arm is barely hanging on by a thread.
If I somehow manage to make enough of a profit this holiday season, I’m buying him a new one for Christmas. “How was Marissa’s?”
“Marissa?” I blink. Then I remember I told them I was sleeping over. “Oh. Fine. She’s working on her application for editor-in-chief, so we, um, mostly just worked together.”
I take another step toward the stairs, unable to hold her gaze. I hate lying to my parents, and Mom’s especially good at sniffing it out.
But before I can escape, she says, “You two always have your eye on the ball. Maybe I take back what I said about wishing you had more time to goof off—it is nice not worrying about you.” She smiles, as if to remind me she’s joking, but there’s a bittersweet tinge to it.
“Frankly, you don’t even seem interested in so much of the nonsense that kept me busy at that age. ”
“Thank goodness,” Dad says, flipping over his newspaper. “Your parents are going to be pretty happy when you don’t get hit with a full college price tag thanks to all that hard work.” He looks up to sell his bad half joke with a wink, but I can’t bring myself to laugh.
My shame deepens. Why did I have to choose a lie that made me look good? That’s a surefire way to feel even worse.
“Or if not, there’s Hamilton Community!” Mom says, shooting him a look. “No shame in that! Better than going into debt for a degree, that’s what I’ve always thought.”
I nod, smile tight. I know she’s right. But the community college doesn’t have the kind of business program I’ve been dreaming of for years. If I’m going to get into one as good as Michigan’s, Mom’s right. I need to be careful not to lose focus.
“Yeah. Um, speaking of the future. I told Marissa I’d get her a draft of my Young Entrepreneurs essay. So… I’m gonna go work on that.”
Mom blows me a kiss and returns to her grading; Dad passes me a cup of coffee behind her back, and I grip it gratefully as I retreat upstairs. When I close my bedroom door behind me, it’s with a sigh of relief.
But being alone in my sanctuary, cocooned by midnight-blue walls and bathed in soft lighting, just sets loose all the thoughts I’ve been trying to repress.
I spent the night with Luke Dawson. And I really, really liked it.
Really liked… him?
I shake my head and grab my phone as I settle into my desk chair.
There are a few spookily timed texts from Marissa (are you gonna send me that essay or what?), but I can’t handle talking to her right now.
We were supposed to hang out this weekend for real, not just as an excuse.
How do I spend time with her without telling her where I was Friday night?
Our whole friendship is based off rolling our eyes at the hockey team!
Dawson totally embarrassed her freshman year. I know it’s been a while, but she is not one to forget a grudge. And neither am I!
My phone buzzes in my hand.
INCOMING CALL: LUKE DAWSON.
I almost drop it. Why is he calling? No one calls instead of texting.
My stomach twists with guilt. He must be freaked out that I snuck away while he was asleep. Maybe he’s even worried about me. He sure was serious about looking after me at the party.
Warmth floods my cheeks at the memory.
I should pick up, but I can’t. How do I even talk to this guy in the light of day? I must have entered some sort of alternate reality last night.
Except it doesn’t feel like that at all. The solid warmth of his body, the weight of his dark eyes on me across the room, the way he listened to me talk about my business—it all felt so real.
I let the call go to voicemail. Wait to see if he leaves a message.
He doesn’t.
I should be relieved, but I’m not. I kind of wanted to hear his voice. Confirm that I didn’t dream everything.
God, Harper, get a grip. I grab a box of my favorite glass beads, grounding myself the instant my fingers touch the familiar edges. This is who I am, what I do.
With the website closed, the Small Business Santa Fair is the only way I’m going to make any money this holiday season.
This is usually the best time of year for me, when everyone’s shopping for gifts for their family and friends, but now my site’s down, half the school is boycotting my very existence, and I’m spending more money on supplies than I’m making on orders.
Luckily, I signed up for Sunday’s craft fair to mitigate my losses.
It’s the official Hamilton Lakes transition to the holiday season, when the Christmas tree and lights go up downtown.
Everyone sets up their booths on the square, and coming right after Thanksgiving, it’s one of the biggest of the year.
A nice antidote to the glazed-over scrolling of Black Friday.
But I still have a lot to do. If I want to have enough samples of my most popular pieces ready to go, I have some serious work ahead.
My favorite pieces are always the ones where I can customize something for a client, building their design to reflect exactly the vibe they want, but there are a few standbys that are classic crowd-pleasers.
For once, I’m glad for the mountain of work. I put on my headphones, start my podcast (is it toxic to listen to stories of girlboss scammers to motivate myself?), and grab my supplies. If I stay busy working, I won’t have any time to think about Dawson.
Because if I let myself think about Dawson, I’m not sure where it’ll end.
After a day of work and a night of questionable sleep, I wake to Sunday dawning bright and blue and cold. It’s one of those Midwest days where it’s so freezing there aren’t even any clouds in the sky. My favorite kind of winter morning, and the perfect vibe for the small business fair.
I grab my warmest black wool coat and throw a ridiculously gigantic cream scarf around my neck. If I’m going to be outside all day, I’ll need all the protection I can get.
Holiday music is already playing in the square, twinkle lights strung between the brick buildings.
The air smells like cinnamon and sugar and chocolate, and I feel like I’m being dragged by the nose on a wisp of scent.
There’s hot chocolate somewhere. Nothing tastes better than hot chocolate on a cold winter morning.
I can have some after setting up. First, I have work to do.
Gripping my joyless travel tumbler full of coffee, I head past rows of soap makers and bakers and velvet painting makers to my booth.
An hour slips by, soundtracked by Mariah Carey, while I lay out all my wares and set up the little signs with pricing.
My fingers linger over the placard with my website details…
but no, that stays in the box. I’m no closer to figuring out how to get my website back on track after the review bombing, and that’s going to have to wait for another day.
I’m about to turn away to get some of that hot chocolate at last when an elderly Black couple steps up to my booth.
The woman is dressed elegantly in a navy coat and trousers, her hair pulled back from her face with a velvet headband; the man has a checkered scarf and wears a dapper cap.
I let out the teeniest, tiniest sigh and paste a smile on my face.
They look like people of taste. Potential customers.
“Welcome to Beads by Braedon! Can I help you?”
The man tips his head to me before turning his eyes back to the woman he’s with. “I’m looking for a little Christmas gift for her. Could you point me to your most popular pieces?”
“Oh, Fred.” The woman shakes her head. “You don’t have to do that. We should be shopping for the girls.”
“But I want to get you something,” he insists.
I can’t help melting a little at the softness in his eyes when he looks at her. The way she rolls her eyes but clearly gets a thrill out of being spoiled.
My smile’s genuine now. That’s the thing I always love most about making jewelry—the way it helps people connect with the ones they love. Helping people do that is such an honor.
Dawson’s face flashes into my mind’s eye, my phone with its unanswered call suddenly burning in my pocket. I wish it were always as simple as a bracelet.
“Well,” I say, “I’m pretty proud of my new line of wishing necklaces. You can pick a charm that symbolizes a good wish you have for the owner, and whenever they wear it, it’s like they have a little piece of your good thoughts with them.”
The woman’s face glows, her eyes crinkling at the corners. The man doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes. Let’s take a look at those.”
They leave with three of the necklaces: one for her, one for each of “the girls.” I wave them off, grinning, and they’re immediately replaced by a handful of new customers.
Maybe today will put a dent in the debt I’ve been going into this fall. Maybe I don’t need that stupid website.