Chapter 15 Harriet
FIFTEEN
HARRIET
Rage replaces rejection once the country club is behind me, and I’m white-knuckling the steering wheel the entire ride home.
The girls received a prompt update after my final set, and they were not happy. I understood his panic, had experienced it myself, but to leave with no explanation and then have the audacity to sit there and watch my entire performance as if nothing had happened?
Okay, his dark, serious gaze implied something had gone down, and it proved difficult to keep my eyes off Warren’s from where he sat broodily in the back of the room.
I’m pretty impressed that I could siphon the energy and courage to perform the second half of my set.
Lilah and Ben, the bride and groom, were a delight, and I wouldn’t allow one of their guests to ruin their day. Or me.
It was confusing, distracting, and an utter headfuck, but I refused to acknowledge him.
Instead, I funneled all my emotions into my music.
During the last song, I allowed the riff of my guitar to carry me away.
The second I strummed the last string and thanked the crowd, I was out of there, unable to stand another minute of his intense attention.
Talia was waiting for me when I arrived at my apartment and, like the amazing friend she is, listened to me babble, cry, and vent for the last thirty minutes.
I collapse on the sofa next to her, breathless from my tirade. “Am I being too harsh?”
She cuts me a sharp look. “You’re behaving exactly as you should. It’s a good thing Parker is busy; otherwise, she’d be over there, ripping him a new one.”
Bone-tired and brain frazzled, I shut my eyes. “I got my hopes up. A na?ve part of me hoped he’d want to be involved. Now, the truth is out there, and I can move on. We don’t need him.”
Right?
A bzzz rings through the apartment.
“Exactly, and moving on with two family-sized pizzas is where you should start.” Talia jumps to her feet and darts toward the intercom. “Hello?”
Heavy breathing crackles through the speaker before a deep voice asks, “Please tell me Harriet Thomas lives here?”
My eyes blow wide. “That’s Warren!” I hiss.
She gasps. “How can you tell from his voice?”
There’s no time to explain that his voice has replayed in my head more times than I can count since Oktoberfest, a guilty pleasure I will not be delighting in again.
“I just do.”
“Should I call the cops?” Talia isn’t joking.
“No.” She levels me with a look. “No. I’ll go down and tell him to go away. Right? Or should I talk to him? Ugh, I don’t have the spoons for this.”
I bury my head in my hands and release a frustrated cry before reminding myself to stay calm. Stress is not good.
A gentle touch lands on my shoulders. “Maybe see what he has to say. I can come with you, but I know you’ll kick yourself later if you don’t.”
She knows me well. Without a word, I rise and take the stairs leading out into the street.
Pacing a hole in the sidewalk, still in his tuxedo, though now stained crimson, is Warren.
He’s red-faced and breathing heavily, as if he’s just finished a marathon.
When he sees me, he strides forward, stopping several feet away with his hands fisted at his sides.
Tension seeps from him. He goes to open his mouth, but he pauses when he looks over my shoulder.
I turn to find Talia fixing him with a piercing glare, standing guard as if she isn’t five-foot-nothing and in a pair of hotdog pajamas.
I’m not sure what I expect, but it certainly isn’t Warren leaning forward to offer his hand to her. “Warren O’Connor.”
She doesn’t falter. “Talia Evans. Nice to see you actually exist.”
He flinches. “Yeah, um, that’s partly why I’m here.” His attention returns to me. “I don’t deserve another second of your time after what happened earlier, but I’m hoping we can go somewhere to talk?”
“What more is there to say?”
Warren’s shoes scuff the ground. I hope they’re rented, that he ruins the ridiculously polished leather and doesn’t get his security deposit back. There appears to be no end to my pettiness.
“I fully understand. You owe me nothing. The way I acted earlier was inexcusable. Seeing you was, well, the last fucking thing I expected to happen, and I reacted poorly.” He shifts from side to side, jaw clenched. “I’m sorry, Harriet. Truly.”
Oh, fuck him and his dumb consideration, making it impossible to be bitter. The obnoxious gurgle of my stomach interrupts the awkward silence, the late night munchies making themselves known. Where’s our pizza?
“Are you hungry?” he asks.
“She’s starving,” Talia blurts, and I whip around to glare at her. “See what he has to say,” she murmurs.
Ten minutes ago, she was cursing him with a lifetime of erectile dysfunction.
She’s right, though. I owe it to my baby to hear him out.
My head spins from the 180-degree turn this has taken.
He did react poorly—shitty, actually—and while he’s not flinging around excuses, I’m curious what triggered his initial reaction.
I definitely didn’t bring out the party poppers when I first saw the positive pregnancy test. At my first scan, I froze with fear. Even now, I’m afraid. Warren’s scared, and with my anger simmering at a rolling boil, I’m willing to give him a chance to explain.
“There’s a diner around the corner. I’m in the mood for breakfast.” Inviting him inside isn’t something I’m comfortable with. “Let’s go there.”
He straightens. “Anywhere.”
With a wary glance at Talia, I step out from the doorway and gesture down the street. “Twenty minutes. I’m tired and hungry. We can go from there.”
He nods, blinking in disbelief. “Thank you, Harriet.”
This man is a conundrum, and I’m not sure I want to solve him. Yet. “We’re just talking. That’s all.”
We look like we’ve abandoned prom, him in his stained tuxedo and me in my dress and a pair of worn sneakers.
Even my purse is still slung over my shoulder.
The sun set hours ago, and without the warm rays, the air is frigid, biting at the tips of my fingers and legs.
A strong breeze sends a chill down my spine, making me wish I’d grabbed my coat.
Something touches me, and I jump to find Warren draping his suit jacket over my shoulders. He says nothing and shoves his hands in his pockets.
“Thank you,” I whisper, studying his side profile as we walk. “How did you get here?”
He grunts. “A cab, but I couldn’t remember which building you lived in. Turns out, I was two blocks away. Some of your neighbors may report a strange man knocking on doors.”
I gape at him. “How long were you looking?”
The red tinge to his cheeks has nothing to do with the cold. “Fifteen doors, give or take.”
I’m not heartless, and the lengths he’s gone annoyingly work in his favor.
We arrive at the Crispy Biscuit, a small retro diner serving breakfast twenty-four seven, with bright red booths, a jukebox, and milkshakes in glasses the size of my forearm.
It’s not too busy, having just missed the dinner rush, and we’re ushered to a booth tucked in the corner. I’m overly aware of how close our knees are under the table and plaster mine to the sticky leather.
My stomach continues to rumble. Neither of us speaks, both staring at the menus until Betty, our smiling server, comes over.
“Harriet. How are we this evening?” Along with her husband, Reggie, they own the diner. Her gray bun bounces as she looks between me and Warren.
“All the better after seeing you tonight, Betty.”
“Such a doll.” She unfolds her notepad. “I forgot to tell ya, my boys got us tickets to your performance next weekend for my birthday. We can’t wait.”
This draws a slice of happiness to my face. “I’ll be sure to dedicate a song to you.” I tap the menu. “Could I do a bowl of Apple Jacks, no milk, please.”
She jots it on her pad before turning to Warren, who gives her a tight-lipped smile. “I’ll do the same, with milk, and two waters, please.”
“Perfect. Two Apple Jacks and two waters, coming right up.” She collects our menus and leaves.
“When you said breakfast, I thought you wanted bacon and hash browns,” Warren says.
“Cereal is one of the few things I can stomach lately. Minus the milk. Anything dairy makes me sick.” I flourish a hand over the menu. “You didn’t need to order cereal too. I’m sure you’re hungry.”
He shrugs awkwardly. “Not really. I’m used to having breakfast for dinner anyway.”
My head tilts in question. “Why?”
A shameful blush creeps over his cheeks. “I sometimes work nights. They mess up the body clock.”
Understanding prickles. “I don’t know many marketing associates who work night shifts.”
He swallows twice before responding, and he has the audacity to look angry. It takes a moment to realize his disdain is aimed at himself, not me. “That’s because I’m not in marketing.”
“Yeah, I gathered, considering me and my friends searched high and low for you.” I pause when our waters arrive. “What do you do?”
If he wasn’t already grossly uncomfortable, shoulders hitched to his ears and jaw tense, my question would’ve done it. I watch the shutters go down behind his eyes. “I’m a firefighter and EMT.”
His response surprises me. “Why did you lie about your job? Granted, we agreed it was one night, but it would’ve made looking for you a hell of a lot easier.”
Warren seems equally frustrated. “It was poor judgment on my part. Whenever people find out what I do, they want to know about all the heroic things I’ve done. I didn’t want to do that the evening we met. I shouldn’t have lied. I’m so—”
“This is going to go a lot easier if you stop apologizing. What’s done is done. Let’s talk about what’s next.” Parker would be so proud of me taking charge.
He drags a brawny hand over his jaw. It’s then I notice the raised skin on his knuckles and remember how rough his palms felt as they skimmed up my thighs and over my breasts.
Of course, he doesn’t work in marketing.
He works with his hands; that much is obvious, considering his strong and lean physique.
I’m jerked out of my memories when he clears his throat.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Go ahead.” I dip my chin, hoping he doesn’t catch my blush.
“Did you always want to be a mother? In the restroom, you seemed confident this is what you wanted.” He continues to drum away on the tabletop, waiting for my answer.
“Oh.” I purse my lips. “When I first found out, I panicked and didn’t know what I wanted to do.
I’d been on birth control for years and never thought I’d be in the one percent it wasn’t effective for.
My friend Parker was with me when I took the test, and I’ll be honest, there was a part of me that didn’t think I’d keep the baby or was ready to be a mom. ”
“What changed?”
My smile is wistful. “My mom. She was amazing, so compassionate and full of life. She made it look easy; having two daughters couldn’t have been, yet she never wavered and always showed me and my sister unconditional love.
I’d always imagined being a mother. Not this way, but something clicked, and I knew this is what I wanted. ”
“You’re speaking in the past tense. Is she…”
My heart pinches. “She passed away when I was nine.”
His brows furrow. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. It was a long time ago. I just hope I can be half the mother she was, even if I do this alone.”
An elderly couple enter the diner, hand in hand, and the hostess greets them with familiarity before seating them at a table by the window. I make a mental note to jot down some lyrics later, something about old love or reunited childhood sweethearts meeting after years apart.
Warren contemplates my words, and when our food arrives, I’m given some extra time to prepare what I want to say next. All self-respect goes out the window when I inhale the bowl of dry Apple Jacks. Screw the heartburn.
“Harriet?” Warren says softly as I’m downing my glass of water.
“Mm-hmm?”
“You’ll be a fantastic mother.” The resolution in his voice makes my eyes sting. Stupid hormones. “And while I have no doubt you’ll do an amazing job, I want you to know you don’t have to do this alone.”
“What do you mean?” What he’s implying is obvious, but I need to hear it.
“Whatever you need from me—both of you—I’m here.” He rolls his shoulders, as if speaking those words brings him physical pain. “The reason I walked out earlier wasn’t because I didn’t want to be involved.”
“Why did you then?”
The vulnerability in his expression is fleeting. “I was spooked. Still am. I’m forty and never saw myself becoming a father at this age, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to half-ass this. I may be a lot of things, but I am a man of my word.”
I watch him carefully. Those somber eyes, the ones I tried my hardest to forget, stare back at me. There’s such intimacy to his gaze, which is bizarre—we barely know each other.
Why are you so sad?
This is what I wanted all along, someone to share the load of bringing a new life into the world. So why does it petrify me? Warren might sound sure, but his demeanor tells me it’s more out of obligation.
I clutch my cards close to my chest, not wanting to lay them all out at once. Not only to protect myself, but this baby.
“What we really need is another bowl of cereal,” I whisper. “Or two.”
His mouth quirks to one side, making him appear boyish. “I can do that.”