Chapter 37
THIRTY-SEVEN
WARREN
Everything is fucked.
I’m weak. My plan was to reestablish some space between Harriet and me following the tryst at her house. What do I do instead? Agree to dinner plans, all because of my inability to say no to her. There were only so many excuses I could use until my time ran out.
It’s not as if Harriet has given the impression she’s looking for a retake. We’ve not actually acknowledged it. Things weren’t awkward when we woke up in the motel together, so why would this be any different?
I stare at the white-oak front door, hand twitching at my side as it decides whether to knock or text her to reschedule. The choice is made for me when the door swings open, revealing a beautiful smile and an even more beautiful Harriet.
Like I said, everything is fucked, reminding me why this differs from the fair. We never thought we’d see each other again after that night, and now, for every second I’m in her company, my willpower withers, and the icy cavern in my chest thaws.
“I gave you a key for a reason,” she jokes as she motions me into the house. “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Make yourself comfortable.”
A record plays in the background, and the strong aroma of garlic and something bitter assaults my nostrils, so intense, my eyeballs water. Aren’t pregnant women supposed to be put off by strong odors?
“What are you cooking?” I ask cautiously.
She beams over her shoulder at me as she saunters toward the source of the smell. “Creamy Tuscan chicken. It’s my first time making it.”
I make a mental note to buy some Tums on the way home.
“Sounds delicious. Can’t wait.” I hang my coat up and follow her into the kitchen.
Harriet opens the fridge. “What do you want to drink?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
Her bare feet stick out from underneath the refrigerator door. Why does something so simple increase my heart rate? She passes me sparkling lime water and clinks the neck of our bottles together.
“Well, cheers to what I suppose is our first family dinner.” She rubs her belly, laughing. “I’m trying not to drink too much sugar, but the baby loves the bubbles. Maybe you’ll feel them kick.”
It’s difficult to fight my smile. “Getting stronger by the day.”
“Yep. Especially at night. The kid is an owl.” She moves to the stove and stirs the simmering pot. “I should start getting used to late nights.”
I lean against the counter, watching her sprinkle oregano into the sauce.
“You know I’m always happy to help. Day and night.”
“When you return to full duties, it won’t be as simple.” She winces. “That isn’t a criticism, just a fact.”
“We’ll make it work. My mom has said she can help out too, if you want it.”
She’s right. I won’t be here all the time. Not for late night feeds, diaper changes, or bedtime stories. I’ll probably miss first smiles, laughs, and steps. Being upset won’t change anything; it’s how it has to be.
“I might not be under this roof, but we’re a team, remember? You or the baby need something, you call, text, light the Bat signal. Nothing will ever be more important than the two of you.”
Harriet’s smile doesn’t reach her eyes as she watches me. “You say that now, but what if you meet someone? I don’t expect you to drop everything at my beck and call.”
The lip of the bottle pauses a millimeter from my mouth.
It would be easier to shrug off her comment and change the subject.
Letting her believe there’s space in my world for another woman would be the smartest option.
Life stopped being straightforward the moment Harriet Thomas stepped into it.
If I was lost before, gone now is all sense of direction.
Harriet’s eyes widen when I close the space between us in two long strides and place the bottle on the counter with a little too much force. “Do you remember the night we met, and I said it had been a long time since being with anyone?”
She tilts her head back and nods lightly.
“Almost eight years. That’s how long. No one sparked my attention, and if I’m being truthful, I didn’t want anyone to.
Then, I got dragged to a bachelor party and met a woman who didn’t shy away from my pissy attitude.
” The wooden spoon she was using hovers midair, dripping red sauce.
I take it from her and place it back in the pot.
“We might’ve never seen ourselves crossing paths again, but make no mistake: from that night forward, you’ve held every ounce of my attention, whether I liked it or not.
So, no, Harriet, there won’t be anyone new coming into my life. Ever.”
Her mouth opens and closes. “That’s a long time.”
Of course, that’s her takeaway from my entire spiel.
“Is that how long it’s been since your divorce?”
I still. “That’s how many years have passed since my wife left me.”
Turn away. Stop talking. Every atom in my body begs me to throw up our defenses. But how can I when doubt creeps into her features? Time and time again, she gives me the space and patience I don’t deserve.
My next words are thick after sitting dormant for years. They’re spoken like a warning, a red flag on why she should see me as nothing more than the father of her child. “I don’t blame her for leaving me.”
She frowns, more questions lining her face—questions I want to answer and avoid, causing a civil war inside my head.
Ding.
Saved by the fucking bell.
“Dinner’s ready. I’ll set the table.”
I move to grab the cutlery before escaping to the small dining table.
A few minutes later, Harriet appears with two plates of steaming-hot food.
She’s smiling, but not my smile. This one is reserved and withdrawn, which is exactly how dinner goes.
The revelation about my marriage has the opposite effect and ruins the evening. I should’ve kept my mouth shut.
She never forces small talk on me, and I’m used to the silence, grown fond of it.
Until her. I enjoy her humming around the cottage.
Her constantly spinning record player. The crackling of a candle.
Her gentle footsteps. The little breath of impatience she releases while cooking. I even enjoy the sour tasting sauce.
I take in all the small touches she’s added, the quirky welcome signs, her mahogany guitar sitting in the corner, ready for her next masterpiece. In a few short weeks, Harriet has made this quaint cottage a home, one where my kid will know nothing but love, laughter, and fun.
And where will you be? a voice asks, the same one that’s grown louder and harder to ignore. You don’t have to be on the sidelines, peering through a fogged window into a life, a future within touching distance.
I stare at my half-eaten plate, picturing myself as a part of this household, not a guest who has to leave eventually or sleep on the sofa bed in the office. I’d fall asleep with Harriet in my arms, her golden tresses splayed across my chest, feet tucked between mine to keep them warm.
A dream, I respond. It can only be a dream.