Chapter 9 Harper
HARPER
Iam beginning to hate cell phones. If it weren’t for cell phones, Carlie wouldn’t have been called away to work six years ago.
That night would have been different. Different good, different bad, I’m not sure which.
But there’s a strong chance that we never would have hooked up if everyone else had stuck around.
Aiden wouldn’t regret me. I wouldn’t regret my choice about that night, either. But then I wouldn’t have had that night with him, and I don’t think I could live in a world where that didn’t happen.
Even if it hurts, that night was worth the pain I’ve carried all these years.
But cell phones keep cutting into our conversations now, too, and it’s pissing me off. I hate that he was called away tonight. I hate that he’s constantly at risk. He never gets a break from that job. Never gets to turn off that part of himself. The protective part of him.
But without it, we wouldn’t have a place to stay right now. He wouldn’t have become a firefighter, so he wouldn’t have been there to part the crowd and get us out of the bar the night of the fire. Hell, he wouldn’t have stayed behind to help me clean up at Carlie’s party, either.
I suppose everything works out the way it’s supposed to. But I still hate cell phones.
The penthouse is too quiet after Aiden leaves.
I tell myself that silence is a good thing, that it means Mason is asleep and nothing else is wrong right now, but the quiet presses in on me anyway the way it always does. So, I pace.
From the windows to the kitchen. From the kitchen back to the couch.
I pick up my phone, check the time, set it back down, then pick it up again a minute later like something might have changed if I look hard enough.
My chest feels tight, my breath shallow, and I hate myself a little for how quickly fear has wrapped its hands around me.
I shouldn’t care this much. I’m being ridiculous.
It’s been six years. Six years since I packed up my heartbreak and told myself it was survivable. Six years since I married someone else, had a child, built a business, built a life that didn’t include Aiden Sloan in any real way. I’ve told myself that story so many times I almost believe it.
Almost.
Because the truth is, the fear crawling through me right now isn’t about firefighters in general or car fires or probabilities. It’s about him. It’s about knowing exactly what kind of risks he takes without hesitation and realizing how much the idea of losing him still terrifies me.
I’d have to have him to be able to lose him. And he’s not mine.
I lean my hands on the counter and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe the way my therapist taught me. Slow. Deliberate. Controlled. I am over him, I tell myself. I moved on. I survived the worst part.
A small sound pulls me out of my thoughts. A whimper, followed by a soft, panicked inhale.
I’m moving down the hall before my brain catches up.
Mason is sitting up in bed, his hair damp with sweat, his blanket twisted around his fists. His eyes are wide and unfocused, still caught halfway in a dream. “Mama—”
“Hey,” I say gently, sitting beside him and pulling him into my arms. “You’re okay.”
“There was fire,” he says quietly, his voice shaking.
“I know,” I murmur, smoothing my hand over his back. “But you’re safe. It was just a dream. You’re not in the bar anymore—”
“No. Aiden was in a fire.”
My stomach sinks hard and fast. It’s like my subconscious is lodged in his brain, and that’s not fair to him. “Remember the fire at the bar? How Aiden knew exactly what to do? Even if he’s in a fire, sweetie, he will be fine.”
He presses his face into my shoulder, breathing unevenly. After a moment, he pulls back just enough to look at me. “Will Aiden come back?”
“Yes,” I say immediately. Too fast, too sure. “Of course, he will.”
Mason’s eyelids start to droop again, exhaustion overtaking fear. “Daddy never comes back when he says he will,” he says sleepily. “But Aiden seems different.”
My chest tightens painfully. “Different how?”
“He keeps his promises,” Mason murmurs. He shifts closer to me, already half asleep. “Right, Mommy?”
I don’t answer right away. I just hold him, listening to his breathing even out again, feeling the weight of his trust settle heavily in my arms. Because the truth hits all at once, sharp and undeniable.
Mason is already attached. And so am I. Maybe I never stopped being. I don’t go back to pacing right away.
“Aiden keeps his promises, baby.” I hum a lullaby and pray that I’m right about that.
After Mason settles, I stay on the edge of his bed longer than I need to, watching his small chest rise and fall. His face smooths out as sleep takes hold again, the lines of worry easing from his brow. I wait until his grip loosens on my shirt before easing away, careful not to wake him.
The living room greets me with the same oppressive quiet. I sit on the couch this time, forcing myself to stay still, hands folded tightly in my lap. My phone rests on the coffee table in front of me, face up, screen dark and stubbornly silent.
This is nuts. People go to work and come home every day. Firefighters included. Fear doesn’t make him safer, and it doesn’t make me stronger.
It just makes the waiting louder.
Midnight passes without ceremony. I refresh my email. I scroll through social media without absorbing anything. I open my banking app, then close it again. Every attempt at distraction feels thin, flimsy. A paper umbrella in a hurricane.
I shouldn’t care this much. Whatever I’m feeling is leftover emotion, nothing more. Six years is a long time. Long enough to have loved someone else. Long enough to have a child. Long enough to prove that I survived him.
But survival isn’t the same thing as healing. Every kiss with David, I longed for Aiden’s lips. Every time he held me, I didn’t feel it. And I tried, God, I tried to feel something for David. When that didn’t happen, I changed my tactic.
If I couldn’t be in love with my husband, then I’d settle for being a partner to him. We had Mason, and I thought that was proof of my dedication to our partnership. That having his baby would prove it to the world. Or to myself.
But his kiss still reminded me of what I didn’t have.
One a.m. creeps by. Then one thirty. The city outside the windows begins to quiet, lights blinking out floor by floor in the surrounding buildings. The world is settling into sleep, and I’m still sitting here, keyed up too tightly to relax.
I imagine Aiden out there somewhere, soot in his hair, adrenaline sharp in his veins, doing the job he’s always done without hesitation.
The thought doesn’t comfort me the way it should.
It only sharpens the fear, because I know exactly how seriously he takes his responsibility.
I know he doesn’t cut corners. I know he doesn’t step back when things get dangerous.
Two a.m. Why the hell is a car fire taking so long to put out?
I look up car fires on social media, and that does nothing to put me at ease.
Apparently car fires burn hotter than regular house fires, so they can take longer to extinguish because of all the materials used to make cars.
They are also more dangerous thanks to the same chemicals that make them burn hotter.
Hooray.
I get up and walk the penthouse again, slower now. I check the locks even though I know they’re secure. I turn off lights that don’t need to be on. I straighten a throw pillow that was already straight. Anything to burn off the restless energy buzzing under my skin.
I stop in front of the windows and look out again, resting my forehead briefly against the cool glass. I tell myself that I rebuilt my life without him, that I learned how to stand on my own, that I don’t need him the way I once did.
The truth answers back immediately and without mercy.
I never stopped hoping.
Not for reconciliation. Not for rescue. Just for the possibility that what we had wasn’t as one-sided or disposable as he made it seem. Just for the knowledge that I hadn’t imagined the depth of it all on my own.
Three a.m. arrives quietly.
I sit back down, curling my feet under me. Every sound makes my head lift. Every distant siren sends my heart racing, even though I know how irrational that is. I brace myself for the reality that sometimes people don’t come back when they say they will.
That thought settles heavy in my chest, unwelcome and insistent.
And I’m still sitting there, wide awake, when the lock finally clicks. He staggers in, clutching his arm with the other one. But he has to release it to lock the door behind himself, and that’s when I see why he was holding that arm.
The gash is huge.
I’m on my feet without a thought. “What happened?”
He closes his eyes and sighs. “It’s nothing—”
I pull that arm straight to examine him. “It needs stitches!”
He softly chuckles. “I’ve had worse. It’s shallow. I’ll be fine.”
I circle his good wrist with my two hands and pull him toward his en suite bathroom. “You’re right. You will be fine. Once I clean you up and bandage you and ground you, because your butt is never going to another car fire again.”
He rolls his eyes but follows me without more objections. In fact, we both go quiet while I hunt for a first-aid kit beneath the sink. The bathroom is quiet in a way that feels deliberate, like it’s holding its breath with us.
Aiden leans against the counter, shoulders slumped now that the adrenaline has worn off, the cut on his forearm darkened by soot and dried blood. Up close, it looks even angrier than it did in the living room, the skin split just enough to make my stomach twist.
“Sit,” I tell him, nodding toward the closed toilet lid.
He does without arguing, watching me with an intensity that makes it harder to focus than it should be. I soak gauze under the tap, wring it out, and step closer. When I press it gently to his arm, he inhales sharply, then forces himself to relax.