Chapter 23 Harper
HARPER
Iwake up every morning with a list already running through my head.
Two weeks. That’s all that stands between me and the grand re-opening of the bar, and every single day feels like a race against the clock. Permits. Inspections. Staffing. Marketing. Vendor confirmations. Music. Liquor deliveries. A hundred tiny details that all matter, because this place matters.
I live at the bar site now more than I live anywhere else.
By the time the contractors arrive in the morning, I’ve already walked the space twice, coffee in hand, checking progress and mentally rearranging furniture that hasn’t been delivered yet.
The walls are up, the floors are down, the bar itself gleams under the lights like it’s daring me to believe this is real.
Some days, I still catch myself expecting to smell smoke.
Instead, I smell fresh paint and sawdust.
I’m stressed, yes. My shoulders ache. My phone never stops buzzing. But underneath all of it is excitement so sharp it almost hurts. This was my dream once. Losing it felt like losing proof that I could stand on my own.
But rebuilding it feels like reclaiming a piece of myself.
And the charity angle has taken on a life of its own.
What started as Aiden’s quiet suggestion—maybe donate part of opening night to the burn victim recovery fund—has snowballed into something massive.
Someone floated the idea of auctioning off firefighter calendar photos.
Someone else called the local news. Now there are confirmed cameras, a city council member attending, and a waiting list for tickets that makes my head spin.
I’m overwhelmed and proud and grateful. Mostly the latter.
The community showed up when everything burned. Now they’re showing up again, this time to celebrate. To rebuild. To prove that what Marcus tried to erase can’t be erased. Not even if it goes up in smoke.
I move through my days with purpose, clipboard tucked under my arm, barking cheerful instructions and thanking people until my voice goes hoarse. I don’t notice much else, which is probably why I don’t notice Aiden being weird at first.
He’s distracted lately. Not distant—never that—but preoccupied. He takes phone calls in the other room. Disappears with Garrett under flimsy excuses. Comes home with that particular look on his face that says his mind is somewhere else entirely.
I assume it’s firehouse-related. He swears he’s not under investigation again, but then he changes the topic.
I can’t tell if he’s trying to make sure I don’t worry, or if there’s even anything to worry about.
He tries to act like there isn’t. So, maybe there isn’t, and I’m just looking for something else to go wrong.
Or maybe it’s about the reopening. It makes sense. He’s been just as involved as I have, showing up to planning meetings, coordinating with the crew, fielding questions about logistics. I chalk his behavior up to nerves, or maybe planning some big firefighter-themed surprise for opening night.
Carlie does nothing to dissuade me.
Every time she drops by, she gives me these knowing looks, eyebrows arching, mouth twitching like she’s sitting on something big.
I love her, but she cannot keep a secret to save her life, so I’m surprised to see it.
Especially when she says, “The reopening is going to be very memorable,” and then shifts gears to talk about the hospital or Mason or anything but the reopening.
Roz is worse. She winks at me every time I mention opening night and says things like, “Oh, just you wait,” or “You have no idea how good this is going to be.”
Then there’s Mason. He has zero poker face.
“Mommy,” he announces one afternoon while I’m reviewing menu proofs, “Aiden says I have a very important job at the party but I can’t tell you.”
I look up, amused. “Oh yeah? What kind of job?”
He clamps his lips together dramatically and shakes his head. “It’s a secret.”
Aiden appears instantly, clearing his throat too loudly. “Buddy—”
“I know!” Mason says, eyes wide. “I’m not supposed to tell.”
Carlie grins and shushes him, which only makes him giggle and makes me laugh harder than I have in days.
Whatever it is, if they all know about it, it can’t be bad.
When that thought strikes, it feels odd.
I’m not expecting the worst for once. I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Doing what I’m supposed to be doing. Everything is going according to plan so far, and there’s still a small part of me that’s holding her breath, but it’s not all of me, and that’s progress.
The closer we get to opening night, the more the bar feels like it’s vibrating with anticipation.
There’s a hum in the air every time I walk through the doors.
I juggle calls with the liquor distributor while approving the final draft of the menu.
I argue good-naturedly with the fire inspector about the placement of an exit sign, then turn around and hug him when he signs off on the final inspection.
Every yes feels earned. Every hurdle cleared feels like a small victory stacked on top of another.
Staffing is the last major piece to fall into place.
Some of the old crew comes back without hesitation, familiar faces who tell me they wouldn’t miss this for the world. New hires fill in the gaps, eager and energetic, asking questions about the vibe and the crowd and whether this place really means as much to people as everyone says it does.
My answer is an easy yes.
The local news runs a segment about the reopening, looping footage of the firehouse crew helping with cleanup and talking about community resilience.
Social media explodes with comments and shares and people tagging friends they haven’t seen in years.
My phone buzzes constantly with messages from strangers telling me their story with Clover & Mint, how it was where they met their spouse or celebrated a promotion or survived a bad breakup.
I read every single one, and every time, my stomach knots. I don’t realize how much it’s affecting me until Aiden finds me sitting alone at the bar one afternoon, staring at my phone with tears in my eyes.
“Hey,” he says gently, sliding onto the stool beside me. “What’s wrong?”
I hand him the phone without a word.
He reads the message, then another, his expression softening with each one. “They love this place.”
“They loved it,” I correct quietly. “I keep thinking I’m going to let them down.”
Aiden shakes his head. “You already didn’t. Look at what you built. Look at what you’re rebuilding.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I almost believe him without question.
Almost.
At home, life settles into a comfortable chaos.
Mason’s excitement about the reopening grows by the day.
He counts down on his fingers at dinner, reminding us how many sleeps are left between now and the reopening.
He asks what he should wear, whether dinosaurs are appropriate party accessories, and if the fire trucks will be there.
Aiden answers every question with infinite patience, even when Mason asks the same one three times in a row. I watch them together from the kitchen doorway more often than I should, a quiet warmth spreading through me at the ease of their connection.
Aiden’s weirdness persists.
He disappears with Garrett more frequently now, offering vague explanations about “logistics” and “coordination.” He checks his phone and then pockets it quickly when he notices me looking. Once, I catch him standing on the balcony late at night, talking in a low voice I can’t quite hear.
I tease him about it over breakfast one morning.
“You’re being suspicious,” I say, raising an eyebrow. “Should I be worried?”
He smiles too easily. “Only about being surprised.”
I laugh and let it go, knowing this is all part of whatever firefighter-flavored spectacle he’s helping plan for opening night. Considering Aiden, it’s probably something thoughtful and understated, even if Garrett’s involvement makes me suspect explosions or sirens might somehow be involved.
Between the bar, the people, the routines at home, and the quiet certainty of Aiden’s presence, my life feels full in a way that doesn’t leave room for fear. If there’s a catch coming, I don’t see it. And for once, I’m not actively looking for it.
The days blur together in the best possible way.
Dinner becomes a standing family appointment, even though I have a thousand things to do. If I don’t make time for it now, I’ll hate myself. Running a bar means late nights, so these dinners are everything to me.
Nothing fancy—pasta, tacos, whatever Aiden can throw together after a shift—but it’s consistent, and consistency has a way of calming the edges of my mind. Mason insists on setting the table “the right way,” which changes nightly, and Aiden lets him explain the rules as if they’re official policy.
Afterward, homework stretches longer than it should, mostly because Mason keeps asking Aiden to make the pencil talk or act out spelling words like they’re characters in a story.
This is what I didn’t know I was missing.
I feel good. Not just busy or distracted or cautiously optimistic, but genuinely happy.
Present in my own life instead of waiting for it to fall apart.
When I crawl into bed at night, exhausted and satisfied, I don’t run mental disaster scenarios.
I fall asleep thinking about lighting choices and playlists and whether Mason should wear sneakers or boots to the party.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not bracing for impact. Whatever’s coming, I trust it. That, more than anything, tells me how far I’ve come. If there’s a crack forming anywhere in this perfect momentum, I don’t feel it. And if it comes, we will patch it and keep going.
The bar hums with activity from open to close, every day bringing a new problem to solve and a new reminder of why I fought so hard to rebuild.
The staff is trained and eager, the shelves stocked, the lighting finally just right.
I catch my reflection in the mirrored back bar one afternoon and barely recognize the woman staring back at me—confident, tired in a good way, smiling without forcing it.
This is mine again.
Roz and I spend hours fine-tuning details that probably don’t matter, and then arguing about them anyway because that’s who we are.
Her hints ramp up—“Make sure you wear something comfortable opening night,” or “You’re going to want waterproof mascara”—and every time I roll my eyes, she just laughs and tells me I’ll thank her later.
And as opening night looms closer, the excitement builds into something almost electric. The bar is ready. The community is ready. I feel ready.
But then sleep refuses to cooperate the night before the grand re-opening. I’m too anxious. Maybe it’s waited until now to hit me. That’s what it feels like.
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, my mind replaying lists and timelines and worst-case scenarios even though I know better.
Tomorrow is the culmination of everything I’ve worked toward since the fire.
Tomorrow is proof that Marcus didn’t win.
Tomorrow is the bar, the people, the music, the noise and laughter and life returning exactly where it belongs.
And yet my chest feels tight in a way that has nothing to do with permits or staffing or whether the liquor delivery will arrive on time.
I slip quietly out of bed and pad into the living room, careful not to wake Mason. The penthouse is dark and still, the city beyond the windows spread out in a quiet constellation of lights. I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and step onto the balcony, letting the cool air wash over me.
It helps a little.
I rest my hands on the railing and close my eyes, breathing in slowly. For the first time in years, my life feels almost too good. The bar is back. Mason is happy. Aiden is here—steady, present, not running. The community showed up. The future looks wide open.
And that’s what scares me.
Aiden steps out onto the balcony quietly, already dressed for bed, his expression soft and knowing like he sensed where I’d gone. He doesn’t crowd me or ask questions right away. He just joins me at the railing, shoulder brushing mine. “Can’t sleep?”
I huff out a small laugh. “I’m terrified.”
“About tomorrow?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not about the bar.”
He turns toward me then, giving me his full attention. “About what, then?”
I stare out at the city, the words pressing against my ribs until I can’t keep them in anymore.
“About how perfect everything feels,” I admit.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like if I relax too much, something will come along and take this away. I thought I was past this… turns out, I’m not. ”
Aiden reaches for me without hesitation, pulling me into his chest, wrapping the blanket tighter around both of us. His heartbeat is steady under my ear, solid and reassuring in a way that makes my eyes sting. “No more shoes. Just us. I promise.”
I tilt my head up to look at him, searching his face for doubt or fear or the instinct to hedge his words. I don’t find it. I nod, leaning into him, letting myself believe it.
Tomorrow is everything. And for the first time, I’m ready to let it be.
He murmurs against my hair, “And if the other shoe drops, we handle it. Together. Always.”
His words loosen my lungs, and for the first time all night, I take a deep breath and release that anxiety. The worst thing that could happen to my bar has already happened. Now, it’s time for the best things.