Chapter Twenty-three #3
It wasn’t Nathan? Really? She’d been so certain but Trent had no reason to lie.
Relief flooded through her. Nathan wasn’t as close to Trent as she suspected.
Even more reason to not do the show. “This time it wasn’t.
But the show, with both of us on it, that could push him to do something terrible. ”
“You know, fuck, I kind of wish we could go see Nathan. Confront the bastard. I’d like to beat seven kinds of shit out of the guy for what he did to you. Because the show is something we should be celebrating, not debating if it’s safe enough to do.”
“You should celebrate. But it’s not for me.
We aren’t on the same page at all. I need some air.
” Harper grabbed her purse and hoped she could keep her dinner down until she got outside.
Her heels clicked loudly on the tiled lobby as she ran out of the restaurant, swiping a finger under her eyes to try to keep the tears in.
Desperately, she looked up and down the street and signaled to a cab heading in the other direction. As it completed a U-turn to stop in front of her, she became aware of Trent’s footsteps.
Grabbing her shoulder, he spun her around.
“What the fuck, Harper? What just happened?”
“I can’t do this, Trent. You want too much from me.” Tears, refusing to be constrained, were rolling down her cheeks.
“I want you to want too much from yourself. You’re not that girl hiding behind an apron using five percent of her brain to make minimum wage. You are more than that. Stop trying to convince yourself that you’re okay with this.”
“I don’t want the spotlight on us, Trent.
I want to stay hidden. I know you think I’m crazy, but I really believe he’s out to get us.
And I can’t take the chance the added attention the show will bring won’t lead him right to us, to you, that it won’t send him over the edge.
” Her whole body shook. She needed to kick her heels off before she fell down.
“You want me to quit the show? Okay. I won’t do it.
I’ll find a way out of it. Heck, I’ll even pack up and leave with you.
But if it’s not the show, it will be something else.
Are you never going to marry me because you don’t want to register the license?
And if we have a baby, are you going to put a fake name on his or her birth certificate?
Are you never going to drive those kids to baseball because you don’t have a driver’s license?
Are you never going to travel anywhere because you don’t want to renew your passport?
I can walk away from the show, Harper, I can even walk away from Miami, but what happens the next time?
Because our future has got to add up to more than that. ”
“I’m sorry, Trent. I know how good this opportunity is for you, but you made a life-changing decision. Without me. I get that our relationship was pretty new, and I don’t really deserve any kind of say. It’s great for you. I know why you did it, but I can’t be a part of it.”
“You seriously can’t give me any kind of grief for not talking to you about something important, Harper. You’re all out of currency on that one.” His sarcasm cut like a knife.
“That’s not fair and you know it,” Harper said quietly. “I’ve told you everything.”
“Eventually. Maybe.” Trent was shouting now.
“Maybe? You think I am keeping shit from you? Well, I’m glad to know what you really think of me. Screw you,” she cried and rushed into the taxi.
* * *
“FUCK!” Trent shouted and punched the streetlight. The pain of concrete decimating his knuckles cut through the overwhelming sense of frustration and grief at Harper having left him standing impotent by the side of the road.
Maybe. Of all the dumb fucking things to say. The moment the word had tumbled angrily out of his mouth, he’d wished he could scoop it up and put it back again. Of course she’d told him everything. He knew she had.
“Sir?”
“What?” he yelled as he turned. The ma?tre d’ from the hotel was standing behind him, cowering, holding the bill for the meal.
Trent quickly went inside, paid, and got a napkin filled with ice for his knuckles. Flagging down a taxi, he headed to her condo while calling her phone. It went straight to voice mail, a sure sign that she’d turned it off.
He’d thought through every possible outcome.
She’d be crazy excited. Maybe mad because he hadn’t told her, but the good would outweigh the bad.
Never had he considered that she’d dump him on the side of the road for finally becoming someone.
He could give her everything Yasmin had accused him of not being able to provide, and yet it had somehow ended up not being enough.
Part of him wondered whether he should have pushed her like that. But it was killing him to see her settling into a life of low expectations.
Jumping out of the cab, he ran up the path to her building and let himself in. To think they had only exchanged keys days ago.
“Harper … Harp, you back here?”
He slammed on lights as he went from room to room, calling out her name.
Think. Think. She wouldn’t have gone back to his place. That he knew for sure.
Drea. He looked down at his watch. It was past eleven, so José’s would definitely be closed by now. Shit, he didn’t even know where Drea lived, but he had her cell phone number from when he’d organized the party.
He cradled the phone under his ear as he paced the length of the living room so he could check out his knuckles. Removing the napkin ice pack, he flexed them slowly.
What good was a tattoo artist with broken fingers? And what kind of impression would it create for the TV show? Fuck.
“Hey, this is Drea. Sorry I can’t take your call…” Where the hell was she?
He redialed and got the exact same thing. She was his only chance of finding Harper. He dialed a third time.
“What the hell did you do?”
Trent breathed a sigh of relief. Harper must be with her if she already knew.
“I’ll be honest, I don’t know what the fuck just happened, but I need to talk to her. I need to apologize. Where is she?” Christ, he needed some pain relief for his hand. He walked to the kitchen and started to look through her drawers to find something he could take.
“She doesn’t want to see you.” His heart felt like it was being crushed like a car in a wrecking yard.
“Please, Drea. I need to see her. I gotta set this right. There’s still so much we need to talk about.”
“The best thing you can do is give her some time. She’s not decided if she’s heartbroken or furious. Give her some space. I’ll tell her you called.”
“Wait. Where do you live? I’ll come over.” He was desperate.
“I’m sorry, Trent. Good night.”
Dropping his phone onto the counter, he leaned forward, rested his forearms on the cool surface, and dropped his head.
It had somehow gone from the best night of his life to the worst, and he had no idea how to recover it. The sick, sick feeling in his stomach matched the throbbing of his fingers.
He pulled open another drawer to look for some painkillers, and he found a white binder. He opened it and saw the cover letter was from a lawyer in Chicago. The case was noted as Kennedy v. Bell. It must be the file she’d mentioned that contained all the trial information.
“Photographic evidence submitted by the Plaintiff,” it began.
Eight hours later he stood at the airport, feeling like his insides had gone through a blender.
With Cujo’s help, he’d exhausted every avenue to find Drea.
They had gone to José’s to see if either of them had shown up for work, but he guessed Drea had already asked José not to say anything.
Not knowing Drea’s last name, they’d been unable to track her down, and she hadn’t responded to Trent’s texts.
He had a contractual obligation to get on this fucking airplane, but the last thing he felt like doing was leaving Harper with their relationship messed up like this. He’d asked Cujo to keep an eye out for her and felt better knowing she was staying at Drea’s.
As always when it came to Harper, his emotions were complicated. He was pissed as all hell. His heart had been ripped out of his chest. His stomach felt like he was going through turbulence—especially when he thought about what he’d seen in that file.
The evidence. His worst imaginings hadn’t lived up to seeing her injuries in glorious Technicolor.
He got it now. In a way he hadn’t been able to from just her descriptions.
The photographs, in their rawest form taken just after the attacks, had brought home just how gut-wrenchingly awful it had been for Harper.
He pulled out his phone one last time, but instead of calling her, he opened his photos and scrolled to the picture he’d taken of her the night they’d “moved in” to each other’s homes.
They’d made love in his bed, and she was lying on her front with the white sheet pulled low down her back.
Her dark hair lay curled around her shoulders, and she had a soft, all-knowing smile on her lips.
Her eyes sparkled as she looked toward the camera and was just about to tell him off for taking her picture.
But it was there in the way she was looking at him. The way she’d just loved him slowly, her eyes wide open, pupils dilating as they had moved together. She loved him just as much as he loved her. And she was going to walk away from it before he told her.
The gate attendant made the last call for the flight. He realized she wasn’t going to call him today. And wasn’t that a fucking ass-kicker?
He boarded the plane, trying to avoid looking at the empty seat next to him, pulled out his phone, and attached the photograph.
You said you wouldn’t run, Harper. Don’t bail on us yet.
* * *
Day one, post Trent, had been a write-off. Drea had run interference with Trent and had let José know the barest bones. Harper had spent it in bed with several industrial-sized boxes of tissues.
Not even bowls of chicken noodle soup had tempted her to eat.