Chapter 48
Lark
Three months later . . .
Harbor moved my stuff into the apartment the week after we had sex . . . I mean, after we got back together. But the sex was pretty damn amazing. Still is.
I also realized my love for him had never truly faded. It had only been hidden by stormy clouds. It’s so easy to love Harbor—then and now—but loving him in the aftermath of the storm we survived, our love has grown even deeper than I thought possible.
There are no benefits to living in the past when there’s so much happiness to be found in the here, the now, and in the future together. But sometimes, life still throws a curveball . . .
The cute two-room plus terrace apartment he owns just so happens to sit on top of a three-thousand-square-foot penthouse he also owns. I found out that our apartment is an addition he built onto the rooftop deck.
We have plenty of time to move downstairs and eventually start a family. We’re still young and want to enjoy this stage of our lives. I ideally want to get through my residency as well, but my priorities are shifting enough to think about starting a family with him.
Harbor’s still just as busy building his company as I have been with my shifts, so there’s a lot to consider before diving into the next stage.
Bonus, I love watching him work. Watching him in action is a glorious sight to behold.
He didn’t just tap into a market. He tapped into his passion, and I couldn’t be more proud of him.
So although it’s a stunning apartment and a very Pride and Prejudice ending for a fairy tale, I prefer our love nest for the two of us—the soft as a cloud bed and the large terrace where he set up a movie screen for us to watch the Yankees kick ass all season.
There’s just something about being in close quarters filled with our love.
How could I not be wildly in love with him? Harbor gave up everything for me. He doesn’t see it that way, though, and he once said, “I got a life in exchange, the one I wanted, instead of my cousin’s.” My heart is full knowing he’s pursuing his dreams and I get to bear witness.
Despite the hurdles we’ve covered, the next obstacle shows up in the form of an invitation. There’s no return address to give me insight before opening. Just a handwritten letter without postage left with security downstairs in the lobby.
I flip it over several times like I might get a hint because it’s so odd and kind of unsettling that it was hand-delivered. Setting it down, I wait for Harbor to come home.
Not an hour later, I hear the alarm’s quick beat pattern from the bath, and call out, “I’m in here.”
It takes him a minute to make his way back to the bathroom.
Harbor may be wealthy beyond reason, but his habits would fit a simpler life.
He likes routine. Don’t get me wrong, though, because he has a fantastic spontaneous streak.
Once my schedule became more predictable, we could plan our time together better.
We go out at least once or twice a week, especially if it’s to meet with his clients and their significant others.
But most nights we prefer to eat here, cook together, or if it’s been a day, which happens, order in.
He’s been known to surprise me with a quick trip here and there. What’s the point of having all that money if you never enjoy it? When I’m in my own practice, I plan to surprise him in return.
With my head rested back and my eyes closed, I can see him dropping his keys in the bowl by the door, setting any packages we received on the island, and then stripping off his suit jacket as he works his way to the bedroom.
I open my eyes just as he leans against the doorway, unbuttoning his sleeves and rolling them up. This man . . . He’s like the gift that keeps giving. I ask, “How was your day?”
“Better now that I’m seeing you.” He comes over to bend down and kiss me. “How was yours?”
“Indulgent. I never know what to do on my days off, so I stayed in bed most of the day. I caught up on sleep, did a little reading, and watched a movie. Uneventful.”
“Sounds full.” He then asks, “What’s the letter on the counter?”
“I don’t know. I was waiting for you to get home to open it.”
He crosses his arms over his chest and leans his bicep on the doorframe. “Why?”
“Just wanted you here. Do you want to grab it?”
“Drink?” he asks once he disappears into the room again.
“Wine works. There’s an open bottle in the fridge.” I lie back, but my bubbles are starting to dissipate, and the hot water is now only warm. I won’t be in much longer at this rate.
He returns, setting the glass on the small table next to the tub, and then asks, “Want me to open it since you’re wet?”
“Yes, please.” I take the glass and a large sip. It’s weird that this feels different. We get invitations all the time, but this doesn’t feel like a charity or event to attend. It’s personal.
He pulls a flat card from the envelope and scans it, glances at me, and then exhales. Rubbing his hand over his head, he looks back at me, and says, “If you weren’t already sitting down—”
“What is it? Who’s it from?”
“Liz.”
The glass bangs against the side of the tub in my rush to sit up. “My mom?” I ask, knowing exactly who Liz is.
Turning the card to face me, he points at the signature. “Elizabeth Shaw.”
I squint to read it from across the bathroom. “What does it say?”
Reading over it again, he replies, “She’s inviting you to dinner.”
“When? Where?” I set the glass down and grab a towel when I stand.
Harbor’s gaze travels from my knees to my eyes and then returns to the card. Though a mischievous glint appears when he sneaks another look at me. “You’re very distracting.”
I roll my eyes because I can say the same about him, and have, many times. He offers me a hand when I step out of the tub. With the towel wrapped around me, I lean against him and read the card for myself.
“I didn’t even know if she was alive.” I wander into the bedroom to get dressed. “This is a lot to process.”
“There’s no request to reply. She’s telling you where she’ll be and at what time, but it’s up to you what you choose to do with that information.”
“I have until Friday night to decide.”
“Three days.”
“Three days to decide if I want to see the woman who abandoned me or move on with my life.”
Three days to decide if I put a bow on that part of my life by not going.
Three days to get the closure I’ve wanted since she walked out the door.
Three days that will change the rest of my life forever.
Three days to decide . . .
I look back once more at Harbor.
He mouths, “You got this,” from the car before he pulls away from the restaurant.
I can do this.
It’s no big deal. Just meeting your mother for the first time since she left you.
No biggie at all.
I picked comfort over trying to impress anyone. Wearing dark jeans and a jacket over a tank top, I look down at my penny loafers, suddenly feeling underdressed for this restaurant. Too late now.
I walk up to the woman behind the podium, and say, “Hi, I’m meeting someone here for dinner.”
Without looking at me, the host asks, “Name on the reservation?”
“Elizabeth Shaw.”
She grins, but I don’t sense any sincerity in it. By how busy she is, I won’t take it personally. Leading me through the tables to a back room filled with even more tables, I see Liz before we get close. It would be hard not to recognize an older version of myself.
Is it weird to think she’s pretty? Is that a compliment in disguise for myself? Anxiety has my feelings reeling along with my mind. The host says, “Here you are.”
Liz looks up from her phone and then quickly stands.
Looking at me probably how I’m staring at her.
Her hair is medium brown in color and falls just below her shoulders.
It’s straight, not like mine that has my father’s wave to it.
Her eyes match though but hold more gold than green in them. I say, “Hello.”
Dressed in fitted black pants and a white blouse, she looks younger than her age, maybe early forties. Until now, I’d almost forgotten that she was so young when she had me.
She sets her phone down, and then says, “Lark, it’s .
. . it’s such a pleasure to see you again.
” Though she makes it sound like we’ve met more recently, I don’t consider that to be accurate since I was a toddler.
But I do find relief from her appearing as nervous as I am.
Signaling to the chair across from her, she smiles. “Please. Sit.”
Pulling the seat out, I sit down and hang my purse from the top of the chair. We sit across from each other a moment before she says, “Thank you for coming. I didn’t think you would.”
“I didn’t know if I would. Not until a few hours ago.”
She swallows, and it makes me self-conscious when I do. I take the glass of water already on the table and sip. She asks, “Would you like a drink? I’m having wine, hoping to settle my nerves.” She laughs anxiously.
Call me soft, but my heart feels for her and me trying to reconnect after a horrible situation. “It’s nice to see you, too. Why did you . . . why now?”
“My parents passed away a few years ago, and I realized that life is too short to not be there for those you love.”
The shock of learning that both my grandparents have passed away, that they’re gone without the option of ever having a reunion is disconcerting. I take the napkin from the table and twist it in my lap. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
“I’m sorry for yours,” she replies. Leaning forward, she says, “They had a lot of regrets.”
“Most people do on their deathbeds.” I don’t mean to sound cold, but I’m more confused than ever as to why I’m here. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it’s understandable. That’s why I waited to reach out to you. It’s hard to empathize with someone when they’ve been hurt by you.”
I start to release and feel more myself. “It’s not hard. I’m a doctor. I do it every day.”