Chapter 7
Harper
I make it home before the tears come. Stupid, angry tears that have nothing to do with wanting Nate and everything to do with... who am I kidding? They have everything to do with wanting him.
My phone lights up before I even get my keys out of the ignition.
Maya:
June says you left Marcello's looking ready to commit murder. Do I need bail money?
June:
I have emergency cookies.
Maya:
She means wine. She has wine.
I ignore them both and stumble into my house, my green sweater suddenly feeling too heavy, too warm. Like everything about tonight was too much. I strip it off and throw it on the couch, standing in my camisole and jeans, trying to breathe.
Professional distance. That's what I demanded. That's what he agreed to. So why do I feel like I just cut off my own oxygen supply?
My phone buzzes again. This time it's an email from Sarah Brennan.
From: Sarah Brennan, Documentary Director
To: Harper Lane, Features Writer
Subject: Documentary footage for your review
Harper!
Attached are some clips from this week's filming.
Let me know if there are any you'd prefer we not use.
The sleeping scene from the barn is ADORABLE but I understand if it's too personal.
Also wanted to share some conference photos from Nate's California years for context.
Thought you might want them for your article background.
-Sarah
I shouldn't open it. I know I shouldn't. But my laptop is already out, and I'm already clicking, because apparently I have the self-control of a toddler when it comes to Nate Wilder.
The first attachment is the barn footage. Us sleeping, completely entwined, my face buried in his chest, his arms wrapped around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. We look... perfect. We look like we belong together.
I slam the laptop shut, then immediately open it again.
The second attachment is labeled "California Conference Photos.
" And there she is. Rebecca Brennan, DVM.
Blonde, willowy, legs for days, standing next to Nate at what looks like a veterinary conference in San Francisco.
She's laughing at something he's saying, her hand on his arm.
He's smiling—not his grumpy default or his professional mask, but a real smile.
My stomach churns.
Before I can stop myself, I'm typing her name into Google. Just research for the article. Background information. Nothing obsessive about searching for your ex's ex at—I check the clock—11:47 PM while drinking wine straight from the bottle.
The first result makes me want to throw my laptop across the room. Rebecca Brennan's professional headshot shows a woman who probably does sunrise yoga and makes her own kombucha. Her bio lists achievements that make my journalism degree look like a participation trophy.
I click on images—a masochistic move. There they are at a wine tasting in Napa. Another at what looks like a New Year's party, her in a silver dress that looks painted on, him in a tux looking like James Bond's surly brother.
"Stop it," I tell myself, but I'm already on page three of results.
My door opens without warning. Only two people have keys.
"Page three is concerning," Maya says, June trailing behind her with a bag that clinks suspiciously. "Page twelve is intervention territory."
"How do you even—"
"Your WiFi, remember? I set it up. I can see your search history."
June sets wine glasses on my coffee table—when did I move to the floor?—and pours generously. "So. Rebecca Brennan. Tell us everything."
"She's a veterinarian from California," I say, taking a generous sip of wine. "Blonde. Perfect. Probably flosses twice a day and remembers to take vitamins."
June settles cross-legged on my floor, cookies materializing from her bag. They're still warm, which means she literally pulled them from the oven and ran over here. "How do you know about her?"
"Sarah Brennan sent photos. For the article." I make air quotes around 'article.' "Rebecca's her cousin, apparently."
Maya's eyes narrow. "And you've been stalking her for how long?"
"Forty-three minutes. I found their joint publications, conference presentations, and a photo of them at something called the California Veterinary Excellence Awards where she won Young Veterinarian of the Year."
"Of course she did." June hands me a cookie. Chocolate chip with sea salt—my favorite stress food. "But they're not together anymore, right?"
"No, but—" I stop, realizing I don't actually know why they broke up. Or when. Or if he still loves her.
June and Maya exchange a look I recognize. It's their 'Harper needs information but won't ask for it' look.
"He turned down Berkeley last month," June says quietly, breaking a cookie in half.
My hand freezes halfway to my mouth. "What?"
"Chief of Veterinary Services at their teaching hospital. Dream job for someone like him. Six figures, research opportunities, working with the best in the field."
"How do you know this?"
June's cheeks pink slightly. "His assistant Beth comes into the bakery. She may have mentioned it. Loudly."
Berkeley. Where Rebecca probably still works. A job that would take him back to California, back to her, back to everything he built after leaving me.
"Why?" The word comes out small. "Why would he turn that down?"
Maya refills my wine glass. "You know why."
"No, I don't. I specifically set boundaries tonight so I don't have to know why. Professional distance, remember?"
"Right." June bites into another cookie. "Professional distance. That's why you're cyberstalking his ex at midnight."
"It's not midnight yet."
"Harper." Maya's voice goes gentle, which is somehow worse than her sarcasm. "He came back for you. The job, the documentary, requesting you specifically—"
"Stop." I pull my laptop closer, scrolling past a photo of Rebecca and Nate at someone's wedding, her in dusty pink, him in a suit that fits too well. "I can't think about that right now."
"You need more chocolate," June declares, producing another container. "These have bourbon in them."
"You're a saint." I take two, shoving one in my mouth immediately. "She competed in dressage. Who the hell competes in dressage?"
"Rich people," Maya supplies helpfully.
"Perfect people," I correct, finding Rebecca's Instagram. Of course it's public. Of course it's full of sunrise yoga and rescue animals and wine tastings in Napa. "Look at this. She made him beef Wellington for his birthday. I once gave him food poisoning trying to make chicken."
"That was one time," June defends. "And the urgent care doctor said it was mild."
I scroll more, each photo a perfect knife twist. Rebecca and Nate at conferences, dinners, casual moments that speak of easy intimacy. The life he built without me. The woman he chose after me.
"Harper, stop." Maya gently closes my laptop. "This isn't helping."
"I know." But my fingers itch to open it again, to catalog every moment of their relationship, to understand what she had that I didn't.
"You need sleep," June says, already gathering wine glasses. "And perspective. And to remember that he's here, not there. She's his past."
"I'm his past too."
"No," Maya says firmly. "You're his present. That's why it's so complicated."
They leave me with the bourbon cookies and too many thoughts, my laptop closed but Rebecca Brennan's perfect smile burned into my memory.
I wake up on the couch at 3 AM, laptop battery dead, empty wine bottle on the coffee table. My neck aches from the angle, and there's chocolate on my shirt from the cookies.
Professional distance. Right.
I drag myself to my actual desk and open the article draft I'm supposed to submit soon. The cursor blinks after my last sentence about Nate's sustainable farming innovations. I need two more paragraphs. Just facts. Just professional observations.
I type: Dr. Wilder's hands, skilled and sure, demonstrate a practiced confidence whether delivering a breached calf or—
Delete.
The way he commands a room speaks to natural leadership abilities that—
Delete.
His dedication to the farming community throbs—
"THROBS?!" I say out loud to my empty apartment. "What is wrong with me?"
I try again: The success of Dr. Wilder's program stems from his intimate knowledge of local farming challenges.
Intimate. Why did I use intimate?
My phone buzzes. Maya, because apparently she never sleeps:
Stop overthinking the article. I can feel your stress from here.
Me:
How do you know I'm writing?
Maya:
Your Spotify. "Concentration Deep Focus" playlist at 3 AM = Harper panic writing.
Me:
I hate that you know me this well.
Maya:
Send me what you have.
I copy and paste the draft, including my professional assessment of his "revolutionary techniques" and "masterful approach" to animal husbandry. God, even my formal writing sounds like I want to climb him like a tree.
Maya:
Harper. This reads like erotica.
Me:
It does not!
Maya:
"The veterinarian's powerful presence transforms struggling farms"? "His touch calms the most distressed animals"? Girl.
Me:
Those are legitimate observations!
Maya:
"Dr. Wilder strips away conventional thinking to expose the raw potential beneath"?
I reread the line. Jesus.
Me:
I meant farming conventions!
Maya:
Sure you did. Your subconscious is showing. Also, you used "rigid" three times.
I scroll through the draft. She's right. Everything sounds like a double entendre. My professional article has turned into an accidental love letter disguised as agricultural journalism.
Me:
I need to rewrite all of this.
Maya:
You need to sleep. And maybe admit that professional distance isn't working when your farming article sounds like Fifty Shades of Hay.
Me:
I hate you.
Maya:
You love me. Go to bed. Write boring words tomorrow.
But I can't sleep. I stare at the draft, at all the ways I've unconsciously revealed everything I'm trying not to feel. Every adjective betrays me. Every observation drips with longing I'm supposed to have boundaries against.
I delete it all and type: Dr. Wilder's program works.