Chapter 13 #2
Either way, she shouldn't have to face this alone. None of us should have to face our ghosts alone.
***
My phone rings while I'm making dinner—well, attempting to make dinner. Nate's taken over stirring the sauce while I pace the kitchen.
"Harper Lane," I answer, trying to sound professional despite wearing pajama pants and one of Nate's old t-shirts.
"Ms. Lane, this is Robert Martinez from The Regional Statesman. I'm calling about your piece on sustainable farming practices."
My heart stops. The Regional Statesman is huge—real newspaper huge, not small-town-weekly huge.
"Yes?"
"We'd like to run it. Front page of our Sunday agriculture section."
I grab Nate's arm so hard he drops the spoon. "Front page?"
"Your writing makes agriculture accessible to urban readers. We'd like to bring you on as a regular contributor. Weekly column, if you're interested."
"Weekly?" My voice comes out squeaky. "I still have my commitment to the Chronicle—"
"We understand. Bill Walker already called us, actually. Said he's proud to share you. This would be one piece a week for our syndicate. You'd stay in Willowbridge—that's where your stories are. We'd pay per piece, consistent work. Five papers in our syndicate would run your column."
Five papers. That's potentially 50,000 readers. Plus my Chronicle work. Plus the education center starting up.
"I... yes. Yes, absolutely." I'll figure out the time management later.
"Excellent. I'll email the contract. Your piece runs this Sunday. We'll need your headshot and bio by Thursday."
After I hang up, I stand frozen in the kitchen. Nate turns off the stove, sauce forgotten.
"Five papers?" he asks, having heard my side.
"The Statesman, the Tribune, Telegraph, Herald, and Eagle." I can't quite believe I'm saying these names about my own work.
"That's huge, Harper."
"That's terrifying. Between this, the Chronicle, and co-directing the education center..."
He pulls me against him. "You'll figure it out. You always do. And I'm here."
"I write about cows."
"You write about people. The cows are just the backdrop." He kisses my forehead. "I'm proud of you."
My phone buzzes with texts—Bill saying "Knock 'em dead, kid," Maya screaming in all caps, June sending cake emojis.
"Small town," Nate laughs, reading over my shoulder. "Bet the gossip network already knows."
"Mrs. Henderson or Mrs. Morrison, whoever's faster these days."
"My money's on Henderson. She's got the mayor's direct line."
Six months ago, I thought success meant leaving Willowbridge. Now I'm building something bigger from my barn office, telling stories that matter to people I'll never meet.
"No regrets?" Nate asks later, both of us full of takeout since the sauce curdled while we were celebrating.
"Only that I didn't figure this out sooner—that home and ambition don't have to be mutually exclusive."
"You're exactly where you're supposed to be."
"Writing about rural life while living it," I agree, already mentally organizing my new schedule. "Who knew that was a career path?"
"You made it one," he says simply, and that might be the best compliment I've ever received.
***
Wednesday morning, I'm staring at the calendar on my phone with growing dread. I'm late. Not fashionably late or deadline late—that kind of late.
"Everything okay?" Nate asks from the bathroom doorway, towel slung low on his hips from his shower.
"I'm late."
His face goes through several expressions—confusion, realization, something that might be hope. "How late?"
"Five days."
"That's not that late. You've been stressed with the education center, the new column—"
"Nate." I turn my phone toward him. "Five days."
He sits on the edge of the tub, water still dripping from his hair. "Do you want to take a test?"
"I bought three yesterday." I pull them from under the sink where I'd hidden them behind the cleaning supplies. "Different brands. Just to be sure."
"Want me to leave?"
"No. Stay."
Three minutes feels like three hours. We sit on the bathroom floor, backs against the tub, not talking. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing.
The timer goes off.
"You look," I say.
He checks all three. "Negative. They're all negative."
I wait for relief, but instead there's this unexpected hollowness. "Oh."
"Yeah." He sets the tests on the counter, comes back to sit beside me. "You disappointed?"
I think about it, really think about it. "A little? Which is insane. We've only been back together four months. We're not married. The education center just started. I have the new column. The timing would be terrible."
"But?"
"But for a second there, I pictured it. Us with a baby. And it didn't feel terrible."
"Same." He pulls me against his side. "When I thought you might be... I was scared but also kind of excited."
"We're not ready," I say, but it sounds like a question.
"Not yet," he agrees. "We should probably be married first. Settled into the education center. Figure out how to balance everything we've got."
"Soon though?" The words surprise me.
"Soon," he confirms, kissing the top of my head. "When we're ready. When it's a choice, not a surprise."
I lean into him, both of us still on the bathroom floor in our underwear, processing what didn't happen and what we apparently both want to happen eventually.
"We should probably use better protection," I point out.
"Probably."
"Or at least pay attention to the calendar."
"Definitely."
Neither of us moves.
"Nate?"
"Yeah?"
"When the time comes... we're going to be good at this, right? Being parents?"
"The best," he says with confidence I don't quite feel yet but want to believe. "Look how good we are with Duke."
Duke chooses that moment to walk into the bathroom with what appears to be one of my good shoes, thoroughly chewed.
"Okay, bad example," Nate concedes.
We both laugh, the tension breaking. Not pregnant. Not yet. But someday, when we're ready, when we choose it.
For now, this is enough. More than enough.
It's everything.
***
Thursday afternoon, I'm cleaning out the dresser to make more room for my ever-expanding wardrobe when my hand hits something hard in the back of Nate's sock drawer. Not snooping—genuinely just organizing—but the velvet box is unmistakable.
I shouldn't look. I should put it back, pretend I never found it.
I look.
The ring is perfect. Not huge or flashy—Nate knows me better than that. It's vintage, maybe art deco, with a center sapphire surrounded by small diamonds in a delicate gold setting. Exactly what I'd choose for myself.
My hands shake as I examine it. There's an inscription inside the band, worn but readable: "Forever starts now - E.W."
E.W. Elizabeth Wilder. Nate's grandmother.
This isn't just any ring. It's a family heirloom, probably the one his grandmother wore for fifty years of marriage. The one his mother wore until she passed. The one that's been waiting for the next Wilder bride.
"Duke, your dad's going to propose," I whisper to the dog watching from the doorway.
Duke tilts his head like he's saying 'about time.'
I carefully close the box, place it exactly where I found it, and rearrange the socks to look undisturbed. But now I know. Now every time Nate gets that look, every time he starts to say something then stops, every time he suggests dinner out, I'm going to wonder if this is it.
"Find what you're looking for?" Nate's voice from the doorway makes me jump.
"Just making space." I close the drawer, trying to look innocent. "You have an unreasonable amount of socks."
He's watching me with an expression I can't read. Does he know I found it? Did he want me to find it?
"Some of those socks have sentimental value," he says, moving into the room.
"Sentimental socks?"
"Very sentimental." He pulls me against him, and I can feel his heart racing. "The most sentimental socks."
He definitely knows I found it.
"I love your socks," I say, which might be the weirdest declaration ever, but he seems to understand.
"Good to know." He kisses my forehead. "For future reference."
We stand there, both knowing what I found, neither acknowledging it directly. But there's electricity in the air now, anticipation humming between us.
It's coming. Not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And when he asks, when he offers me his grandmother's ring with "Forever starts now" inscribed inside, I already know my answer.
I've known it for eight years, even through the six we spent apart.
The answer has always been yes.
Forever starts now.