Chapter 11 #2
He runs his hands through his hair. “You see people. It’s a gift. You may not know the details, but you grasp the depth of their story in a short amount of time. How they’re wired. Where they’re broken. What they need.”
“Harlan—”
“You understand Sally to the core. You tolerated Olivia in an impossible moment.” He holds a finger up with each incriminating detail. “And, in a bizarre and miraculous way, you disarmed Penelope in record time.”
A puff of amusement escapes my mouth.
He lays his forearms against the edge of the table and leans in. “But why can’t you read me?”
My napkin seems to be my security blanket. I pick it up and run the seam through my thumb and forefinger, then drop it to the table. When I can no longer avoid the inevitable, I look at him. “Because I’m scared,” I whisper.
“Meredith.” His low growl mirrors his intense brown eyes. “All you would see is that I like you. That I want to spend more time with you.”
His reply hits me in the chest, and I have to draw in oxygen twice to recover from the declaration. We can’t do this. I’m too broken.
I shake my head. “I can’t do halfway, Harlan. I don’t have it in me. No games. No guessing.”
He spreads his palms flat on the table and answers without hesitation. “Not one thing I’m thinking about pursuing is halfway.”
My eyes widen in shock, but before I respond, one of the servers approaches our table.
My stress level has been rising parallel to my craving for a calming chocolate concoction. I long for the server to bring the dessert tray to the table in spite of Harlan’s earlier request to do otherwise.
He disappoints me beyond forgiveness when he pulls a metal straightedge from his apron to clear the surface of crumbs.
I begin to form my napkin into a fan, folding it back and forth. Back and forth, back and forth.
Think, Meredith. Think. In your gut, what do you know to be true about Harlan?
As I finish my masterpiece, Harlan’s gentle hand pulls the end of the cloth, unraveling the accordion fold. “You have more tricks with this thing than Houdini.”
Speaking of Houdini, the server has disappeared into thin air. I am now left without sugar or my origami napkin to help me cope with the impending destruction of the wall constructed around my carefully controlled life.
I mentally put on my big-girl panties and square my shoulders. Pinning Harlan’s gaze with mine, I ask, “So what would be next?”
Harlan’s grin finally reaches his eyes, and my insides warm with the understanding that I’m the reason for the beautiful phenomenon.
He claps his hands once and rubs them together. “I’ve got some vacation time coming my way. What about Thanksgiving? That’s six weeks away.”
I blink several times. “I spend Thanksgiving every year with my family.”
“Perfect. May I join you?” He takes a swig of water, watching me over the top of his goblet.
My eyelids flutter as if I’ve lost control over them. “You want our first date to be meeting my family on a major holiday?”
“Thanksgiving would not be our first date.” He sets his water down, thumb rubbing the condensation on the glass. “And yeah, I want to meet your family. Catch a glimpse of your life.”
No, I guess it wouldn’t be our first date.
When did I start going out with Harlan Holcombe? Later I’ll have to figure out how my life has turned into a possible tabloid story.
Scanning the restaurant, I decide to tackle the next server I spot and demand immediate sugar consumption. Is it in poor taste to grab the leftovers from the table next to us?
I refocus on Harlan. “So, Thanksgiving at my house? Where will you stay? What about Alex?”
“Alex will be with Olivia this year.” He shakes his glass, jostling the ice. “Avoiding the paparazzi is easier if you don’t mind my staying at your house. I don’t want them tracking me to find you. But we can work around it if you’re uncomfortable with my sleeping on your couch.”
He’s speaking the English language, but I cannot comprehend what he’s saying.
Seriously, why is there not a double order of chocolate cake in front of me to counteract this anxiety-producing discussion?
As our server passes our table, Harlan holds up his hand to signal her and orders two coffees. After she leaves, he sprawls back in his chair and stretches his long legs. “What are you thinking?” He crosses his arms as he waits.
I clench my fists. “Harlan, if you come to my house, you’ll see Steve, Clayton, and Chloe everywhere. I don’t just mean in the pictures on the walls. I mean no one in my inner circle is allowed to censor stories or feelings about them. Would you be comfortable with that?”
His gaze lingers on me while the server returns and fills our mugs.
Once we’re alone again, he puts his weight onto his folded arms on the table.
“Whatever our relationship is or becomes, Meredith, it includes Steve, Clayton, and Chloe. They’re your family.
” He stops for a moment. “I want you to share your memories with me so I can know them. So I can know you.”
My heart beats rapidly, and moisture brims my eyes.
He reaches over with one hand, cups my face, and wipes a tear with his thumb. “What do you think, sweetheart? Can I spend Thanksgiving with you?”
“That’s the first time you’ve called me sweetheart,” I whisper.
“It’s not the first time I’ve thought it,” he says, watching his thumb brush softly over my cheek.
The answer washes over me. Jump in, Meredith. The waters are warm and safe.
“Okay,” I say.
The beautiful smile that breaks over his face feels like a reward for my bravery. “Okay,” he repeats.
His palm slides from my face, down my neck, shoulder, and arm, to my hand, ending with a squeeze. He cranes his neck, searching the restaurant. “Now, let’s find someone who will bring dessert. I’m willing to bet you need massive amounts of chocolate right about now.”
I’m grinning like an idiot for the second time today, but I don’t care. “Don’t suggest we split something.” I wave the neglected menu toward him. “I’m not sharing.”
Desserts in our bellies, my elbow in the crook of Harlan’s, we enter the lobby, and something on the television at the hotel bar catches my eye. “Come with me.” I grab his hand and lead him.
We enter the room, and his long strides slow. He yanks back. “Oh, please, no.”
My eyes feel like they’re glittering as I flash a smile his direction. “Humor me.” Ignoring his groan, I walk forward, weaving through people, dragging him behind me.
On the screen in front of us, a local news anchor stands in a field with a river behind him, reporting on the Hometown Hercules sensation.
As we sneak through the crowd, it takes great restraint for me to resist yelling, “Hercules is here!”
My eyes are slow to adjust to the dark atmosphere. We lean against the wall, and I survey the surrounding patrons.
Three twentysomething ladies lean forward in their bar chairs with their high-heeled feet propped on the crosspiece below. They whisper, giggle, and point to the screen.
“Hercules is haawwt,” the brunette says, and giggles spread through the group of women.
Harlan shakes his head.
But one devastating peek at the TV and my critical mistake is staring at me in high-definition.
Panic begins to spread through my gut.
We arrived just in time to see the full rescue video. A video I’ve purposely avoided.
My eyes barely have time to take in the overcast day, the browning field of grass, and the group of young people in the screen of the smartphone video.
The audience view wobbles as the camera operator follows a dancing girl to a wooden fence, the flowing river in the backdrop.
The girl balances on the top of the fence and claims to remember her fourth grade beam routine.
My breath hitches, and I grasp Harlan’s hand. I can feel his gaze turn to me, but I can’t pull my eyes off the video unfolding on the screen. I whisper what everyone in the room already knows. “She’s going to fall.”
Harlan wraps his hand around my waist and pulls me to his side. “She’s going to be okay,” he says into my ear.
My heart can’t hear his words. Because in that moment, all I see is that someone’s child is in danger.
The crowd in the video screams as the girl’s arms windmill and she topples, disappearing from sight. Someone yells that she fell in the river.
Tears sting my nose.
From the top right corner of the camera appears a running hulk of a man. Harlan.
“Help her.” My chest hurts as the strained words release.
Harlan’s arm around me tightens.
On-screen Harlan slides down the grassy hill in time to grab the girl’s arms just before she washes down the river. By this time, the camera operator is rushing to the scene with everyone else. The picture fills with the sounds and movements of mass chaos, Harlan and the girl unseen.
“I got her.” Harlan’s soothing statement breaks through to my brain, and understanding dawns.
I look up at him. “You got her.”
With eyes full of concern, Harlan scans my face. “I got her,” he repeats.
The relief. I didn’t expect the relief.
A child was saved.
Not one of mine.
But someone’s.
A watery smile fills my face, and I throw my arms around Harlan.
“You got her.” My shaky voice reverberates in my chest. “You saved someone’s child.
” I shift back and place my hands on his cheeks.
“Please. I know you hate this social media mess. And I know you don’t want to be called a hero.
But you saved someone’s child. Please. Just take that one part in. You saved someone’s child.”
He nods slowly.
When I turn back to the television, I see that the news story paused the novice video to interview the rescued girl.
Shaking off the moment, I wipe under my eyes.
Harlan places a hand on the small of my back as we watch the interview in silence, the clinking glasses, flirtatious laughter, and busy servers bustling around us.
The anchor redirects his report. “The social media storm that has hit since the incident is a category five . . .”