Chapter 20
“But I don’t need orange juice.” I mutter the words to no one as I stare out my kitchen window.
Harlan opens the car door for Molly, and she folds her body into the driver’s seat.
Grasping the edge of the counter, I bow my head. “I don’t need orange juice.” I repeat my declaration to the sink with more force than before.
Varied thoughts claw through my mind, vying to crest the mountain peak of my anxiety. Which version of my past will Molly throw at Harlan? How much weight will he give her words? Should I pack his things so he can make a quick getaway upon their return?
Muffled sounds from the living room break into my climbing questions. I turn and amble to the door. “Did someone say something?”
“Orange juice?” Half asleep, my nephew poses the question, face down on the sofa, head in the crook of his elbow.
I plant my hands on my hips. “I don’t need orange juice, thank you very much. Why does everyone think they need to get me orange juice? I can handle it on my own.”
My niece, curled up in a ball at the opposite end of the couch, lifts her head off the giant cushion. “So, is there orange juice in the house or not?” She peers at me, one eye closed.
“Yes. There is no need for someone else to go for orange juice.” My pulse quickens with my escalating frustration.
“Everyone needs a little orange juice, Aunt Meredith.” Taylor sits up, puffing his chest out as he stretches. “Especially before a big undertaking . . .”
I lose the rest of Taylor’s thought as his words echo in my head. The tips of my fingers touch my mouth, and I close my eyes. Everyone needs a little orange juice. Especially before a big undertaking.
Flashes of the last four years play a montage of information Harlan should know.
An accident so horrendous in nature, it warranted a week of news coverage.
Debilitating depression. Massive migraines.
A secret suicide watch. Being carried out of the house.
Treatment facility. Recovery. Unequipped friends abandoning our relationship.
Not wanting to leave the house. A few years of baby steps.
Some breaths of fresh air. Awkward, intentional functioning.
And one day, a search for more that led me to Colorado Springs.
A peace descends on my mountain of questions like pouring rain, washing away my anxious thoughts. I’m not scared of him knowing any of those details.
“Maybe I’m wrong,” I murmur. “Maybe I do need some orange juice.”
Tell him, Molly.
Tell him everything. Buy the Costco-sized jug of orange juice. Get the apple. The grape. The pomegranate. Purchase it all.
And bring him home to me.
“Okay, I’m really confused.” Taylor wipes sleep from his eyes. “I would like some orange juice. Do you have any here at the house?”
“Sure, sweetie. I’ll pour you some.” Entering the kitchen, I remind myself what is true about Harlan. He can deal with obstinate grief, he communicates he likes me, and he’s here. If he wanted an excuse not to pursue me, he could have taken it—he’s had several.
After I deliver the drinks, complete the cinnamon rolls, and clean up, there’s nothing left to do. Pacing, I pull on a hangnail until I hear the front door open, followed by greetings.
Harlan strides into the room and sets a grocery bag on the counter.
“You get the orange juice you wanted?” I wring my hands, shifting my weight from one foot to the other.
He stills and studies me. “I already had the orange juice I wanted.”
A beat passes. “Do you know we’re not talking about a breakfast drink?”
Harlan’s deep chuckle fills the kitchen. “Yeah, sweetheart. Come here.” His long, muscular arm reaches out, and he tugs me into a solid embrace. “Chad Tarkington really did a number on you guys.”
“You have no idea.” I snuggle in deeper, my face resting in the crook of his neck. How can someone who has not taken a post-workout shower smell so completely marvelous?
“You okay?” He gives me a squeeze.
My bravado from earlier has left the building, and I ask in a small voice, “Did she scare you away?”
“No. She filled in some gaps of your story.” His voice catches.
“Did she scare you away?” I repeat my fear on a whisper.
He pulls back and cups my face. “She confirmed what I already knew. You’ve had enough anguish for a lifetime.”
Not knowing where the conversation is headed but wanting to appear brave, I swallow back tears. I’m unable to form words, so I just nod.
“I don’t want to add to your pain.” He releases my face and slides his hands to my shoulders. “Molly doesn’t want me to hurt you. But I’m a step ahead of her. I’m terrified of hurting you.”
I offer a fake smile. “You’re in a tough position.”
“I’m falling in love with a strong, brave, and funny woman. Have I mentioned beautiful?”
Falling in love. Falling in love? My heart pounds. It’s like it knows it needs to tell me to pay attention, to hold the gravity of the conversation with the giddy feelings his words cause while coming to grips with my own feelings.
He folds a strand of hair behind my ear. “I just want to be around her. Why is any of that bad?”
My hands at his waist, I clutch the fabric of his shirt. “Because no one wants to be the one who breaks up with the wounded widow.”
Harlan’s body jolts at my statement. His intense gaze causes me to squirm under the scrutiny.
“I’m a lot to handle, Harlan.”
“No. Molly is a lot to handle.” His eyes narrow. “This is real for me. If you walked away, I would be a wreck.”
I swallow. I blink.
He steps back but takes my hands in his. “I didn’t know your story the first time I saw you.”
I tip my head to the side. “Yes, you did. The ma?tre d’ told you about the memo. The one about being sensitive to the widow.”
A sly grin kicks up one side of his mouth. “Yes, but that morning I was in the lobby when you checked in to the hotel.” He gazes over my shoulder as if lost in his memory. “I thought you were so beautiful. And when you showed up at the Penrose Room, I knew it was my lucky day.”
Wait. What? My belly whooshes.
Harlan moves forward and lifts our hands up between us. “So if you think for one second, Meredith Harper, that I’m going to allow you to kick me to the curb just because you’re scared, you’re wrong.”
“I’m not scared.” When I say that, I’m pretty sure we both know I’m lying.
“Sweetheart, you’ve been listing reasons why we won’t work since we met.” He rubs his thumbs over the tops of my hands. “I’m not intimidated by Molly. Not afraid of your grief. And your fears won’t run me off.”
Tears fill my eyes.
“I’m not worried about breaking up with the widow because I don’t plan on breaking up with her.” He makes his final rumbled statement while staring at my lips.
My heart squeezes, and there’s just no way to run from the truth. I whisper, “I’m falling in love with you too.”
His eyes flash.
The timer on the oven beeps, and for all intents and purposes, it is a loud gong invading our moment.
“Aunt Meredith, does that mean the cinnamon rolls are ready? I can smell them from here,” Taylor calls from across the living room.
Harlan drops my hands, winks, and steps back. “Later.” His tone implies a promise.
With my eyes locked on Harlan, I answer Taylor. “Yes.”
As the family rushes through the door, our moment ends and a mad dash for the breakfast treats ensues.
“Who wants coffee and who wants OJ?” My mother shakes the new gallon.
“Orange juice, please.” Harlan’s commanding voice fills the room, his gaze searing into mine.
I purse my lips, trying to contain my grin.
He gives me a chin lift and turns to accept a cup from my mom.
Thirty minutes later, stomachs full, sugar highs intact, everyone leaves for their respective post–Thanksgiving Day festivities. The women drive away armed with a retail attack plan that would’ve made Patton proud. The men load up the car for high-caloric tailgating at the SMU football game.
After a quick shower, Harlan joins me in the living room. He rocks sweatpants day. His well-worn navy sweats hang low on his hips, and a tattered used-to-be-white Henley covers his broad shoulders.
With his hair still wet, I want to run my fingers through the dark tips curling at the ends.
Harlan joins me on the couch and removes a fluffy throw pillow from behind his back.
“I’m thinking through our options. Are you sure you want to stay in today? I’m sorry I didn’t have anything planned.” I pick at a thread on my hot-pink yoga pants. “Plus it’s my fault the guys didn’t grab you a ticket for the game.”
He covers my hand, stopping its nervous movement. “I think we need a lazy day. Tomorrow I’ll take you out on the town.”
Are those butterflies in my stomach? Dragonflies? Or a giant pterodactyl?
“Okay.” Did I just bat my eyes at him?
“Should we watch a movie?”
“Oh. Yes. Okay.” I have no clue how to navigate movies with him. I should have sent him to the game.
He freezes for a second as if contemplating something and shifts his body to face me.
His deep brown eyes bore into mine. “I should probably confess something to you.” The gentle but teasing voice matches the glint in his eye.
“As an actor, I have quirky rules about which movies I watch. You might even call me high-maintenance.”
“Right.” I scoff.
“Nothing with plotlines involving actors, directors, or screenwriters. No film scores composed by people whose names end in L, E, or P. And the deal-breaker. No Tom Cruise.”
“What?” I shove Harlan in the shoulder. “What’s wrong with Tom Cruise? You’re eliminating some epic cinema classics.”
“I suffer from an inferiority complex.” Mockingly, he crosses his muscular arms over his chest. “Are you making fun of me?”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.” I roll my eyes. “I bet you guys are best friends.”
“Only Facebook friends.” Harlan hauls me to him, fitting us into the corner of the sofa. “Is it working?”
Releasing a sigh, I close my eyes. “Yes.”
“Your movie rules won’t scare me,” he says gently. “Let’s have them.”