Chapter 13 Harper
The bar scene isn’t for me, but for Abby, I make occasional exceptions.
Low sterile lighting emits an overly contrived aura.
There’s a velvet banquette tucked along one wall, a long marble bar stretching the length of the room, and just enough space between tables to suggest exclusivity.
It’s loud—but not obnoxiously so. Conversations carry, glasses clink, and behind the bar, a shaker snaps in rhythmic bursts between a bartender’s hands.
This is downtown Manhattan, Nolita to be precise, on a Thursday night.
And Abby was right—it’s packed.
“I told you,” she says, sliding onto the stool beside me with her signature confidence. “I saw this place all over Instagram. The lighting alone? Elite. And apparently”—she lifts a finger as the bartender approaches—“they have the best cosmos in Manhattan.”
I glance around, taking it in. The crowd is exactly what you’d expect—well-dressed and neatly groomed. Men in designer jeans, women in sleek silhouettes, everyone holding a drink that looks like it costs more than my weekly grocery budget.
“And,” Abby continues, leaning slightly closer, “the ratio of single, successful men to emotionally unavailable disasters is supposedly very favorable.”
“Supposedly,” I repeat, already skeptical.
The bartender arrives, and Abby doesn’t hesitate. “Two cosmos.”
“Sure thing,” he says.
I rest my elbows lightly against the bar, exhaling like I’m letting go of the week’s burdens.
It’s been… a lot.
Work, Dylan, Beau, Julian—
I cut off that thought immediately.
The drinks arrive quickly, two perfect shades of blush pink in chilled glasses, a thin twist of citrus resting delicately on each rim. Abby lifts hers, inspecting it.
“Gorgeous,” she declares before taking a sip. Her eyes widen. “Oh. Oh, that’s dangerous.”
I take a cautious sip of mine and damn it. She’s right. “That’s really good,” I admit.
“I don’t lie about important things,” she says, pleased with herself.
We sit there, letting the atmosphere take shape around us.
Abby turns slightly on her stool, scanning the room with an eagle eye. “Okay,” she murmurs. “Strong start.”
“For the drinks or the men?” I ask.
“Both.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m observant,” she corrects. Then, without missing a beat, she pivots back to me, her expression sharpening with interest. “Speaking of which…”
I already know where this is going.
“How’s your boss?” she asks, drawing out the last word just enough to make it loaded. “Julian.”
I take another sip of my drink, buying myself a second. “He’s… fine,” I say, aiming for neutral and probably missing.
Abby’s brows lift immediately. “Fine,” she repeats. “Harper. You are driving around a literal multibillionaire who looks like he was designed in a lab to ruin women’s lives and your review is ‘fine’?”
I stare at her. “He’s my employer.”
“And?” she presses.
“And that’s it,” I say a little too quickly.
She leans in, eyes narrowing in amusement. “That is not it. You get evasive every time I ask about him or your new job.”
“It’s merely fine,” I insist, though even to my own ears, it lacks conviction.
Abby tilts her head, studying me the same way she’s done since we were kids, the way that says she’s already three steps ahead of whatever I’m about to deny.
“Harper,” she says, softer now but no less relentless, “I know you. And you don’t say fine like that unless it’s very much not fine.”
I let out a breath, glancing down at the surface of the bar, at the faint reflection of the room shimmering beneath my glass.
“It’s just… complicated,” I admit finally.
Her entire posture changes, interest fully engaged. “Complicated how?”
I hesitate, because I’m not even sure how to explain it. “He’s… not what I expected,” I say slowly.
“In a good or a bad way?”
I think about that… how he talks. How he listens and how he notices things most people don’t. When he made Dylan feel like the most important person in the room without even trying. “I’m honestly not sure,” I finally say.
Abby smiles, slow and knowing. “Ah. The most dangerous category: the confusing way.”
I roll my eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Mm-hmm.”
I shake my head, already regretting opening the door. “I don’t know. He’s thoughtful. He pays attention. He—” I cut myself off, pressing my lips together.
“He what?” Abby prompts.
I exhale, leaning back slightly on the stool. “He makes things… easy,” I admit quietly.
Abby’s expression softens a fraction, though the curiosity never leaves her eyes. “Easy how?”
I stare into my drink for a second, watching the condensation gather along the glass. “Like I don’t have to think about every word before I say it,” I explain. “I don’t have to… manage the situation all the time. He just meets you where you are.”
There’s a beat of silence, then Abby smiles, slower this time. “That sounds suspiciously like you like him.”
“He’s a very nice employer,” I say dismissively. “Of course I like him.”
“No… you like him, like him.”
I look up at her immediately. “I don’t like him like that.”
She raises both brows. “You do.”
“I don’t,” I repeat, even though my denial is thinner now.
“Harper,” she says, taking a sip of her drink, “you just described a man who’s attractive, successful, attentive, and emotionally competent, and your takeaway is that you don’t like him like that?”
I groan, dropping my head briefly. “He’s my boss.”
“And?”
“And that matters,” I say, lifting my head again. “A lot.”
Abby watches me, then nods slowly. “Okay. Fair.”
“It’s not like I can do anything about it,” I say, quieter now. “Even if there was a spark or whatever there.”
“Mmm,” Abby hums. “But that’s not what I asked.”
I glance up at her. “You didn’t ask anything.”
“I didn’t have to,” she says.
God, I hate that she knows me this well. I exhale, long and slow, the resistance in me starting to crumble. “Yes… there are times,” I admit. “Where it feels like”—I search for the right words—“like he’s not just being nice. Like he’s… seeing me.”
Abby leans in slightly. “Go on…”
“And it messes with my head,” I say, a small, helpless laugh slipping out. “Because I don’t know if that’s real or if that’s just him. Maybe he’s like that with everyone.”
“And is he?” she asks.
“No,” I say.
Her eyes sharpen. “No?”
“No,” I repeat, a little more certain now. “He’s not.”
Abby sits back, satisfaction flickering across her face. “Okay. Let’s review.”
“Don’t,” I warn, but it’s weak.
“He seeks you out.” She counts on her fingers. “He invites you to things he absolutely does not have to invite you to. He pays attention to your life, your brother, what you care about. He makes you feel ‘seen,’ which, by the way, is not by accident from what I can tell.”
I press my lips together, because when she says it like that—
“He likes you,” she finishes.
I shake my head, but there’s no conviction behind it now. “You don’t know that.”
She stares at me. “Harper.”
I groan, dragging a hand down my face. “I don’t know,” I mutter.
“You do know. And you know what I also know…”
“That I like him too?” I say.
She smiles and I blow out a breath, half laughing, half defeated. “This is a terrible idea.”
“Probably,” she agrees.
I look at her, incredulous. “That’s it? That’s your guidance?”
She lifts her glass, takes a slow sip, then calmly sets it down. “My guidance is that you don’t get a lot of men like that in your life.”
“That doesn’t make it a good idea,” I argue.
“No,” she says. “But it makes it a real one. One you need to pursue.”
I stare at her, then look away, back out at the room and the blur of people and light and movement that is suddenly a little too sharp, a little too loud.
Abby nudges my arm lightly. “Say it again… you like him… and he likes you.”
I shoot her a look. “Absolutely not.”
“Say it,” she insists, smiling now.
I roll my eyes, but there’s no real resistance left in me. Not anymore.
“Okay, okay,” I mutter, giving in. I glance at her, then away again. “I do think he likes me…”
Abby’s grin widens.
“And yeah,” I add, quieter this time, but no less certain, “I like him.”
I stare at my drink, trying to figure out where to go from here.
“Okay, but—” I start, then stop.
“What?” she says. “No. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“That thing where you retreat into your head and suddenly this becomes a problem you need to solve,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Spill it, Harper.”
I hesitate, because I already know how this is going to sound.
But it’s the truth.
“Why would he be into me?” I say finally, the words coming out quietly. “I mean… he’s a multibillionaire. You said it yourself.”
Abby blinks. “So?”
“Well—” I gesture vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. “Look at him. Look at his life. The women he’s probably surrounded by. I’m…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I’m me.”
Abby stares at me, unimpressed.
“I don’t even know why we’re talking about this,” I continue, pushing past it.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s not like anything can actually happen. I have Dylan. I have responsibilities. I have a life that doesn’t leave room for whatever this is.”
I take another sip of my drink, like that settles it.
“I take care of myself,” I add, more firmly now. “I always have.”
Abby doesn’t respond right away, which is unusual. Then she sets her glass down slowly, turning fully toward me.
“Harper,” she says. I glance at her, wary. “You are always so busy trying to fix someone else’s problems. Your parents. Dylan. Me. Beau, even… Everyone.”
I open my mouth to argue, but she doesn’t let me.
“Everyone but yourself,” she finishes.
I shift slightly on the stool, my grip tightening around the stem of my glass. “That’s not true—”
“It is,” she cuts in. “And you know it is.”
I look away, out toward the bar.
“You forget to take care of the person who matters most,” Abby says, softer now. “You. And at some point, you have to start thinking about yourself. Not just surviving. Not just getting through the day. Actually thinking about what you want.”
I let out a small breath that comes out as a little laugh because this is funny…to me at least. “I know what I want.”
“Do you?” she asks.
I don’t answer.
Because suddenly, I’m not so sure.
Abby studies me, then shakes her head slightly, like she’s putting it together in real time. “You are the only person I’ve ever met who actually liked working in customer service.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Liked might be a stretch.”
“No,” she says, her eyes steady on me. “You liked it. Not the job itself—but what it was. You liked helping people. You liked solving their problems, making things better for them, even when they were being completely unreasonable.”
I shrug, uncomfortable now. “It was fine.”
“It was more than fine,” she insists. “You cared. You always care.”
I sip the last of my drink, trying to hide the discomfort.
“And that’s great,” she adds. “It really is. But at some point, you need to ask yourself—what makes you happy?”
The question hangs there.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t have an answer.