CHAPTER 26
Harper
Ilove New York in January. Most people don’t.
They complain about the gray slush piled at the curbs and the blustery wind tunneling between buildings and the way the city is devoid of joy after the holidays.
But that’s exactly why I love it. By January, the tourists are finally gone.
Rockefeller Center is no longer an onslaught of humanity and SoHo returns to belonging to the people who actually live here.
There’s a romance to NYC once the chaos of Christmas and New Year’s fades in the rearview mirror.
And walking beside Dylan through Manhattan this afternoon, that familiar swell of gratitude washes over me again that he’s here with me instead of tucked away in some tiny Appalachian mountain town pretending to be someone he isn’t.
New York makes you grow up differently. It teaches you how to navigate through unique worlds, how to encounter all kinds of people and cultures and lives without fear.
You learn independence early here. Curiosity too.
The city hardens you in a good way while somehow making you more open at the same time.
It did that for me, and now it’s doing it for him.
“Okay,” Dylan says as we climb the steps of the Met. He shoves his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I just want the record to show I’m only here because you bribed me with dumplings afterward.”
I laugh. “You liked the exhibit I showed you last night on the computer.”
“It had medieval armor.”
“And this has Monet.”
“Which is significantly less funny.”
I bump my shoulder lightly against his as we pass through the massive entrance doors. “Expand your horizons.”
“Fine.” He sighs. “But if I leave this place deeply passionate about water lilies, I’m blaming you.”
The museum is quieter than usual, and the new Monet exhibit occupies several gently lit galleries tucked toward the European wing. The second we step inside the first room, even Dylan goes quiet.
It’s breathtaking. Entire walls filled with gardens and water and sky, the brushstrokes dreamlike up close.
“Okay,” Dylan murmurs after a minute. “I get it now.”
I smile to myself as we move slowly through the gallery.
At one point I stop in front of a massive Water Lilies panel and stare at it, completely pulled in by the soft blur of color and light.
“It looks like a memory,” I whisper without realizing I’ve said it out loud.
Beside me, Dylan glances over. “That’s a really good description. This is pretty wild. It’s like this guy can paint what’s in someone’s imagination.”
As I stand there wondering if my little brother might be evolving, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. At first I ignore it, assuming it’s Abby sending me another ridiculous TikTok trend, but it keeps vibrating insistently enough that I finally pull it out.
Unknown number.
Dylan notices my face as it turns confused. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Should I answer it?”
“Yes, it could be Mom.”
My pulse hammers as I answer the call and step slightly away from the center of the gallery.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hawthorne?”
The voice is professional and suddenly my entire body goes still.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Stephanie Greene from Penny Aura. We wanted to reach out regarding your interview process.”
Dylan watches me from several feet away now, his expression alert and expectant.
“Yes,” I manage.
Stephanie continues, “First, I want to thank you again for taking the time to meet with the executive team. We interviewed over twenty-five candidates for this role.”
The number alone nearly makes me dizzy. I do the odds in my head: four percent chance for each person.
“We met with candidates from major beauty houses, luxury retail brands, and established corporate firms,” she continues.
“But after reviewing everyone… honestly, Harper, it wasn’t even close.
” I stop breathing for a second. “You have exactly the combination of instincts, consumer understanding, creativity and leadership we’re looking for. ”
What is she saying right now? Me?
“The team was unanimous,” she says. “We would love to formally offer you the position of chief of staff to our Chief Marketing Officer for Penny Aura.”
Everything blurs. The Monets, Dylan, everything.
“I…” My throat tightens. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Stephanie laughs. “We’re offering you the job, Harper.”
Emotion hits me so fast and hard I press my free hand against my mouth.
Beside me, Dylan’s eyes widen.
“What?” he mouths.
I can’t answer him yet because suddenly I’m fighting tears in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Stephanie continues talking—salary figures and onboarding timelines and benefits packages—but most of it barely registers because my mind keeps flashing backward through every version of myself that led here.
The customer service cubicle. The late-night driving shifts. Endless piles of bills. Fear consuming my daily routine. The stress of constantly surviving instead of living.
“I would absolutely love to accept,” I say finally, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.
“Wonderful. We’re very excited to have you.”
She gives me a few instructions on my start date, which I try to commit to memory, and I thank her profusely before the call ends.
“Harper.”
I turn.
Dylan is already grinning.
“You got it,” he says. “You got the role! Holy, holy smokes! I can’t believe it! I mean, I can believe it, you deserved it but, wow!”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, hysterical and joyous all at once.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Dylan lunges forward and wraps his arms around me right there in the middle of the Monet exhibit.
“You got it!” he says again, laughing now too.
“I got it,” I whisper, still barely able to believe it myself.
“Okay, we are celebrating. And I know just where we need to go!”
And so do I because in New York in January, there’s only one proper way to celebrate something magical.
So less than an hour later, Dylan and I are standing beneath the lights of Wollman Rink in Central Park, lacing up rented skates. It’s where we celebrated our first Christmas Day together and a place we reserve for the most monumental victories.
Music drifts softly across the rink while skaters circle beneath strings of white lights. The large skyscrapers surrounding the park with their windows lit up make it seem right out of a movie.
I cradle a paper cup of hot chocolate between my gloved hands while Dylan tightens his skates beside me.
“This,” he says, “was definitely the correct post-job-offer decision.”
“I agree.”
“And honestly,” he continues while standing carefully, “if we’re really leaning into the movie montage vibe, we should go buy roasted chestnuts after this.”
I laugh as I stand beside him and put down my cup. “You are something else.”
“Thank you.”
The second we step onto the ice, it’s like I’m a kid again.
I glance over at Dylan as we glide slowly beneath the lights. “What?”
He shrugs at first, eyes fixed ahead of us toward the skyline. Then finally he says, “I’m really happy for you, Harper.”
The sincerity in his voice is unusual for a kid his age with all he’s dealt with.
I smile faintly. “Thanks, Dylan.”
“No, I mean it.” He slows slightly beside me, his expression serious now. “Not just because of the job.”
I look at him, meeting his eyes.
“It’s everything,” he says. “The job. Julian. All of it.”
I look away briefly, watching snow gather along the edge of the rink while skaters move around us in blurred streaks of scarves and winter coats.
“You deserve this stuff,” Dylan continues. “Like… all of it.”
“That’s a very dramatic thing for a seventeen-year-old to say.”
“I’m serious.”
There’s no sarcasm in his face now. Only love.
“I know you don’t really think about yourself that much,” he says. “You never have.”
“Dylan—”
“No, listen.” He exhales visibly into the cold air. “Being back with Mom and Marley over Christmas kind of made me realize something.”
I stay quiet.
“You really are my mom,” he says, almost a confession. “I mean, not literally obviously, but… you raised me. You’re the one who made sure I had food and homework done and you paid attention to me all those years. And now that I’m older, I get how hard that must’ve been.”
Around us, people laugh and skate and the rink music continues.
“I know how much you gave up for me,” he says quietly. “I’m not stupid.”
“Come on, it was fun. It’s not like raising you ruined my life,” I say.
“I know, I know,” he replies. “But it made your life harder. I know that for sure. No older sister signs up to be a mother for her kid brother.”
We skate another few feet slowly before he looks over at me again.
“But you still did it,” he says. “You still chose me every single time. I’m so grateful for you, Harper.”
The smallest hint of a tear stings my eyes as my mascara threatens to run down my face, and I look away before he can see it.
“You make it worth it. You have from day one, Dylan,” I whisper. And it’s the most truthful thing I’ve ever said.
“And now,” he says, “you’ve got someone who actually takes care of you too.”
I laugh weakly through the emotion as it bubbles inside me. “You’re getting way too observant.”
“I’m serious.” He shrugs. “I think maybe you finally get the fairy-tale ending.”
And for the first time in my life, standing here in the middle of Manhattan beside the boy I helped raise while the future suddenly opens wide in front of me, I allow myself to wonder what my life could look like if he’s right.
The fairy-tale ending is supposed to be for princesses in books, ones we read as little girls, and are only accessible through our dreams. Is it possible this one becomes my reality?