Thirteen
The walk home felt slower alone, the snow, less quaint. It wasn’t magical anymore. Just cold. Wet. Cumbersome. Harper had likely traveled the same route on turbo, walking fast, the way she did when she was angry. Hands stuffed into that stupid Carhartt jacket.
Their conversation played on a loop in her mind. The hurt in Harper’s voice and her eyes. The way she said she’d waited months for London to show up, waited to be asked for her side of the story.
Of everything she said—and didn’t—one comment snagged.
Somewhere in the argument, she’d tossed it out so quickly, so offhandedly—you’re bisexual, so I thought—like it explained something.
Like Harper’s identity was evidence. Like she’d spent a year building a case against her own wife and filed that away as a load-bearing fact.
It wasn’t suspicion. It was worse than that. It was a story she’d decided was true before she asked questions and Harper’s identity had made it easier to believe.
Harper pushed back hard on her bisexual bias. She should have. And she pushed harder on why London hadn’t even tried to get her side of the story. And then she retreated, just as she always had. They’d had a version of this push/retreat argument so many times before.
When Harper asked where London thought they were going, would it have been so difficult to follow I don’t know with, I’d like to find out? Or even better, we need to talk about the past before we can think about the future.
No. Too real.
When she shut the door to the inn, the quiet hit her immediately. No music. No laughter from the crowds just down the street. The lamp in the corner of the sitting room illuminated all the work Harper had done that day. It was beautiful—undeniably better than before.
Then she remembered—the Klines. Upstairs. The baby.
“Fuck me,” London said under her breath. She tiptoed upstairs to her room, pulling off gloves and her beanie, avoiding the spots she knew would squeak.
The bed was still a mess from the morning, tangled covers a reminder of a restless night.
London fell onto the end, pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, and fought the urge to scream.
Just like she had last Oktoberfest when she’d come home from a Chamber of Commerce event to find no sign of Harper.
Only the note.
I need some time away, it had said. No hint of how long, or where she was going. Simply that she couldn’t do it anymore and London should call her when she was ready to have a real conversation.
London had read the note half a dozen times before setting it on the dresser.
A real conversation. What was there to say?
London already knew what had happened.
It was a small town. Not the best place to have an affair.
At least go to Wenatchee. Or Cle Elum. Or Seattle.
For God’s sake don’t hug the guy and put your head on his shoulder at the brewery five hundred feet from where you live. With your wife.
London had seen it happen herself, months before the note showed up.
The brewery had been loud that night, packed with people playing Bingo and drinking beer around the firepits.
She’d been downtown having dinner with her small business group, discussing what to do about the upcoming tax hikes for hotels and Airbnb owners.
It was a warm evening, the first hint that spring was there to stay after a long winter. As she walked by the split-rail fence that separated the brewery from the street, she noticed a tall man standing in line for a beer. He looked familiar, but she couldn’t place him. And then, there was Harper.
Standing beside him on her tiptoes, saying something into his ear.
Her first thought wasn’t suspicion. Harper had plenty of male friends. Being a woman in construction would do that for you. She planned to pop in and say hi, maybe have a beer to come down from all the “let’s fight city hall” talk in which she’d just been embroiled.
But as she approached, she noticed Harper’s face was tired. Her eyes, puffy, like she’d been crying.
London slowed.
She couldn’t hear what they were saying over the music and chatter, but his posture softened when Harper spoke.
He leaned closer, listening. Then, he reached for her, pulling her into a hug.
Not a quick one. The kind that led Harper to rest her head on his shoulder and lower her hand to the small of his back.
Like she always did with London. Harper stayed that way for a long moment, and London turned and walked out, hoping they hadn’t seen her.
And now, she stared at the ceiling and re-lived the moment she’d re-lived a hundred times. It had been clear as day. His arms around her. The way she had leaned in. Her head against his shoulder.
She hadn’t asked. Not that night. Not the next day. Not ever.
So, when the note said, I need some time away, London wasn’t surprised. It played into the story she was telling herself. She couldn’t have scripted it more cleanly.
And when people asked where her wife was, she deflected. She told half truths. And eventually admitted, she left.
She rolled onto her side and her phone buzzed. Laurie.
I ran three miles today when I only needed to do two. See, ahead of schedule already. How’s Bavaria?
Leave it to Laurie to know just when she needed levity.
Amazing! You’re becoming a legit runner! Bavaria blows. Too much to text.
Her phone rang instantly and she answered it before the second buzz.
“Want to talk about it?” Laurie asked.
“Not really,” London said. “I don’t want my drama to continue to be the axis you and I revolve around. Tell me about running. Or Duke. Or literally anything else. Are you seeing anyone?”
Laurie snorted. “Girl. We can get to that. Right now, it’s my duty as your best friend to understand why you’re apparently miserable living in a Christmas village.”
London closed her eyes.
“It’s complicated.”
“Uh huh,” Laurie said. “Let me guess. You accidentally kissed your wife again.”
“You’re psychic now?”
“I’ve known you for nearly thirty years. Psychic isn’t required.”
“Fine,” London said. “We kissed. And then, we got in a fight at a tasting room.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.”
“She wanted to know what we’re doing—like with ‘us’—and I shut it down.”
“That’s one approach.”
“Laurie—”
“No, seriously. It’s bold. Spend a year missing your wife. Finally reunite. Kiss her again. A couple times, just to be sure. And then immediately evacuate the premises.”
London rubbed her forehead. Laurie was a litigator, and it was painfully clear why.
“It’s not like that.”
“London,” Laurie said gently. “You have called me, texted me, and literally cried into your wine with me about how much you miss Harper. Now that she’s back in your orbit, you’re acting like she’s a live grenade.”
“Because she might be.”
“Doubtful, but let’s play it out. What happened tonight?”
“I told you,” London said. “We kissed on the roof of the bakery during the lighting ceremony, then we went for mulled wine. Harper asked me what we were doing with us, and I said I don’t want to go back where we were.”
“Oh. My. God.”
“What?” London’s voice crackled.
“We need to improve your reasoning skills. That is not how you win the girl.”
“But it’s the truth!”
“Maybe, but there are better ways to say things to get what you want,” Laurie said. The static in the line bounced between them. “Did you ever actually ask her what happened?”
More static while London picked at the threads on the end of a throw blanket.
“Not yet.”
“Oh, babe. You’re going to have to talk to her about this eventually. Preferably before she finishes working for you.”
London heard the baby stirring down the hall. Small cackles turned into a full-blown cry in no time.
“Tomorrow, we’re painting wainscoting. I’ve been told to dress appropriately.”
“Jesus Christ. You just need to talk about it. Act like you have something on the line here. I hate to sound like my mother, but do you want me to call her for you?”
“No!” London snapped back. Now the baby was full on wailing.
“Well then,” Laurie pressed. “Would you woman up and talk to your wife? Ask her what happened, for Pete’s sake. Apologize for being self-absorbed and absent.”
Laurie exhaled into the phone. “There are eight seconds left in overtime, London. Are you taking the shot or heading to the locker room?”
“Okay, alright. If I promise to talk to her, can we talk about something else? Tell me about running.”