Twenty-three
The laundry room was small and steamy, and London found herself there on New Year’s Eve, folding a run of towels that just kept coming. Sebastian was right—the guests had been treating the inn like it was a public pool.
So, she folded.
In half, in half again, and then in thirds—just as the cleaners liked.
The dryer pushed heat into the small room, the air heavy with the clean, chemical sweetness of fabric softener. Outside, the inn carried on—doors opening and closing, footsteps overhead, the low murmur of people moving that never quite stopped.
Her friends were probably already out in Seattle—packed into bars in Capitol Hill, shouting over music, or lingering over an overpriced tasting menu they’d pretend was worth it.
They’d celebrate the new year together, watch the fireworks explode over the Space Needle, and amble home with the slightly buzzed satisfaction of being able to stay awake past their bedtimes.
And she was here. Folding towels. Alone.
She picked up a towel, worked it into neat edges, then set it on the stack. The repetition and precision dulled the rest of the noise.
Chaos in, order out.
For a second, control.
London reached for another towel and stopped. She looked at the stacks she’d already made—perfect, even, contained.
This was what she’d been doing. With the inn. With Harper. She’d been making everything small enough to manage. Neat enough to hold. Safe enough not to lose.
And in the process, she’d lost almost everything.
She stood there a moment longer. The dryer thumped. The heat pressed. What would her life be without the inn? Who would she be without Harper? The questions didn’t frighten her as they might have in the past. They just sat there, waiting for her to catch up.
Lorraine’s voice echoed in her head, You’ll know when you know, dear.
Not sure where to go to college? You’ll know. Los Angeles? You’ll know. Every fork in the road, every moment of doubt. You’ll know when you know.
The dryer clicked off. Another load was ready.
She knew.
“No,” she said to the washer and dryer. London set the towel down unfolded. Didn’t fix it. Didn’t finish the load.
She tore up the stairs to her room, two at a time. Past the hallway mirror, past the older man with his mouth halfway open, just ready to tell her a story.
London shut the door to her suite and stood behind it for a moment, chest rising and falling like she’d been doing Laurie’s marathon training program. Like she’d actually run through the inn. Which she had.
Then—motion again. She turned on the shower and let the hot water steam the glass and chase the smell of detergent and fabric softener off her body. She didn’t linger, though. This wasn’t a time for slow indulgence. Just enough.
London stood in front of the mirror, towel wrapped tight, hair damp, and looked at herself.
This wasn’t the version who’d come back to Leavenworth in November.
Not who’d been folding herself smaller and smaller to fit inside something manageable.
Wasn’t the sad woman who’d looked back at her in the coffee shop in the middle of a snowstorm in Cle Elum.
This was someone new. Unmade, then remade.
“Okay,” she said through a sigh, like a decision. Like permission.
She pulled on a pair of dark jeans and a black cashmere sweater so soft it felt too good to be deserved, but she wore it anyway.
The outfit was simple. Elegant, without trying too hard.
She added the necklace Harper had given her for their tenth anniversary—a round pendant with a daisy—and that was enough.
A few passes with the hair dryer, a touch of moisturizer and mascara, dots of sandalwood behind her ears, and she was brand new.
London stepped into her boots and checked the time. 10:30. Pushing it. But not too late—yet.
# # #
The Sleeping Lady Resort was a ten-minute drive from the inn—on dry roads. London made it in eight, taking the backroads a little faster than the snow-packed conditions warranted, a little faster than the depth of the dark deserved.
Above her, the stars filled an inky black sky, unreasonable in their audacity.
Stars like this couldn’t be found in any city.
Cities had stars the way they had silence—technically present, but mostly theoretical.
Out here the stars were actual, stacked thick and deep, constellation over constellation, the kind of sky that made people feel both small and seen.
London had grown up knowing these stars, left them, and spent a year not realizing she missed them.
She wondered if Harper was looking at them, too. If she was the kind of sad that made her look up and wonder.
As she rounded East Leavenworth Road and turned onto Icicle Creek Road, London let off the gas. The resort’s lighting was dim and low, and she nearly missed the turn.
She’d only learned Harper had been staying there a few days prior—and didn’t know which unit. She’d look for her truck and go from there. That green Tacoma was a good beacon, and she hoped like hell it was actually at the resort, because hope was all she had.
London crept through the parking lot, carefully scanning parked cars until she reached the back, where she assumed employees parked. And there it was—backed in, slightly cocked—the green Tacoma with the unmistakable lumber rack. One thing had gone right.
Parked in the spot next to Harper’s truck, London rehearsed in her head.
I’m done making decisions alone. I don’t want to. I want you.
Would a grand speech be enough? Was Harper mad at her? Mad, she could work with. The other options weren’t as encouraging.
Since she didn’t know which unit was Harper’s, she was going to have to guess. Or knock.
London looked down the row of units, lights mostly off, the muffled sounds of a television filtering out of one. Someone smoking in front of another. It was nearly eleven. Any reasonable person would think twice.
But.
It was New Year’s Eve—a night more likely than others to have resort guests awake. And these were probably employees, London reasoned.
She knocked at the first door with a light on.
An older man in a flannel shirt and wool slippers appeared, holding a mug and looking unbothered by the interruption the way only certain men could.
“Evening,” he said. “Do for ya?”
“Hi.” London noticed the dark liquid in his mug. Coffee at this hour? “I’m so sorry to bother you. I’m looking for a friend—do you know Harper Mercer?”
“I do.” His eyes were as dark as his coffee and they locked into hers.
“Great, I need to tell her something—any idea which room is hers?”
“If she’s your friend, why don’t you know that?”
“Great question—I don’t—it’s complicated.”
“Well, I’ll be.” He studied her, taking a slow sip from his mug. “You’re not a friend. You’re London. The London.”
London blinked, probably too many times. “She’s mentioned me?”
“Mentioned you.” He made a sound—not quite a laugh, but close. “That’s one way to put it.”
“So, you know which room’s hers?”
“I do.”
“Would you mind telling me?”
“I would,” he said, leaning against the doorframe.
She was not getting invited into this man’s space.
“Harper’s a good woman. Works hard. Don’t complain.
Looks out for people. She deserves someone who looks out for her.
” His voice was gravelly, likely earned from years of cigarettes he’d traded for trail walks.
“That’s why I’m here.”
“Is it now?”
“Yes.” She’d started to lose feeling in her fingers but held his gaze anyway. He was going to make her earn it, and she didn’t blame him.
He considered her for a long moment, the kind of silent look her grandfather had given her once, when she’d told him she was leaving Leavenworth for California. Whatever he was deciding, she wouldn’t rush him. But she hoped he’d do it before her toes froze, too.
Finally, he tilted his head toward the road. “She’s not here, anyway. Went out with some of the guys to celebrate.”
Maybe seeing the truck was a false lead.
“Any chance you know where?” London asked carefully—she didn’t want to press her luck.
“The brewery, I reckon.”
Of course, the brewery. She’d stood outside that place before, convincing herself of all the wrong things. Tonight, she’d do better.
“Thank you so much—” She let the silence hang, what was his name?
“Doug.”
“Doug, thank you so much.”
Doug started to shut his door, then stopped. He stepped outside, slippered feet sinking softly into the un-shoveled snow. “You don’t need to thank me. Just don’t make me regret it. Harper’s one of mine.”
# # #
London sat in the car before starting it, hands resting on the wheel.
Harper’s one of mine.
Doug was protective, but kind. So comfortable in his skin. His eyes weren't clouded with their history—just clear and watching. Harper had talked about her. To Doug. This fact landed strangely, though she’d done the same with her friends.
The drive back to town crawled. Traffic on the main route was bumper to bumper, the promise of fireworks and champagne too big a draw. Headlights stretched in a long, unmoving line—it was a two-mile slog. She tapped her fingers against the wheel and then willed them still.
There was still time. Probably.
By the time she reached the brewery, it was well past eleven-thirty. London circled the block twice looking for parking. Nothing.
“Come on,” she muttered, looking for brake lights, reverse lights. Anything signaling motion. Nothing. Her only choice was to park at The Colchuck and walk back.
Her boots crunched on packed snow, and she held her breath as she slipped on a slick spot.
Foot traffic had made some areas into ice rinks.
London knew this. She knew the polished feel of snow under her boots.
Knew to scoot her feet like a duck instead of speedwalking.
And yet, she found herself nearly running to get to the brewery on the corner.
As she walked, she rehearsed. But the clean version—I’m done making decisions alone, I don’t want to, I want you—fell flat. It had made sense before. But after talking to Doug, it sounded vanilla. Corporate. Like something she’d put in a contract.
Because it wasn’t the truth.
The truth sounded more like:
I was wrong.
I was scared.
I chose control instead of you and I’m sorry I did.
She faltered over another slick spot and regained her footing just as she approached the corner opposite the brewery. The Festhalle nearly took up a block on its own and was overflowing with people; so was the brewery. It was probably the busiest corner in town.
Standing in front of the Festhalle, she watched as firepits roared and people stood inside and outside, drinking beer and telling stories. Music piped through the speakers, inviting her to cross the street. She’d hurried and now . . . her legs weighed a hundred pounds each.
Harper was right there. Probably. So close. For that moment, London let herself dream. She’d give the speech. Harper would understand. They’d kiss and people would cheer and all would be right again.
In the real world, in the world outside of London’s head, she knew it could go either way.
Harper could hear her out, set the beer she was probably drinking down, let that crease in her forehead relax, and say, “It’s okay,” in the soft, understanding way only Harper could.
Or she could slam the beer down, deliver a calm, but biting response, and never talk to London again.
She thought of Doug in his wool slippers, his lack of hesitation, and crossed the street, squeezing through couples and friends and those ready to kiss a stranger at midnight.
People were clustered everywhere—inside, outside, on the sidewalk, even in the street.
She swam upstream into the building and scanned the room.
For once, she was happy about that Carhartt jacket.
There she was, amid dozens of black puffers.
Harper stood out like a carpenter version of Where’s Waldo, leaning her back against an exposed brick wall and gesturing wildly with both hands, one fully wrapped around a beer.
The guys she was with laughed. One slapped her on the back. London watched, in awe.
Harper could always command a room. Even now. Even after everything.
London considered letting her have New Years’ Eve as she’d planned it. Letting Harper stay exactly as she was—warm, laughing, untouched by the storm she was about to unfurl. Her hands tightened around nothing, fingers curling around her palms.
No, she reminded herself.
She wouldn’t protect Harper by disappearing. Wouldn’t protect herself, either.
This wasn’t the slam dunk she’d imagined in the car. It was a crowded room. Bad timing. She had no idea what she was going to say.
Laurie had been telling her for weeks it was overtime. Now, it was time to take the shot.
She stepped forward into the warmth and noise and let the crowd close behind her.