Twenty-six
“We should eat something that isn’t coffee and stale granola bars,” London said, hedging between suggestion and observation.
Harper didn’t move. “Counterpoint.”
“Saying ‘counterpoint’ isn’t a counterpoint, darling.”
Darling. It was back. Tentatively. It felt—right.
“Feels like one.” Harper traced an absent line along London’s arm and snuggled deeper onto her chest.
London closed her eyes. This was becoming a counterpoint.
“We can’t actually spend the entire day in bed. Aren’t you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“So, food?”
“Yes, but you promised me a day in here. No obligations. No outside opinions. No—real life.”
“I did.” London’s arm was going numb from the weight of Harper’s head, but she didn’t dare move. “That means pizza, or I can call in an order to Birch and go pick it up.”
Birch would bring them full circle—back to that night when she’d seen Harper across a room and proposed a deal: Harper would fix the inn, London would sign the divorce papers.
“Not Birch,” Harper said immediately. “It might be a while until I can go back there.”
The room shifted at the word.
“Fair,” London said. She wouldn’t dwell. “Actually, how do you feel about Chinese? It’s a risk. But I noticed a place in the basement of The Obertal and I haven’t tried it yet.”
Chinese food in Leavenworth was an act of optimism. The town knew how to do German food. Austrian food. And a little Pacific Northwest casual. But Asian was pushing it. There was Seattle for Asian food, anyway.
“I’m on a bit of a risk-taking bender.” Harper sat up. “Let’s do it. Like the good old days.”
“The good old days,” London echoed.
The good old days were in a tiny apartment in Santa Monica, when an average evening was a shared box of Lo Mein, a sitcom playing in the background, trash talking their jobs, and making out like teenagers. Back when everything felt simpler. Before owning a business. Before grief. Just—before.
Harper swung her legs over the bed and stretched, completely unselfconscious. “Okay,” she said, standing. “We’re doing this.”
“You sure?”
“Yep. You’d better get on board before I change my mind and we lose another four hours.” Harper turned, already gathering clothes from wherever they’d landed the night before. “Come on. Real food. Questionable Chinese. A bold re-entry into small town life.”
“Sounds incredible,” London said, pushing herself up out of the mess of covers and pillows. “I can’t wait to see who sees. Want a shower first, or are we going to pretend we didn’t just completely wreck each other?” London felt her hair to assess the damage. It was significant.
“It’s advisable.” Harper nodded, her arms full of clothes.
They made it a mere thirty seconds into the shower.
“Oh no, you’re not stealing all the hot water,” Harper said, leaning into London to encourage her to move.
“I’m not stealing it.” London adjusted the handle that said “H,” as if that would somehow make the shower head spray them both. “I’m just standing where the water is.”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
London let out a small laugh of acknowledgement and let Harper back under the stream. The space was small and always had been, forcing them into an awkward choreography they’d never quite mastered. In the shower game, one was warm and the other was negotiating.
“Efficient,” London said, the scent of sandalwood and steam now filling the small space.
“Freezing,” Harper corrected, but didn’t move away.
They bumped shoulders as they moved—familiar, unremarkable, easy.
Yet London felt it. A quiet thrum. Life returning.
Like something ordinary turned necessary.
Their eyes met, something unspoken passed between them, and Harper’s kiss landed as if it happened every day—not after more than a year apart.
She reached for the shampoo as if nothing had changed.
And yet.
Everything had changed. What was once an ordinary task—showering, getting ready—now felt earned. Precious.
When they stepped outside, the cold hit fast and familiar.
Snow still lined the edges of the walkways, packed down and uneven.
Wood smoke drifted through the air carried from The Colchuck’s own fireplace.
People milled about, slower than usual, adults powering through late nights and certain hangovers, kids crashing after too much sugar.
The town had that strange in-between energy.
Holiday linger without the same frenzy.
There could be too much of a good thing. London shoved her hands into her coat pockets, hyper aware of Harper walking beside her. Not touching. Not not touching.
Different. Better.
# # #
They could smell soy and garlic from the stairs.
It was intoxicating—and completely out of place in Leavenworth, a town built on the promise of spaetzle and sausage.
When London opened the door to Moo Shu Mania, she didn’t know what to expect.
She followed Harper into a small space with red paper lanterns strung low along the ceiling.
It was standing room only, and the high-top tables were full.
“For two?” she asked a host, hopeful.
When he guided them to the back corner, London thanked him and relaxed. The ache in her stomach had moved past butterflies. She needed food. And a beer. “Want to just—”
“Split a few things?” Harper cut her off. “Yes.”
And just like that, they broke the seal.
With their order placed—Lo Mein, General Tso’s Chicken, and veggie dumplings—the only thing left was finding their way back to each other. Finding that place between “we’re doing this” and “we’re doing this.”
Around them, dinnerware clanged, voices overlapped, and servers floated past, constantly delivering and clearing dishes. Harper turned her beer slowly—her perpetual tell—and the light above them caught its amber hue.
When London’s phone rang, she silenced it with a quick click. “Sorry about that.”
“You can take it,” Harper said. “If you need to.”
“All I need to do today is live.”
“Who are you?”
“New year, new me,” London said, taking a long draw on the beer in front of her. “The old me wasn’t doing me any favors.” London glanced at her phone and then pushed it into her back pocket. “Laurie. Probably just saying Happy New Year.”
“Take it,” Harper said, tilting her head toward the door. “I need to go to the bathroom anyway.”
London watched Harper leave and then stepped into the hallway just outside. She leaned against the wall and hit play on the waiting voicemail.
“Happy New Year, you elusive human,” Laurie’s voice was cheery and teasing at the same time.
“I’m going to assume—based on your complete lack of response the last twenty-four hours—that you’ve been otherwise occupied.
And if I’m right, I hope there were fireworks.
Not the pyrotechnic kind. And definitely not quiet. ”
London laughed to herself.
“Call me when you come up for air. I love you, my dear friend.”
The message clicked off.
“Yeah,” London said. “Me too.”
She typed a quick message.
Happy New Year!
I hope you found some fireworks, too. Things are . . . looking up.
Miss you and love you and I’ll call tomorrow.
London leaned against the wall a beat longer, letting it settle.
When she returned to the table, Harper was twirling Lo Mein around chopsticks. “Couldn’t wait,” she said, already a half bite in.
“Totally okay.” London grabbed a pair of chopsticks, dipping them deep into the bowl. The salty goodness was right there, just waiting.
“So,” Harper said, when she’d finished a bite. “I’m starting back at the Sleeping Lady tomorrow, and we need to—figure some stuff out.”
“We do.” London lifted chopsticks loaded with noodles. Too much. She let some fall back. “Where do you want to start?”
If she’d learned anything, it was not to deliver a verdict.
“Well—” Harper leaned forward, her forearms resting on the table. “How about living arrangements. I think we should start small. Keep our separate places for now.”
“You want to date?” London asked, her lips tipping up.
“We can think of it that way. A little space could be healthy.”
London stopped herself from pointing out they'd just had over a year's worth of space and nodded.
“I don’t want to back the U-Haul up—yet,” Harper continued.
London laughed out loud this time, genuinely amused. “I don’t think it’s U-Hauling if you’ve been married as long as we have.”
Just then, a server placed dumplings in front of them, sticky and steaming, begging to be cut open.
“But I hear you. We can keep separate spaces. And I need to go back to Seattle for a while to take care of some things with Mum. So, we’ll have some distance.”
“Oh good, I can’t wait to miss you.”
This version of Harper—easy, light, present—was almost too much, and London knew she was wearing a ridiculous smile that gave away everything she was thinking.
“Yeah,” she said, careful not to yell to be heard. “We should probably talk about the inn, too. Before we get too far into—everything else.”
Harper reached for a dumpling, tearing it open with her chopsticks to let the steam escape. She dipped half into a shallow bowl of soy sauce. “This place is surprisingly good,” she said, then blew on the dumpling. “I was wondering when that was coming. The inn.”
“I’m trying not to bulldoze.” London picked up the other half of the dumpling.
“Good idea.”
“Well,” a voice said from beside them. “Happy New Year, you two.”
Katie Madsen stood there, coat half buttoned, expression somewhere between delighted and ready to get involved in their lives. Even the Santa shop owner needed to eat.
“Happy New Year to you,” London said, remembering the paper snowflakes in her front windows. She might meddle, but her instincts were generally spot on. She earned her place as the town’s chief of gossip.
“My husband’s waiting over there, so I’ll let you have your dinner.
” Katie placed a hand lightly on Harper’s back, and she stilled.
“So good to see you two in the same place again.” A small wave and a toothy smile, and she was gone as fast as she’d appeared, captured back into the bustle of the room.
Harper watched her go and reached for her beer. “Her timing is impeccable.”
“Always has been. You know what this means, right?” London asked, already dipping back in for more noodles.
“Yep.”
London searched for the look Harper’s eyes that said she was following. She was. “Are you ready for that?”
“Are you?”
“Absolutely.” There’d never been an easier answer. She set her chopsticks down, more deliberate than necessary. “But I want to respect the space we agreed to. What should we say?”
“You haven’t already decided?” Harper lifted an eyebrow.
“I meant what I said. I’m trying not to do this alone,” London said. “I want to know what you want, too.”
Harper dipped another half dumpling into her soy sauce and took a bite. The silence wasn’t really silence—the restaurant provided enough ambient noise for everyone to have deep conversations without letting on.
“Okay,” she said. “We’re trying things again. We’re taking it slow. And we’re not making any big declarations in the middle of a Chinese restaurant on New Year’s Day.” She laughed. “My mother would be so upset we’re not eating ham and black-eyed peas, by the way.”
London made a face. “Ew.”
“I know. A lifetime in California couldn’t brainwash her out of her North Carolina upbringing. So? What do you say?”
“I say yes. Yes, slow feels right, and yes, we can tell people we’re giving it a try. And—”
“Yeah?”
“Can I still say I love you? Is that okay?”
The room seemed to pull away, still loud, but distant. Harper placed her chopsticks on the edge of the noodle bowl and looked. Past her eyes. Past her words.
“You can,” she said, reaching a hand across the table and finding London’s. “I just need you to mean it.”
Harper’s thumb brushed once over the back of her hand—absent, almost—but she didn’t let go. Just as she was about to speak, a server squeezed past with a tray balanced just shy of impossible. London picked up her chopsticks with her free hand, still watching, still waiting.
“I mean it,” she said, and Harper squeezed her hand.
This wasn’t complete relief. There might never be that.
But something was steadier now.
Harper didn’t let go.