Chapter 9 #2
And it hadn't worked anyway, had it? Handling things alone had just gotten my apartment burned down.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Connor moved to the dresser, pulling clothes off of the top. “Anna's bringing more clothes later, but I have some things that might work for now. Sweatpants, t-shirts, a hoodie. They'll be big on you, but—”
“Connor.” I stopped him with his name, needing him to look at me. “Why are you doing this?”
He turned back, confusion crossing his face. “Doing what?”
“This. All of this.” I gestured around the room, at the coffee, at the clothes in his hands, at everything.
“Taking me in, calling the sheriff, lending me your things.
We haven't really been talking for months.
We've barely been in the same room without you leaving. Why would you…why would you go to all this trouble for me?”
Connor stared at me for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression before it disappeared. There and gone just as quickly.
“Because you need help.” Like it was the most obvious thing in the world even though he looked pained as he said it. “Because you're important to me and I haven’t been there. Because the idea of you going through this alone makes me—”
He stopped, shook his head and looked away.
“Makes you what?” I pressed, my heart pounding.
“Makes me want to tear whoever did this apart with my bare hands.” His voice was low, rough with emotion he was barely controlling. “Harper, you could have died last night. If you'd been sleeping deeper, if the smoke had been thicker, if you hadn't woken up when you did…”
His hands were shaking now. I could see them trembling at his sides before he curled them into fists.
“You're staying here,” he continued, his voice firmer now. Decisive. “As long as you need to. And we're going to figure out who did this and make sure they pay for it. That's not negotiable. Okay?”
You're important to me.
The words settled into my chest, warm and painful at the same time.
Warm because he meant them. I could see it in his eyes, hear it in his voice, feel it in the way he'd driven through the night to get to me.
Painful because I'd spent months thinking he didn't care anymore, that our friendship was just another casualty of my terrible judgment.
“Okay,” I whispered.
Connor held my gaze for a moment longer, and the air between us felt charged with all the things we weren't saying, all the words we'd swallowed over the past months. Then he cleared his throat and moved back toward the door.
“I'll make breakfast. The Sheriff should be here around ten. Take your time getting ready.” Then he was gone, and I was alone with my coffee and my phone and the overwhelming reality of my situation.
I finished the coffee even though my stomach was in knots, set the mug on the nightstand with careful precision, and forced myself out of bed on shaking legs.
My reflection in the bathroom mirror was startling.
Eyes red and puffy from crying and smoke exposure, dark circles that looked like bruises smudged beneath them.
Hair a tangled mess of knots and soot. I was still wearing Connor's t-shirt from last night, the gray one that hung to my knees and smelled like his laundry detergent.
I looked like someone who'd survived a disaster.
Because I did.
After showering until the water ran lukewarm, I dressed in the sweatpants Connor had left on the dresser.
They were definitely his. Way too long, with a drawstring waist that was comically big on me.
But I rolled up the legs and tied the string as tight as it would go, then pulled on another t-shirt he'd left.
Plain navy blue this time. I looked ridiculous, drowning in fabric, but at least I was covered.
No makeup. No hairdryer. No moisturizer or any of the other products I used every morning without thinking. All of it was gone. I stared at my bare-faced reflection and tried to recognize myself. This was what rock bottom looked like.
At least I had something to wear. Look at me finding silver linings in my dumpster fire of a life.
I followed the smell of bacon and coffee downstairs to the kitchen, my sock feet silent on the hardwood floors.
The house was beautiful in the morning light, something I'd noticed on previous visits but was seeing with new eyes now.
High ceilings with exposed beams. Large windows that let in floods of natural light.
A kitchen that was clearly well-used, with copper pots hanging from hooks and a farmhouse sink and counters that showed the wear of daily life.
Connor stood at the stove cooking, and the domesticity of it made something in my chest ache with longing. Chester lay on the cool tile floor, his golden tail thumping at the smell of bacon.
This was what I'd been missing for months.
The easy companionship we used to have. The way he used to cook for me while I sat at his kitchen counter and told him about problem customers or new inventory or whatever random thought crossed my mind.
I even missed the comfortable silence between us that didn't feel empty or loaded with tension.
I wanted that back. God, I wanted it back so badly it hurt to breathe.
“Coffee's fresh,” Connor said without turning around.
I poured myself another cup with hands that were steadier now and settled into one of the chairs at his kitchen table. The house was quiet except for the sound of bacon sizzling and the distant whinny of a horse outside.
“How'd you sleep?” Connor asked, plating eggs and bacon with practiced ease.
“Better than I expected.” Which was true. I'd thought I'd lie awake all night replaying the fire, but exhaustion had pulled me under almost immediately. “You?”
“Fine.” The lie was obvious in the way he didn't meet my eyes, in the shadows under them that said he'd probably gotten two hours at most.
He set a plate in front of me of scrambled eggs fluffy and perfect, bacon crispy, toast with butter melting into the surface. More food than I could imagine eating, but my stomach growled anyway, reminding me I hadn't eaten since dinner at his house last night.
A lifetime ago.
Connor grabbed his own plate and sat across from me at the worn wooden table.
We ate in silence for a few minutes, and it should have been awkward after months of distance and unspoken things between us, but somehow it wasn't. Maybe because we were both too tired and too overwhelmed to maintain the careful barriers we'd built.
Maybe because nearly dying had a way of putting things in perspective.
“I've been thinking,” Connor said finally, setting down his fork with a soft clink against ceramic. “About what happens next.”
My stomach tightened. Here it comes. The reality check. The practical discussion about how I couldn't stay here forever, how I needed to figure out my life.
“You're staying here,” he continued before I could continue to spiral. “That's not negotiable. But practically speaking, you need clothes, toiletries, all the basic stuff to function. Anna's bringing things, but we should probably go shopping too. Get you whatever else you need.”
“Connor, I can't afford—”
“I'm buying it.” He held up a hand before I could protest, his expression brooking no argument. “Don't argue. Harper, you lost everything. Let me help. Please.”
Let me help.
How many times had I refused to ask for help over the past months? How many times had my pride kept me from admitting I was drowning? How many opportunities to avoid this disaster had I ignored because I was too stubborn to ask or even confide in the people I trusted most?
Look where it had gotten me.
“Okay.” The word felt like surrender, like defeat. “Thank you. I can get clothes from the boutique though. That's not an issue.”
He nodded, some of the tension leaving his broad shoulders. “Good. Insurance should cover what you lost in the fire, but you'll need to file claims, deal with paperwork. I can help with that too if you want.”
“The loss of what little I had is the least of my issues.” The words came out sharper than I'd intended.
I softened my tone. “I'm three months behind on the boutique lease, Connor.
The fire doesn't change that. This just…” I stopped, pressing my lips together hard. “This just speeds up the inevitable.”
Connor's expression shifted to something I couldn't quite read. Concern mixed with something that might have been anger. “What do you mean, three months behind?”
Shit.
I hadn't meant to tell him that. Not yet and certainly not like this.
“Harper.” His voice was gentle but firm. “What aren't you telling me?”
And suddenly, sitting in his kitchen wearing his clothes and eating his food after he'd taken me in without hesitation, after he'd promised to protect me and help me rebuild, I couldn't keep lying and pretending I had everything under control.
The dam broke and I told him everything.
The three months of overdue lease payments on the boutique, the total climbing to sixteen thousand dollars.
About the vendors threatening to send my accounts to collections, Miller's Textiles alone demanding over four thousand dollars that I didn't have.
About maxing out my credit cards trying to stay afloat, the balances totaling over eight thousand.
How Mr. Chen giving me thirty days to come up with fifteen thousand dollars or lose the boutique entirely.
About my apartment rent being ninety days overdue too, another forty-eight hundred dollars I'd never be able to pay now, though maybe they wouldn't even make me pay since the apartment was gone.
I told him I'd been drowning slowly for months while everyone around me thought I was fine. While I smiled and pretended and lied and kept spiraling deeper into debt I couldn't escape.