Chapter 48
Chapter Forty-Eight
Two months later
Skye
I climb the stairs to our apartment, pulse pounding with every step like a drumbeat against my ribs.
The key rattles violently in my trembling hand as I try to steady my breathing, the metal slipping against my sweaty palm.
It's been so long since I've faced Harper—too long to go without your best friend, without the person who knows every secret, every fear, every dream you've ever whispered in the dark.
Inside, our apartment looks exactly the same as I left it two days ago. My art supplies still scattered across the coffee table in organized chaos—charcoal sticks, sketch pads, tubes of paint squeezed from the middle the way Harper always teases me about.
I drop my bag on the couch with more force than necessary and immediately start pacing the living room.
Six steps to the window, pivot, eight steps to the kitchen doorway, turn around.
Repeat. The clock on the wall ticks loudly, each second an accusation marking time that brings Harper closer.
Two months of strained text messages—the kind where you type and delete and type again, searching for the right words that don't exist—and awkward navigation around each other's lives can't prepare me for seeing her face to face.
For looking into those green-gold eyes that have been my anchor since sixth grade and seeing...
what? Disappointment? Anger? Acceptance?
My phone vibrates against the coffee table, cutting through my spiral of anxiety. Dom's name lights up the screen.
Dom: Made it home safe. You okay?
I smile despite my nerves, despite the way my stomach feels like it's doing gymnastics. Even when we’re apart, he knows I'm probably falling apart right now.
Me: Yes. Waiting for her now.
His response comes immediately.
Dom: Call if you need me. Love you.
Two simple words that still make my heart skip like a stone across water.
Two months ago, those words changed everything—shifted the entire axis of my world until nothing looked the same anymore.
Hearing Dominic say he loved me, that he'd move anywhere to be with me, that Harper's happiness mattered to him as much as his own—it was like the universe took a deep breath and exhaled in a completely different direction.
But the price was Harper's trust, Harper's comfort with her own father, and that's a cost I'm still trying to reconcile with the guilt that sits heavy in my chest.
I text back a quick Love you too and set my phone down carefully, like it might explode if I'm not gentle enough.
The memories of that week after Dom's confession flood back in vivid, painful detail.
The agony of waiting for Harper's response while honoring my promise not to see him until she gave her blessing.
Seven days of checking my phone obsessively, of Dom respecting my boundaries even when I could hear the strain in his voice during our brief, careful calls.
I still don't know what conversations passed between father and daughter during that time, what tears were shed or arguments had.
Dom never pushes her to talk about us, respecting her boundaries in a way that makes me love him even more, even when the not-knowing eats at me like acid.
When her text finally came—I love you both and want you to be happy.
Just... give me some time to adjust—I cried for an hour straight in the bathroom, muffling my sobs with a towel so Mom wouldn't hear.
It was permission, but not forgiveness. Not yet.
Maybe not ever, and I have to live with that possibility.
Since then, we've been building something real, something that feels like forever despite how fragile it still seems. Dom bringing me coffee during late-night art sessions, learning exactly how I like it—two sugars, splash of vanilla creamer.
Sunday dinners with Mom and Justin where my brother monopolizes Dom's attention with dinosaur facts while Dom listens with genuine interest, asking follow-up questions that make Justin's face light up like Christmas morning.
The way Justin looks up to him with hero worship that makes my heart ache, how Mom smiles more than she has in years, how she actually laughs at Dom's terrible dad jokes.
I've been happy—deeply, truly happy in a way that feels almost foreign after years of just surviving—except for the Harper-shaped hole in my life that nothing else can fill.
The sound of keys in the lock freezes me mid-pace, my breath catching in my throat.
The door swings open with a soft creak, and there she is.
Hair pulled back in a messy ponytail that somehow looks effortlessly perfect on her, the same freckles scattered across her face like constellations I used to trace when we'd lie in her bed talking about boys and dreams and everything we'd do when we grew up.
The same green-gold eyes that widen slightly when they land on me, and I see her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
"Hi," I say, the word barely audible, barely breath.
She sets her bag down slowly, deliberately, like she's buying time. "Hi."
We stand there, three feet and two months of complicated history stretching between us like a chasm.
I can see her taking inventory—the same apartment, the same furniture, but I'm different somehow.
Maybe it's the way I carry myself now, more confident in some ways, more uncertain in others.
Maybe it's the faint marks on my neck that my concealer couldn't quite hide, evidence of the life I'm building with her father.
"How was your flight?" I ask, desperate to fill the silence that feels like it might swallow us both.
"Fine." She shrugs, then gestures vaguely toward the window. "The California weather is much nicer than here."
Small talk. We're reduced to small talk when we used to finish each other's sentences.
"Harper, I—"
"Is he good to you?" she interrupts, her voice steady but soft, and the question hits me like a physical blow because it's so perfectly Harper—cutting straight through the bullshit to what matters.
The question catches me off guard, even though maybe it shouldn't have.
"Yes," I answer honestly, my voice stronger now.
"He's... incredible. He listens when I ramble about art theory, he remembers that Justin hates the texture of mashed potatoes, he fixed Mom's kitchen faucet without being asked. He makes me feel like I matter."
She nods slowly, looking down at her hands with their perfectly manicured nails. "That's good. You deserve that. You both do."
The simple acceptance in her words makes my eyes sting with unshed tears.
"I miss you," I blurt out, unable to hold it back anymore, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"I miss my best friend. I miss texting you stupid memes at two AM and having you actually respond.
I miss our Sunday morning pancake disasters and the way you always steal my good pens.
I miss us. And I'm so, so sorry for how everything happened. "
Her eyes meet mine, searching my face like she's looking for something specific, some sign of the girl she used to know. "I miss you too," she admits finally, and I can hear the crack in her carefully controlled voice. "It's been weird without you. Lonely."
"I never wanted to hurt you," I say, my voice cracking despite my best efforts. "If you want me to move out, if it would make things easier—"
"I don't," she cuts me off quickly, almost sharply. "This is your home too. It always has been."
"But are we okay?" I ask the question that's been burning inside me for months, the one that's kept me awake at night staring at the ceiling. "Can we be?"
Harper takes a deep breath, and I can see her choosing her words carefully. "We're... getting there. It's just strange, you know? My best friend and my dad. Watching you two together, seeing him happier than I've ever seen him, but knowing that happiness is because of you."
"I know. Trust me, I know how weird it is. Sometimes I lie awake thinking about how insane this all sounds."
A hint of a smile touches her lips, the first real one I've seen from her in months. "It's pretty weird."
That small smile is like sunlight breaking through storm clouds, warming something cold and tight in my chest. "The weirdest," I agree, feeling a tentative smile form on my own face for the first time since she walked through the door.
We look at each other for a long moment, and something shifts in the air between us.
Not back to what we were—maybe we'll never be exactly that again, that easy, uncomplicated friendship of our teenage years—but forward to something new.
Something that acknowledges what we've both lost and what we might, eventually, build in its place.
Something that might, eventually, be okay.
"Do you want some coffee?" I ask, gesturing toward the kitchen. "I could tell you about your dad trying to cook dinner for my mom last week and nearly burning down her kitchen. Justin had to give him a very serious lecture about fire safety."
Harper's eyebrow raises with genuine interest, and there's real amusement in her voice. "Now that I have to hear."
As I move toward the kitchen, muscle memory guiding me to the coffee maker that's witnessed a thousand of our conversations, my phone buzzes again with another text.
Dom: Thinking of you. Everything will work out. Have faith.
I glance at Harper unpacking her bag with deliberate care, hanging her jacket in the closet like she's reclaiming her space, then back at the message. For the first time in two months, watching my best friend settle back into our shared life, I truly believe it might.