21. Harper #2
The haircut was not planned, at least not by me.
I was sitting in the chair ready for my usual treatment when I caught myself staring at my reflection.
The long blonde hair, which has several steps and processes to get to this exact colour.
The polished waves, the old-money softness carefully maintained.
It was beautiful, and it also felt like armour.
Not all armour was hard; some of it was pretty, and some of it was so familiar you forgot you were wearing it.
The stylist lifted a section. “Just the ends?”
I opened my mouth to say yes. Then stopped. In the mirror, Margot’s eyes met mine. She said nothing, just waited with a warm smile on her face. I thought about Harper Lane, about the woman who could walk into a Northwell meeting and make powerful men listen.
I thought about Harper Montgomery, the woman with glitter freckles who had laughed on New Year’s Eve. The woman who wanted to be seen and was terrified of what that might cost.
Then I thought about Elliot running his fingers through my hair; the memory hurt, but not enough to stop me.
“No,” I said softly.
The stylist paused. “How much?”
I lifted my hand and touched the ends, then brought my fingers to just above my shoulder. “When it’s straight, I want it here.” Margot’s mouth parted slightly. “And when it’s curled,” I added, my voice growing steadier, “I want it to look shorter. Playful.”
The stylist smiled. “I can do that.”
The first cut made my stomach drop, the second made me exhale a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
By the time she was finished, several inches of blonde hair lay on the floor, and the woman in the mirror looked like someone I barely recognized.
A long bob brushed just above my shoulders, soft and blunt enough to feel intentional.
When the stylist curled it loosely, it bounced around my face, making my eyes look brighter and my cheekbones sharper.
I stared and could feel a smile tugging up at the sides of my mouth.
Margot stood behind me, one hand pressed to her chest. “Oh, Harper.”
I laughed nervously. “What?”
“You look like… you.”
My throat tightened. She didn’t say beautiful, or like my mother, not polished or… I look like me.
I reached up and touched the ends. It felt lighter, and I somehow looked lighter too.
After hair came lunch, then shopping, or more accurately, Margot closing down a boutique and pulling clothes from racks while I protested, but secretly loved them.
Soft sweaters, a green dress I never would have tried on, a sparkly cocktail dress that Margot joked would be great for the boardroom, jeans that actually made me understand why people cared about denim, and a ridiculous floppy hat that made Margot clap when I stepped out of the fitting room.
After such an incredible day, for the first time in weeks, maybe months, maybe years, I wanted to take a picture of myself. Not for optics or branding. Just because.
So I did. In the back of the car, surrounded by shopping bags, wearing the ridiculous hat low enough to shadow most of my face, I lifted my phone and took a photo in the window reflection.
You could see my new hair, my blue nails, my mouth smiling, but not enough of my face to identify me. I posted it before I could overthink it.
Captioned: trying something new.
Margot glanced over. “What did you do?”
“Nothing,” I said, like a teenage girl caught texting a cute boy.
Her eyes narrowed. “Harper.”
“I posted a picture.” I huffed out.
She gasped dramatically. “Of your face?”
I shot her a look because, even though Harper Montgomery’s social media was very popular, I had a rule that all my close family and friends included nothing identifiable.
“Progress, not miracles.” She said, shaking her head and staring out the window.
I laughed. Then my phone buzzed and buzzed again, and again. Comments, likes, and messages.
Mostly people I knew, followers who must have notifications set up for my content because they are always on it as soon as it goes live. Emily Bennett, somehow, which startled me enough that I stared at her name for a full ten seconds. I hadn’t realized she followed my accounts.
Her comment read: obsessed with the nails and the mysterious energy.
I smiled despite myself.
Margot chose a quiet restaurant for dinner, with low lighting, excellent wine, and enough privacy that no one stared. Oliver was already there when we arrived, standing as we approached.
His eyes landed on me, and I watched as they trailed over me, his smile growing as he looked.
“Well, shit.”
Margot sighed. “Oliver.”
“What? She looks incredible.”
Heat climbed into my cheeks. “You are both too much.”
He pulled my chair out, and I hesitated for half a second. Because the last man who had pulled out chairs and opened doors and made me feel carefully attended to had just as quickly turned on me.
Oliver noticed the hesitation, but he didn’t make it a thing. He simply stepped back, giving me space, and I sat on my own.
Dinner was easy. Margot did most of the talking for the first half hour, which meant Oliver and I mostly exchanged amused looks while she discussed gossip, a friend’s disastrous renovation, and the moral failure of restaurants that served tiny food.
Eventually, she excused herself to take a call from Grant, leaving Oliver and me alone with half a bottle of wine and the low hum of the restaurant around us.
He leaned back in his chair. “So.”
I lifted my glass. “So.”
“You look different.”
“That is usually what happens after a haircut.”
His mouth twitched. “No. Not that.”
I looked away first, and he waited. That was the thing about Oliver: he waited without making it feel like pressure.
Finally, I asked, “Good different?”
“Yes.”
The answer came immediately.
“So certain.” I quipped.
“I usually am,” he said with a knowing smile.
“That must be nice.”
“It is. I highly recommend it.”
I laughed.
He smiled, then grew more serious. “I’ve been thinking about Chicago.”
My fingers tightened slightly around my glass.
He noticed. “I don’t mean him.”
I exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
“I mean the city, your home base… unless you plan on changing that.”
I looked at him.
“I’ve been considering opening a nonprofit branch there,” he said. “Or something adjacent to what I already do. Community programs. Youth support. Housing resources. Maybe scholarships tied to mental health access.”
My interest sharpened before I could stop it. “You’re serious?”
“Very,” he replied, and then took a small sip of his wine.
“Why Chicago?” I asked before I could stop myself.
He shrugged. “Need. Connections. Opportunity.” Then his eyes held mine. “And maybe because someone I care about spends her time there.”
My stomach fluttered. Just enough to remind me I was alive.
“Oliver.”
“I’m not proposing.”
I choked on a laugh. “Good to know.”
“I’m not even pushing or asking for anything.” He leaned forward slightly. “I know you’re not in a place to start something. I’m not asking you to be.”
The honesty of it made my throat tighten. “Then what are you asking?”
His gaze softened. “Time.” I stared at him. “I would love to spend time with you,” he said. “Get to know you as who you are now, not only who I remember.”
My heart gave a small, painful squeeze.
He continued, voice quieter. “I miss the girl I grew up with.” I looked down, but he continued. “But I would really like to know the woman she became.”
For a moment, I couldn’t speak. Because there was a glaring difference. Elliot had wanted access to the woman who fit beside him. Oliver was asking to know the woman I actually was. No contract, no deadline, nor terms. Just time with me.
And maybe that wasn’t a fair comparison, but I wasn't feeling all that fair about how things ended with Elliot. The thought of him made my chest squeeze painfully.
“I don’t know what I can give you,” I admitted.
“That’s okay,” Oliver said softly.
“It might not be fair,” I added.
“Probably not.”
“You’re terrible at self-preservation.”
He barked out a laugh. “My mother says the same thing.”
“I’m serious,” I emphasized.
“So am I.” His smile softened again. “I’m not asking you to promise me anything, Harper.”
I looked toward the window. Outside, snow drifted past the glass.
When Margot returned, she looked between us and immediately smiled like a woman who had accomplished exactly what she had come to do. I rolled my eyes, and Oliver laughed.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like I was waiting for my life to start again.
It already has. Quietly. Softly. With new nail polish, shorter hair, a ridiculous hat, and a man across the table who looked at me like he wasn’t afraid of the parts of me I hadn’t figured out yet.