Chapter 3 #3
"You don't get to make that choice for me." My voice cracks. "That's what you never understood. You decided what was best for me without asking what I wanted."
"And what did you want?"
"You!" The word tears out of me. "I wanted you, you absolute idiot. The internship, my career, none of it meant anything if I couldn't share it with you."
He's quiet for so long I think he's hung up.
"Harper—"
"No." I cut him off. "You don't get to 'Harper' me. Not after six years. Not after you took away my choice then and you're trying to take it away now with this documentary manipulation."
"I'm not—"
"Seven AM tomorrow. Wilson Farm. That's all we need to discuss."
I hang up before he can respond.
My bathroom mirror has completely fogged over, and when I wipe it clear, I barely recognize the woman staring back. Red eyes, wet hair plastered to my head, and something in my expression I haven't seen before.
I grab my phone to delete his number, but my finger hovers over the button. Six years of avoiding him, and now I need his number for work. For the documentary. For the shadowing.
Not because part of me wants him to call back.
Not because his voice still does things to my heart rate that should be medically concerning.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Nate:
This conversation isn't over.
Me:
It was over six years ago. You just forgot to tell me that, too.
Then I turn off my phone before I do something stupid like wait for his response.
Tomorrow is going to be hell.
I'm stress-eating leftover Chinese food in my pajamas when my phone buzzes. Not Nate this time—Bill—because yes, I'm weak and turned my phone back on just in case Nate called.
Bill:
Check your email. Schedule change for tomorrow.
My stomach drops. I open my laptop, already dreading whatever fresh hell awaits.
From: Bill Walker, Editor-in-Chief
To: Harper Lane, Features Writer
Subject: Overnight Assignment
Harper,
Change of plans. Wilson Farm has a mare expected to go into labor tomorrow night. High-risk pregnancy, potential twins. Dr. Wilder will be staying overnight to monitor. This is exactly the kind of round-the-clock dedication the documentary crew wants to capture.
Pack an overnight bag. You'll need to be there from 7 AM tomorrow through the following afternoon.
This is Pulitzer material, Harper. Don't let personal history get in the way of the story of the year.
- Bill
P.S. The mayor called twice. No pressure.
I read it three times, hoping the words will somehow rearrange themselves into something less catastrophic. Overnight. With Nate. At a farm. For thirty-six hours.
My phone rings immediately. I know who it is before I answer.
"Did you know about this?" I demand.
"I just got the email," Nate says, and he actually sounds as shocked as I feel. "Harper, I didn't—"
"Didn't what? Didn't orchestrate this exact scenario? Didn't manipulate everyone into forcing us together overnight?"
"I didn't know about the mare. Wilson just called me twenty minutes ago. She's two weeks early."
"How convenient."
"Harper, I may have arranged the documentary, but I don't control when horses give birth. I told you there would likely be an overnight."
He's right, which makes me even angrier.
"Thirty-six hours. We have to spend thirty-six hours together."
"You could say no."
"We both know I can't." My career, the paper, the town's future—it all hinges on this stupid series.
"Pack layers," he says after a pause. "The barn gets cold at night. And bring—"
"I know what to bring." The words come out sharp. "I've done overnight farm stays before. With you, actually. Remember?"
Of course he remembers. That spring break junior year when we helped deliver three foals in one night. When we kissed in the hay loft as the sun came up. When everything felt possible and permanent and perfect.
"I remember," he says quietly.
"This doesn't mean anything. We're professionals. This is just work."
"Right. Just work."
"I mean it, Nate."
"I know you do." There's something in his voice—resignation? Determination? "But Harper? You might want to pack something nice too."
"Why the hell would I—"
"Wilson's daughter is getting married. Small ceremony at the farm day after tomorrow, in the afternoon. They'll invite you to stay—Mrs. Wilson already asked if you'd be there."
Of course. Because thirty-six hours of forced proximity and no sleep isn't enough torture. The universe needs to add a wedding.
"I can leave before—"
"After delivering their mare's foals? They'll be offended if you don't at least make an appearance. Small town politics, Harps."
He's right. Damn him.
"We'll be exhausted."
"Mrs. Wilson already offered her guest room for us to freshen up. Separately," he adds quickly. "She has two guest rooms."
"Fine."
"Harper—"
"Seven AM. Wilson Farm. That's it."
I hang up before he can say whatever manipulative thing he was planning.
I stare at my phone, then at my laptop, then at the ceiling, wondering what I did to deserve this.
Thirty-six hours. A high-risk birth. A wedding. And Nate Wilder with that infuriating confidence that suggests he's playing a long game I don't understand yet.
Tomorrow isn't just going to be hell.
It's going to be war.