Chapter 6 #2
"Forever turned out to be two years," I tell the carving.
My phone buzzes. Harper:
Still on for dinner?
Me:
Wouldn't miss it.
Harper:
Good. I have questions.
Me:
About?
Harper:
Everything.
There's that word again. The one that encompasses all our unfinished business, all our potential, all our history.
I look around the barn one more time. The loft ladder is still sturdy. I climb up, and it's like stepping back in time. The blanket we left is dusty but still there. The window we used to watch storms through still has the crack from when we... well.
This is where we planned four kids. Where we named imaginary horses. Where she said she'd love me forever.
This is where we first made love.
The memory hits hard—Harper underneath me, breathing my name, promising we'd come back here on our wedding night. Both of us so certain we'd found forever.
The realtor can wait.
Some things aren't ready to be sold.
Some things might still have a future.
***
I'm ten minutes early to Marcello's because apparently I'm that guy now. The one who shows up early for a dinner that's definitely not a date with his ex-girlfriend who he's definitely not still in love with.
Harper walks in exactly on time, and I forget how to breathe.
She's changed from this morning—dark jeans that hug everything right, a soft green sweater that brings out her hazel eyes, dark hair cascading over her shoulders in soft waves.
She looks like she tried but wants it to seem like she didn't try, which means she definitely tried.
"You're early," she says, sliding into the booth across from me.
"You're beautiful."
The words are out before I can stop them. She freezes, then recovers.
"That's not appropriate."
"Probably not."
"We're having a professional dinner."
"About what? You’re busy with the article. The documentary's wrapping up."
She opens her mouth, closes it, then signals the waiter for wine. "I need alcohol for this conversation."
After we order—she still gets the chicken marsala, I still get the lasagna, some things never change—she levels me with that look that used to mean I was in trouble.
"We need to talk about us."
"Okay."
"About what we're doing."
"Okay."
"Stop saying okay."
"What do you want me to say, Harper?"
She takes a breath. "Move on with me or move on from me."
The words hit like a punch. "What?"
"Those are your choices, Nate. We either figure this out together, or we stop circling each other."
"Those are my only choices?"
"We can't keep doing this dance. The almost-kisses, the loaded looks, the foot massages in your truck—"
"You liked the foot massage."
"That's not the point."
"What if I like the circling?" I ask, though even I know it's a weak argument.
"The circling is killing me. Cold showers in May, Nate."
"Join the club."
She leans forward, wine making her brave. "So what's it going to be? With me or without me?"
My heart stops. This is it—the chance I've been waiting for.
"With you. Always with you."
The words come out too fast, too desperate. I watch her face change—surprise replacing bravery.
"I—that's not—" She pulls back slightly, processing.
"Wait," she says, hand up like she's warding me off. "That came out wrong."
"Sounded pretty clear to me."
"I meant... eventually. Maybe. Not now." She's spiraling, hands gesturing wildly. "I've had wine and you're sitting there looking like... that, and I got carried away."
"Looking like what?"
"Like you'd choose me. Like you'd always choose me."
"I would."
"Stop." Her voice cracks. "You can't just say things like that. You can't fix six years with three words."
Our food arrives—perfect timing to interrupt my complete implosion of this moment. The waiter sets down plates neither of us will touch.
Harper takes a shaky breath. "I need boundaries. Professional distance. We need to try and finish the article series, and that's it."
"Harper—"
"I can't think straight when you're around. I need to figure out what I want without you... being you."
"What does that mean?"
"It means I need space. Real space. Not you fixing my car or orchestrating documentaries or looking at me like—" She stops, gathering her purse. "I have to go."
"Let me at least—"
"No." She drops cash on the table. "This is me figuring things out. Alone."
I watch her go through the restaurant window, her shoulders rigid with determination. She's right, of course. I'm doing it again—making decisions for both of us, pushing when I should be patient, assuming I know what's best.
My phone is already in my hand before she reaches her car.
Me:
I'm sorry. You're right.
The three dots appear immediately.
Harper:
I know.
Me:
Can we at least finish the article series? Professionally?
Harper:
Yes. Professionally.
Me:
I'll respect your boundaries.
Harper:
You better.
I signal for the check, noting she left exactly enough cash for her half. Even now, she won't let me take care of her. Won't owe me anything.
The waiter clears our untouched plates, and I can't help but think about all the dinners we've shared. College cramming sessions over pizza. Anniversary dinners where we'd play footsie under the table. All those meals when we thought nothing could touch us.
Everything changed.
My phone buzzes. Lucas:
How'd it go?
Me:
Exactly how you'd expect.
Lucas:
That bad?
Me:
She wants boundaries. Professional distance.
Lucas:
Give her time.
Time. Six years wasn't enough time. But I text back:
I will.
Then I do something impulsive. I scroll to the realtor's contact. Before I can second-guess myself. I send:
Take the farm off the market.
Because Harper's right—I don't get to decide for both of us. But I can decide not to sell our memories to the highest bidder. Not yet.
I sit in the parking lot for ten more minutes, wondering if "professional distance" is just another way of saying goodbye.
Tomorrow I have to see her again. Professionally. Like strangers who never planned a future in a barn that's no longer for sale.
Like strangers who never planned a future at all.