Chapter 10
Nate
I wake up to an empty bed and the sound of Duke whining at my bedroom door. Harper's gone, but her perfume lingers on my sheets like a ghost of bad decisions we didn't quite make.
There's a note on her pillow.
Had to think - H
Just the letter "H." Not "Harper" like she usually signs, not "Harps" like I call her. Just "H"—like she couldn't decide how to sign off on whatever this was.
Four words that somehow hurt more than the years apart.
Duke pads over, takes one look at me still fully clothed on top of the covers, and gives me his most judgmental German Shepherd stare.
"Don't start," I tell him. "I did the right thing."
He snorts and flops down beside the bed, clearly disagreeing.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Harper's name on the screen makes my chest tight.
Thank you for stopping us last night.
I stare at the message, remembering how she felt pressed against me in my kitchen, her hands in my hair, that little sound she made when I lifted her onto the counter before sanity kicked in.
We'd gone from dinner to desperately grabbing at each other in about thirty seconds flat.
Then my conscience—or maybe it was self-preservation—made me pull back.
"Not like this," I'd said. "Not when you're still deciding if you can forgive me. "
Me:
I regret everything.
Her response is immediate:
Liar.
Me:
Only partly.
The part I regret is stopping. The part I don't regret is seeing that flash of hurt in her eyes when I pulled away, because it meant she wanted this as much as I did.
Three dots appear and disappear on my screen. She's typing and deleting, probably doing that thing where she chews her bottom lip when she's conflicted.
Finally:
I have to finish the article. Already had two extensions. Need to maintain professional distance.
Professional distance. Right. After she spent the night in my arms, after I felt her heart racing against my chest, after she whispered my name in her sleep like a prayer or a curse—I still can't tell which.
Me:
Whatever you need, Harper.
What I don't text: I'll give you all the distance you want, but we both know it's temporary. We've been circling back to each other since I got back to town. A few more days won't kill me.
Duke judges me again.
"What? It's true."
He huffs and walks out, probably to find someone less pathetic to hang out with.
I check the time—7 AM. Harper left sometime before dawn, sneaking out like we'd actually done something worth sneaking away from. But we didn't. We'd just held each other, fully clothed, pretending that was enough.
Professional distance.
I almost laugh. There's nothing professional about the way she still fits perfectly against me. Nothing distant about the way she said my name when she thought I was asleep—soft and broken, like she was trying to forgive me but couldn't quite get there yet.
My phone buzzes again.
Harper:
For what it's worth, last night was...
Three dots. They disappear. Then reappear. Then nothing.
I wait five minutes before typing:
Yeah. It was.
Because sometimes the things you can't say are more honest than words anyway.
***
By noon, I've accomplished exactly nothing except staring at my computer screen and drinking enough coffee to fuel a small aircraft. When Harper's email finally comes through, I nearly knock over cup number five reaching for my mouse.
From: Harper Lane, Features Writer
To: Dr. Nathaniel Wilder, DVM
Subject: Follow-up Questions for Agricultural Innovation Series
Dr. Wilder,
Regarding your methodology for improving livestock fertility rates, could you please elaborate on your systematic approach? The readers would benefit from understanding your process in detail.
Professional regards,
H. Lane
Professional regards. She might as well have signed it "Screw you, Nate."
I crack my knuckles and type back.
From: Dr. Nathaniel Wilder, DVM
To: Harper Lane, Features Writer
Subject: RE: Follow-up Questions for Agricultural Innovation Series
Ms. Lane,
My methodology is quite thorough and hands-on. I believe in taking my time to ensure optimal results. Every situation requires careful attention and a delicate touch, wouldn't you agree?
Happy to demonstrate in person if you need a more... visceral understanding.
Professionally yours,
Dr. Wilder
Her response is almost instant.
From: Harper Lane
To: Dr. Nathaniel Wilder
Subject: RE: RE: Follow-up Questions for Agricultural Innovation Series
Dr. Wilder,
Please elaborate on your insertion techniques for the artificial insemination program. Specific details required.
H. Lane
I nearly choke on my coffee. She knows exactly what she's doing.
From: Dr. Nathaniel Wilder
To: Harper Lane
Subject: RE: RE: RE: Follow-up Questions for Agricultural Innovation Series
Ms. Lane,
I prefer demonstration to explanation. As you know, proper technique requires the right angle, steady hands, and knowing exactly when to apply pressure. Timing is everything—too fast and you risk failure, too slow and the opportunity passes.
Should I continue? Or would you prefer that in-person demonstration?
Still professionally yours,
N. Wilder
P.S. - You left your earring on my nightstand.
I hit send before I can think better of it, then immediately compose a new email.
From: Dr. Nathaniel Wilder
To: Harper Lane
CC: Bill Walker, Editor-in-Chief
Subject: Statistical Data for Agricultural Series
Ms. Lane and Mr. Walker,
I've attached the statistical data for the fertility improvement rates as requested. Please let me know if you need any clarification on the technical aspects.
Best regards,
Dr. Wilder
My phone buzzes thirty seconds later.
Harper:
YOU CC'D BILL?!?!
Me:
On the data email. The other thread is private.
Harper:
After the earring comment?!
Me:
Different email. He can't see that.
Harper:
I nearly had a heart attack.
Me:
Your earring is safe with me.
Harper:
That earring could be anyone's.
Nate:
It's the little gold sun. The one I bought you for our anniversary.
No response for ten minutes. Then:
Keep it. I don't want it back.
The lie is obvious. She wore those earrings specifically because she knew I'd recognize them. Just like she knew exactly what she was doing with those email innuendos.
Me:
I'll hold onto it. For when you stop pretending you don't want to come get it.
Harper:
Professional. Distance.
Me:
Right. That's why you're thinking about last night too.
Harper:
I'm thinking about my article.
Me:
Liar.
Harper:
Only partly.
I smile at her using my own words against me. Professional distance my ass. We're about as capable of maintaining distance as magnets with opposite poles.
But if she needs to pretend for a little while longer while she figures out how to forgive me, I can play along.
Even if it's killing me.
***
By four o'clock, I'm not expecting Harper to actually show up at my clinic, but there she is, marching through my door with a notebook and wearing those damn glasses that make her look like a sexy librarian.
The pencil skirt doesn't help. Neither does the way she's wound her hair up in some complicated twist that I want to pull apart with my fingers.
"I have urgent follow-up questions," she announces, not quite meeting my eyes.
"Urgent?" I lean back in my desk chair, trying not to smile. "What's urgent about artificial insemination techniques?"
"The article deadline is looming." She sits across from me, crosses her legs, and I lose my train of thought for a second. "I need clarification on some of your responses."
"The email responses were pretty clear."
"The innuendo-filled responses that you sent before CC'ing my editor?"
"I CC'd Bill the statistical data. The innuendo was just for you."
She adjusts her glasses, and I'm done for. "Stop looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're remembering last night."
"We didn't do anything last night." I lean forward, elbows on my desk. "That's exactly what I'm remembering. Not doing anything with you is becoming a recurring theme."
Her cheeks flush, but she soldiers on, opening her laptop. "Can we please just work on the article?"
"Sure." I move around the desk to look at her screen, standing close enough that I can smell her shampoo. "What do you need?"
"Space," she mutters, but doesn't move away when I lean over her shoulder to read.
"This data here," she points at the screen, her hand trembling slightly. "The success rates seem high."
"They are high. My methods work."
"Your methods," she repeats, and we both hear the double meaning.
I reach past her to scroll down, my arm brushing hers. She sucks in a breath.
"You're doing this on purpose," she accuses.
"Doing what? Helping you understand livestock management?"
"Standing too close. Smelling too good. Being... you."
"Should I be someone else?"
She spins in her chair to face me, and suddenly we're inches apart. "You should be professional."
"Like you were in those emails?"
"That was—"
"Foreplay disguised as journalism?"
Her laptop starts playing music—Spotify must have auto-started. It's our old shared playlist, the one we made junior year. The familiar songs fill the office, and we both freeze.
"You still have this?" I'm looking at her screen, at the playlist titled "H&N Study Sessions" with our stupid custom cover photo from sophomore year.
"I..." She reaches to close the laptop, but I catch her hand.
"You kept our playlist."
"Don't read into it." But her voice is barely a whisper.
"Harper, you've been listening to our music for years?"
"Not... not regularly. Just sometimes. When I'm writing. Or can't sleep. Or—" She stops herself. "It doesn't mean anything."
"Doesn't it?" I scroll through the playlist on her screen. She's added songs. New ones, from after we broke up. "You added 'Someone You Loved.' That came out three years ago."
Her cheeks burn. "It's a good song."
"It's about losing someone and not being able to move on."
"Your point?"
"You couldn't delete us either." The realization hits hard. "That's why you're so angry. Not just because I left, but because you couldn't let go any more than I could."
"Don't psychoanalyze me."