Chapter 10 #2
"I'm not. I'm just saying I couldn't delete us either. Still have that birthday card you made me. Your old college sweatshirt. The ticket stubs from that terrible movie we walked out of to make out in the parking lot instead." I meet her eyes. "We're both pathetic."
"Speak for yourself."
"You have a playlist you've been updating for six years."
"You have my sweatshirt."
"You wore mine to the overnight."
"That's different."
"How?"
She doesn't answer, closing her laptop with a decisive snap. "I should go. I have what I need for the article."
"Do you?"
"The agricultural data, yes."
"That's not what I'm asking."
She stands, gathering her things with shaky hands. "Professional distance, remember?"
"Right. Because that's working so well." I gesture between us. "You're here. In my office. After last night. Wearing that skirt."
"What's wrong with my skirt?"
"You know exactly what's wrong with that skirt."
She heads for the door, then pauses with her hand on the knob. "For what it's worth, I still have Fernando."
"The plant?"
"The succulent you gave me. Still alive, somehow. Despite my black thumb." She doesn't turn around. "I've managed to keep it alive. Thought you should know."
Then she's gone, leaving me standing in my office with the echo of our playlist in my head and the certainty that professional distance is about as stable as a house of cards in a hurricane.
My phone buzzes.
Harper:
The article shouldn’t take too much longer now. Thank you for the data.
Me:
Thank you for keeping the playlist.
Harper:
That wasn't for you.
Me:
I know. That makes it mean more.
No response, but she doesn't need to. We're both holding onto pieces of us, even when we shouldn't. Even when it hurts.
Especially then.
***
It's eleven PM when I show up at Harper's door with her earring in my pocket and absolutely no good reason for being here.
She answers in sleep shorts and an oversized t-shirt, hair piled on top of her head, glasses perched on her nose. The domestic intimacy of it hits like a punch.
"I was driving by." Total lie.
"At eleven PM?"
"Returning stolen property."
She rolls her eyes but steps aside to let me in. Her house smells like vanilla candles and the Chinese takeout containers on her coffee table. She's been working—laptop open, papers everywhere, my article clearly giving her trouble.
"Having issues with the piece?" I ask, pulling the earring from my pocket.
"Your grammar is atrocious." She takes the earring, our fingers brushing. "Also, you can't describe artificial insemination as 'vigorous yet tender.' That's not appropriate for a family newspaper."
"You asked for details."
"Agricultural details. Not porn dialogue."
I move closer, not being able to help myself. "You think about porn dialogue often?"
"Get out of my house."
But she doesn't move away when I step into her space, doesn't protest when I pick up one of her draft pages.
"'Dr. Wilder's hands demonstrate a confidence that suggests years of practice,'" I read aloud. "That sounds pretty suggestive, Ms. Lane."
She snatches the paper back. "That's about veterinary work."
"Sure it is." I'm close enough now to see her pulse jumping at her throat. "Just like this morning's emails were about farming."
"We agreed on professional distance."
"You agreed. I just didn't argue." I reach up, tucking an escaped strand of hair behind her ear. "Besides, you're standing here in what looks suspiciously like my old shirt."
Her breath hitches. "This is my pajama shirt. In my house. You're the one who showed up uninvited."
"Want me to leave?"
"Yes."
"Liar."
"Prove it."
I should leave. Should maintain the distance she asked for. Instead, I back her against the wall, hands braced on either side of her head. "Your pupils are dilated. Your breathing's shallow. And you keep looking at my mouth."
"Arrogant."
"Accurate."
She fists her hands in my shirt, and for a second I think she's going to push me away. Instead, she pulls me closer. "I hate that you still affect me like this."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm seventeen and desperate for you to touch me."
"Harper—"
"I used to dream about you. After you left." Her confession comes out angry. "For years. I'd wake up reaching for you."
"I know the feeling."
"Do you? Because you had Rebecca. I had nobody."
"That's not true—"
"You know how it went with Bradley. I tried dating again a few years after that. Want to know what they all had in common?" She doesn't wait for my answer. "None of them were you." Her voice drops. "I compared every kiss, every touch, every laugh to you. How pathetic is that?"
"It's not—"
"And now you're here, in my house, looking at me like that, and all I can think about is how much I want you to—"
The door opens. June walks in without knocking, carrying what smells like cookies.
"Harper, I brought stress snacks because I know the article deadline is—OH MY GOD!"
We spring apart, but it's too late. June's seen everything—me pressed against Harper, her hands in my shirt, both of us breathing like we've run a marathon.
"I should go," I say.
"Yes," Harper agrees, voice shaky. "You should."
But her hand catches mine as I pass, squeezing once. A promise or a goodbye, I can't tell.
June's already grinning as I leave. "Harper Lane, you have so much explaining to do!"
I hear Harper groan as I close the door behind me.
Tomorrow. I'll see her tomorrow. And this professional distance thing is officially dead.
Because now I know she's been as haunted by us as I have. And there's no way either of us can pretend otherwise anymore.
***
The next morning, I'm at the clinic by seven, trying to focus on anything except Harper's confession last night. She compared everyone else to me. The knowledge sits in my chest like a live wire.
I'm reviewing patient files when she storms in at ten, looking like she hasn't slept. She's wearing a dress this time—soft and floral, completely inappropriate for a veterinary clinic, completely perfect for driving me insane.
"I can't do this anymore," she announces, slamming the door behind her.
"The article?" I stand, concerned. "Harper, what—"
"The pretending. The professional distance. The acting like I don't want you every second of every day."
Jesus. "Harper—"
"No. Let me finish." She's pacing now, hands gesturing wildly. "June spent three hours last night analyzing why I can't move on. Three hours, Nate. And you know what she concluded? That I'm an idiot who's still in love with you."
My heart stops. "Are you?"