Chapter 2 #2
Harper stands on the porch, windblown hair, sunglasses perched on her head, holding a cardboard coffee carrier in one hand and a canvas tote with "World's Okayest Sister" doodled across it in the other. Her raised eyebrow says she's already caught up on every detail of my life.
"Caffeine," she announces, striding in without waiting for an invitation. "And moral support. You look like someone who moved his entire life by himself."
I roll my eyes. "That’s because I did."
She hands me one of the coffees, all smirk and energy. Emma barrels into the hall, skipping. "Aunt Harper! The cupcake lady came to visit and she gave Daddy frosting and we ate five cupcakes!"
Harper bites back a grin. "Frosting, huh?" She shoots me a look—amusement and assessment. "You met your neighbor then?"
I keep my tone casual. "June? Yeah. She brought cupcakes." And destroyed my sanity, but I don't say that. "It was nice of her."
Harper snorts. "Nice. That's what we're calling it? That the word for the way you looked at her at my wedding too?"
I glare, feeling heat crawl up my neck. "Harper—"
She doesn't let up. "I saw it then. And trust me, I see it now.
You may have your brooding thing locked down, but June's not blind.
" She settles onto the arm of my old sofa, eyes cutting through me.
"Don't think I haven't noticed over the years.
You two could barely be in the same room without weird tension. "
I shake my head. "You're reading into it."
"No, I'm observing facts. And just so you know, if you do your emotionally unavailable thing and mess up her heart, I'll personally kick your ass."
Emma's on the floor now, orchestrating a tea party for herself, Harper, and Mr. Fluffkins. The serious note in Harper's voice lingers, heavier than I want to admit.
"I'm not planning anything." My voice is rough, defensive. "Emma's my focus. I just moved back. I'm not—"
"Noted." Harper softens, her gaze steady. "But June's special. She's been through more than anyone sees. Her dad left, she built The Sweet Spot herself. That bakery is her whole heart. She's loyal, messy, and the best person I know."
She leans in, her warning clear. "Don't mess with her unless you're actually serious."
Pressure builds in my chest—Harper's words, Emma's face, June's laugh lingering just under my skin.
"I'm not looking for anything," I say quietly. "Emma needs stability, not me dragging anyone into my disaster. Especially not June."
Harper smiles, something warm and sad beneath it. "Just—don't pretend you're not already gone. The way I’ve seen you look at her, Adam, it's not nothing."
She stands, brushing Emma's hair back and gathering her coffee. "June's special. Don't forget that."
Before I can reply—before I can even sort out what to say—she's gone.
The door clicks shut and I'm left with Harper's warning echoing off the new walls, my heart a tangled mess of things I refuse to admit.
I spend the next few hours in motion, chasing exhaustion and trying to outrun my own thoughts. Nothing centers me quite like physical labor—the repetition, the ache in my arms, the click and slide of socket wrenches, the satisfaction of turning the wreckage into something resembling order.
Emma flits from one cardboard kingdom to the next, her bright chatter an anchor.
We move her small white bed—a survivor of two moves and one overenthusiastic sticker phase—into the sunniest spot, right next to the window she claimed for her reading nook.
When I finish tightening the bolts, she sits cross-legged on the mattress, surrounded by markers, humming and drawing a parade of unicorns across a blank page.
I try not to think about Harper's warning, but my mind keeps circling back anyway, snagging on every look, every laugh, every near-touch with June. My focus slips as I haul a box into the living room, and suddenly I'm standing at the window, gaze fixed on the house next door.
I catch movement. June’s getting back from the bakery, a cardboard box of pastries balanced on one hip. Her wavy blonde bob is tousled, the kind of artful mess that happens after a long shift, a few unruly strands escaping behind one ear.
Emma's shouts pull me back just as she scampers outside, arms flailing for balance. I drop what I'm doing and watch as she dances across our patch of grass, playing with a plastic wind spinner.
June emerges again, humming quietly as she sweeps her front porch. She looks up and spots Emma waving with delight—unselfconscious, nothing held back.
She waves back, casual and warm, and I feel something in my chest tighten and expand at the same time. The proximity is almost startling—her porch is a stone's throw from our kitchen, driveway bumping right against ours, no fences or hedges to soften the edges between us.
I linger at the window, pulse in my throat. I tell myself it's nothing, just noticing a neighbor. But it isn't. It's something more, something raw and hungry that reminds me how long it's been since someone's presence felt like home, like a possibility instead of a risk.
Every laugh, every wave, every small act of brightness next door makes me wonder how I'm supposed to focus on routine and stability with a distraction like that so close.
Emma skips back inside, hair wild, cheeks flushed. "Daddy, did you see June wave? She's so nice!"
I nod, trying for easy indifference. "Yeah, kiddo. June is lovely."
I say it like it's just a fact—nothing charged, nothing dangerous. But I know Emma hears the difference. Maybe I do, too.