Chapter 23
Between practice and the drop in I made to Harper’s studio, I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that the first sight I get of her when I turn into the driveway is her upside-down legs floating across the backyard.
I park my Jeep. The strung lights across the backyard allow me to trace the lines of her smooth skin which I find…dirty.
“Did you get in a fight with the grass?”
Harper falls forward, how she might normally come out of a handstand.
But this time she falls flat on her back.
I hop out of my car. “Shit.” I rush to her side, finding her eyes shut, her hair pillowed around her head. “Are you okay?”
Nothing.
“Harper?”
I bend down, freaking out for half a second when laughter bubbles out of her closed mouth. “Gotcha.”
“You’re an asshole.” For a second, I contemplate not helping her up. “That’s not funny.”
Harper lifts both of her hands and I sigh, gripping them with my own and pulling her onto her feet. “It was a little funny.”
“I thought you hit your head.”
“I landed on my back,” she tells me, failing to pick a piece of grass from her hair.
I bend down to do the job for her and immediately pull back. Her usual, sweet scent is different, cut by something else. Not just grass, but something stronger.
“Are you drunk?”
Harper giggles. “A little. It doesn’t take much.” She points at the back porch and I see a bottle of whiskey and a glass on the table.
“I guess not.” The bottle is still pretty full.
“Why did you come home so late?”
I cock an eyebrow at her. “Do I have curfew?”
“No.” Harper shrugs and her voice softens. “I just wanted a drinking buddy.”
Reaching out, I finally rid her hair of that piece of grass. But then I notice another closer to her face. When I grab it, my knuckles brush against Harper’s cheek and the touch draws her eyes closed. Ever so slightly, she turns her face closer to my hand.
“It’s not like you to get drunk on a weeknight,” I say, fighting the urge to open my palm and cup her cheek, but the smell of whisky sobers me up. I let my hand fall to the side. “What’s going on?”
Harper hangs her head forward.
“Harper?”
She takes a step closer to me, leaning her forehead against my chest. I jump slightly, but don’t move away. I ball my fists at my side. “Are you okay?”
Harper takes a deep breath and then steps back, holding out her arms. “Aren’t I always?”
I frown. “Did something happen?”
“You know, I don’t really feel like talking about it.” Harper drops her arms. “Nothing happened. Everything is as it was before. I don’t mean before-before . I mean before, like…this morning. ”
She hiccups.
“Maybe you should go to bed.”
“I hate going to bed alone.” I immediately look away, but my eyes are called back to her when she lifts her arms up, stretching. The sliver of her stomach looks so smooth. “And it’s so lonely. I know Lucas is sleeping. But…I miss Tides. I never thought I’d actually miss him, but I do.”
She sighs and hiccups again before cocking her head to the side. “Do you want to have some fun?”
“Fun?”
“Have you ever seen Dirty Dancing ?”
“A million years ago under duress I imagine.”
Harper smirks and then backs up slowly.
“Harper…”
“It’s kind of like practice.”
“We also kind of suck at practice. But you do land on water there.”
She giggles. “Then we should practice more. We didn’t today. Are you ready?”
“No. Please don’t.”
Harper doesn’t listen. She begins to run and fuck I know this is a bad idea and not only because she’s drunk. So I decide, in a split second, I’ll keep her on the ground. Before she gets close enough I step toward her, circling her waist and pulling her back to me. I have to spin around to slow down and she’s in hysterics as we go round and round, littering the air with her laughter.
Fuck. That laugh might be my favorite sound on earth.
I slow us down enough that we don’t topple over, but keep her back pressed against my chest as she sways, my face tucked into her now messy hair.
“That wasn’t what I was going for.” Harper’s hands clutch my forearms, her nails scratching and sifting through the hair. “But it was fun.”
None of this is what I was going for. But here I am, holding Harper from behind, her tight ass in these little yoga shorts pooling all my body’s blood right to my groin.
I hold my breath because I’m afraid I’ll inhale more of her scent which is so sweet, even with the hint of grass, I swear I can taste it.
Harper can’t see how I lick my lips. I want to taste her—every inch of her.
Enough is enough, Riley .
I can’t let this go on. Especially now when she’s had too much to drink.
I go to drop my arms.
“Wait,” Harper whispers. She clutches me tighter.
I don’t pull back again, but I don’t really hold her either. It’s Harper who’s keeping my arms around her.
“What?” I’m so close to her neck I can hear her swallow.
“Can you…can you just hold me for a minute?” Harper runs her fingers along my arm. She sighs. “It just feels so good.”
“You know what will feel even better?” I whisper.
I can hear her swallow.
“What?”
I pull my hands free and put safe distance between us before she gets an idea of what my body’s idea of good feels like. “A hot shower, a glass of water, and bed.”
Harper spins around. “Riley—”
“If you change your mind and want to talk in the morning, I’m happy to listen.” I pull out my keys from my pocket. “I think you just need a good night’s sleep.”
Harper nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you’re right.” She backs up toward the house. “I’ll…see you in the morning.”
I wait, watching as she picks up the whiskey and glass and heads into the house. And then I wait another minute for the kitchen light to go off.
“Christ,” I mutter as I practically race up the stairs to my apartment. I drop my keys and strip down in just the few steps it takes to get to my bathroom where I turn on the shower, getting in before it’s even warm.
But even the cold water doesn’t melt away the feel of Harper pressed and cradled against me.
I fling my head into the stream of rushing water. I want to scream it out, all the ways she’s infiltrated my brain and made my body betray me. But damn, I’m holding on like hell to all the ways I’m picturing her.
On that damn hoop, legs high and spread, hanging just high enough that all I have to do is dip my head to get a taste of her…
The way her hair pillows around her head when I lay her back on the bed…
I slam my palm into the slick shower wall. But that? I imagine what Harper’s body might sound like as I slam her into it over and over again.
I’m so hard I’m aching . I’m fucking feral to slide into her and it’s torturous because there’s still something about this—even solo—that feels like it’s crossing a line.
But fuck it.
I hiss as soon as I grip my length and begin stroking, every second of every vision making my hand move faster.
But whether it’s my face between her spread legs, or pinning her against the shower wall, or the feel of her toes flexing against my calves as I slide deeper inside her, one thing is the same.
Harper is mine in every single scenario.
Mine for the taking.
Stroke.
Mine for the kissing.
Stroke.
Mine for the fucking.
I’ve got the firmest grip on my dick I can handle, and yet I know it won’t even rival the way she’ll suck me in. I tense, rounding my back as I use everything inside of me to pull out my release.
After I burst all over the shower wall, I’m still wanting her in all the same ways, but in a different way too. I want her closeness, her warmth around me as all the tiniest aftershocks erupt across my body. I want to stuff my face into her neck and paint the skin with my heaving exhales and the sweetest kisses. I want her for the after .
The thought makes my heart tighten, and I wonder, maybe, if, in another place and another time, Harper might also be mine for the loving.
I pull out my phone, opening my message thread with Harper, seeing her last voice note. I’m tempted to play it for the fortieth time since I first opened it this morning. But what difference would it make? I have it memorized.
I’m so sorry for thinking we could pull off the Dirty Dancing move. I get ambitious when I drink. I hope I didn’t hurt you.
The hurt I feel isn’t a pulled back or strained bicep. It’s not even the way I’m finding myself aching for Harper.
No. The pain I feel is that I’ll never let myself have a chance to act on it.
I put my phone down and look over at Lucas who gives the Ketch-Up bottle a big shake before flipping the cap open and squeezing a more than hefty amount on his plate.
“Dude.”
Lucas looks at me, the hot dog that apparently is a vessel for the condiment held in mid-air. A drop hits his plate and he frowns. “What?”
“Nothing,” I laugh. “Carry on.”
I grab the serving dish from the table and head back to the grill to load burgers. “We have more buns?”
“In the kitchen.” Harper balances a large bowl of salad everyone will just push around their plate and not really eat. She’s got a bag of chips stuffed under her arm and a packet of napkins stuck into the back pocket of her jean shorts I try hard not to stare at.
I take the chips and bowl, but leave the napkins.
“I’ll get them.”
I place the stuff on the table. Taking the steps up to the back porch by two, I fly into the kitchen, my eyes wanting to scan the countertops but settle instead on the person in the entry.
“Oh. Riley.”
How many times has this woman said my name this way, like she’s acting surprised to see me and yet always have a plate of French toast ready for me to eat when I’d come to pick Nate up for school. There’d always be a blow-up mattress for me to sleep on when I didn’t want to go home at night.
Claire sets the pan on the counter along with a small bag. “Strawberry short-cake.”
How many times did Nate and I battle over who got to scrape the left-over whipped cream from the bowl after Claire had assembled the cake? How many times did she laugh and roll her eyes at us before handing us plates, each one loaded with an extra dollop of cream?
“H-hi.” I stutter.
How many times did this woman look at me—treat me—no differently than her own son?
Claire smiles, which tells me she’s doing it now. She’s opening her arms and greeting me like I’m Nate, like she’s never been more grateful to see me in her life.
Even after…everything.
“I’m happy you came home,” Claire whispers. She’s given me hundreds of hugs over the course of my life. This one, it feels different. There’s an extra squeeze, a deep breath, and when I hug her back, Claire trembles.
I don’t have the heart to pull away. I wait for her to and it’s not lost on me how this hug lasts longer than any other she’s ever given me in my life.
Claire pulls away, wiping her eyes and I don’t know how, after overcoming the guilt to come home to Nate’s wife and son, I’m choking on it when it comes to his mother.
“I’m sorry.” I hang my head.
There is so much to be sorry for.
The accident.
The way I acted at the funeral, ignoring her.
The fact I never was brave enough to call, to visit, even now months later, to show respect to the woman who had no obligation to mother me as a child and continues to do so as a man.
“You’re here now,” Claire tells me, tucking her shoulder-length, brown hair behind her ear. “I always said you do things on your own time. Are you okay?”
She looks down at my left hand, and I swear, moms always know the truth. They know when you’re lying through your teeth about who toilet-papered the house down the street, or that you’re full of shit when you tell them you’re spending the night at a friend’s house and that friend told his parents he’s sleeping at yours.
The way Claire reaches for my hand and examines my limp finger tells me she already knows the answer.
“I’m better.” I clear my throat and look up, wiping at my face with my free hand. “I’m sorry I haven’t called or come by.”
“I’m glad you’re better ,” Claire squeezes my hand. “For Lucas. Nate would’ve wanted you to be better for him than worry about me.”
You gotta take care of my family, Riley .
“I’m trying,” I whisper.
“Riley.” Claire’s voice is so soft. “I know you are. I am. We all are. All we can do is try our best.”
I nod and Claire squeezes my hand once more before she lets go.
“Put the cream and strawberries in the fridge, will you? I’ll mix everything up later.” She motions at the bag on the counter. “Did Lucas eat yet?”
“About a vat of ketch-up.”
Claire laughs, moving to the door. “A condiment king. Just like his dad.”
I stand in the kitchen, taking a deep breath before I pull out the container of strawberries and carton of cream from the bag. The chill that hits me when I open the fridge is welcome and I keep my head between the doors for a minute.
“Did you find the buns?”
Stepping back, I close the fridge as Harper walks into the kitchen. I reach over, taking the bag of buns from the counter and toss them at her.
“Are you okay?” She holds the bag to her chest before setting it down on the table. “Riley?”
I shake my head even though I mumble, “Yes.”
Through the window, beyond the vase holding this week’s batch of tulips, I watch Claire make her way across the lawn. She bends to collect the ball for Lucas's tee and takes the bat from Caroline.
In the grief of losing a child, Claire doesn’t miss a beat. She keeps standing after lowering her son into the ground. She plays T-ball with her grandson and prepares of our favorite dessert.
“Riley?”
I run a hand over my face.
“What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong is I don’t want to miss a beat either. I’m tempted in this pocket of quiet between Harper and me with the noise and laughter of life outside to close the gap, to press her into the counter and cup her cheeks and kiss her.
But when I turn to place the empty bag I now hold on the counter, I catch sight of the fridge, at the array of photos, and I’m reminded, dead or not, this is my best friend’s kitchen. This is my best friend’s wife. It’s his dog I’m trying to get back to make his son happy .
I’m not sure I’ll ever get past the fact it’s Nate’s family I’m taking care of. No matter how much and how hard I wish it could be mine.
“Yo, Riley! Let’s toast some buns.”
“I’m fine,” I tell Harper, grabbing the bag.
When I walk past her, she frowns, and then I remember. Harper is a mom—all moms know when you’re bullshitting them. And I care about her in a way I feel bad for icing her out.
I stop and turn around. “We’ll talk about it later, okay?”
“Okay,” Harper says. “Later.”