In the back of the shop, Hilary returns her cleaver to her knife block, dropping it in with a heavy thud. At the sound, Harper heaves out a sigh and her taut body slumps back against the stainless steel table, her palms catching her slackening body against it as she comes undone.
“Is he gone?” she asks, distress clear in her tear-strangled voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Now, you’ve got some explaining to do,” Hilary says tersely, eyeing Harper with enough seriousness in her glance to unsettle her even more so than she already is. “What’s going on?”
“It’s complicated,” Harper laments with another sigh as she scrubs her hands over her eyes, smearing her makeup beyond repair. Mascara and eyeliner mix with the dampness of lingering tears and leave black smudges all around her reddened eyes, but she doesn’t care or notice. Hilary does, however, and licks her thumb in an attempt to erase the marks from her daughter’s skin, but Harper pushes her hands away. “Mom, stop. I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Hilary opposes, nodding toward the knife block beside her. “When you ask me for a favor that includes the words, Mom, I need you to go out there with a big knife and tell Austin I’m not here, that’s the exact opposite of fine.”
“I don’t even know how to explain it.”
“Start with ‘Mom, I needed you to threaten the life of a man because…’ and go from there.”
After Harper explains everything as best she can and is all cried out, Hilary tells her, “Harp, maybe—and just hear me out here—but maybe it’s time to, you know, work on you a little bit. Be alone for a while. You were with Liam for so long and you haven’t given yourself the proper time to heal. I know you’re a little better than you were before, but three months isn’t near enough time to fully recover from ten years. I think you need to figure you out, who you are without someone else, before you do any more damage to yourself—or to Austin.” Harper doesn’t say anything, only nods slowly, absorbing the advice and storing it away for later, when she might be able to process it. “And this is what I meant, by the way, when I said to be careful about Austin. Not because of—I didn’t really give a fuck about the arrests. I mean, everyone knows Jimmy Hayward’s a piece of shit. I meant because he loves you and I didn’t want to see either of you hurt, honey—more hurt than you already are.”
“You knew?”
“You didn’t?” Harper’s mouth falls open, searching for words, but before she can answer, her phone rings sharply from where it sits in her purse in the office—A State of Texas by the Old 97s cuts cleanly through the silence from the other room. Without asking her to, Hilary goes after it and answers the call. She cups her hand over the receiver as she whispers, “I can’t knife him over the phone,” before moving her hand away and saying, “Austin, just don’t, okay? Give her some time.” When she hangs it up, she gives Harper a shrug and tosses her phone into the trashcan beside her desk.
“Bit extreme, maybe?” Harper asks, fishing out the phone from where it’s fallen beneath an array of envelopes and stacks of used takeaway coffee cups from the front of the shop.
“This from the girl who asked me to stab a guy,” Hilary retorts. “Now, go get yourself a manicure or read a book or do yoga or some shit. I mean it.”
“I’m not really in the mood for—”
“I don’t care. Go.” Hilary hugs Harper firmly and as she kisses her cheek, she tells her, “You’ll thank me later.”
CHAPTER NINE
Harper has never been on the frilly, pink end of feminine—a butchery apprenticeship since she was thirteen, a penchant for running, rafting, skiing, and getting sweaty—so she has trouble reconciling the pale mauve polish that’s lacquered onto her short fingernails by a nice man named Jung-Su. But Clare says it looks pretty with her skin tone and Harper knows that if anyone knows pretty, it’s Clare Carter. Though she’s Kevin’s twin, they’re fraternal, and the genetics were distributed as unfairly as possible, weighing heavily in Clare’s favor. As odd and awkward as Kevin is, Clare is normal and composed. She’s long legs and blonde hair, blue eyes and white teeth, tanned skin and a tiny waist, brilliant and kind, too. Clare is a classical kind of perfect, something which Harper has always admired, but never envied. But Harper is trying to find herself and she wonders if maybe more Clare-like is what she’s supposed to be, which is what has led her to accompany Clare to the Blue Giraffe Spa in the middle of a Thursday afternoon.
“You haven’t touched your wine,” Clare notes, blowing on her rose-colored polish before picking up her own glass and drinking down a sip or two. “Not a fan?”
“Wet nails,” Harper says dully, as if it isn’t obvious that Jung-Su has just finished polishing them. She may not get them often, but this isn’t her first manicure, and she knows better than to attempt to do anything with freshly polished nails. “I don’t want to mess them up.”
“You don’t use your nails to pick up stemware,” Clare laughs softly, giving Harper’s glass an encouraging nudge in her direction. Harper smiles at Clare wryly, grabs the glass, and pointedly takes a sip. She’s rewarded with a quiet clap and a proud, “There you go, champ,” from Clare. “That color looks really good on you, by the way. Good job on that, too. All-around winner.”
“You picked it,” Harper reminds her humbly.
Before Harper can shrug, Clare continues, “It’s on the bottom of the bottle.”
“Blushing Bride,” Harper reads off the label, and then scoffs, “Only not. Ever. At all.”
“Ah-ah-ah,” Clare objects, wagging one perfectly manicured finger at her. “You’re not supposed to be thinking about your love life—either love life.” Clare looks thoughtful for a moment before she reaches for the bottle of wine that sits between their manicure stations and fills Harper’s glass to the brim. “What? Your mother made me promise to distract you at all costs.”
“I don’t think she meant to—”
“Drink up,” Clare instructs, ignoring Harper’s protestation as she pours herself another glass. “I mean, come on, if you don’t get drunk, how am I ever going to get you to tell me what happened?”
“Isn’t that the direct opposite of distracting me at all costs?” Harper asks, but takes a sip anyway. “I’m pretty sure it is.”
“Yes, but we’re friends now, right? Friends tell each other things.” Clare nods knowingly and tops off Harper’s glass—the progress her small sip made vanishes instantly. “And, I mean, I can’t help you, if I don’t know what’s wrong. And I’m supposed to be helping you, helping you figure out who you are and what you want and how to be happy. I don’t want to, like, talk about ponies, if ponies somehow remind you of Li—Am I allowed to say his name?” Harper nods with an amused smirk, liking the way Clare talks and thinks. “If ponies remind you of Liam.”
“Ponies don’t remind me of Liam.”
“You missed the point,” Clare says disappointedly, tapping her fingernails against each other to check their dryness. Dry enough, she reaches into her purse, where it sits beside her equally well-manicured feet, and pulls out a wad of cash. She leaves half on each manicure station before beckoning Harper to follow her. Once they’re standing outside of the spa, their freshly lacquered nails shining in the afternoon sun, Clare turns to Harper and says, “Look, I’m not asking out of morbid curiosity or anything. I really do—I had fun with you today and I want to be friends. Like, really be friends, not just because your mom forced you to call me. I mean, I always knew you were a cool chick, but we never, you know—you always had the boys. And you don’t now. Not that you need reminding.”
“Alright. And thanks,” Harper says gently, squinting down Water Street toward Main, briefly weighing her options. “To Rhodes?”
“To Rhodes.”
The main bar at Rhodes is closed for a private party, but the back pat
io is always open to the girlfriend of the owner, even if it’s normally closed in the wintertime. That’s where Harper and Clare sit, shivering beneath a few inefficient space heaters, as they drink beer after beer at Clare’s urging, “It’ll help you stay warm!” Dylan, not having a bar to tend, joins them and keeps the beers coming, until both girls are giggly and slurring their words just a tad, at which point he cuts them off and goes to fetch them a pizza from Martolli’s.
“Thank you, baby!” Clare calls after Dylan, blatantly ogling him as he walks off. Harper notices this—she really can’t not notice it with the way Clare is making obscene mmm-ing sounds—and reflexively groans in distaste. At the sound, Clare’s attention returns to Harper, to whom she offers a sheepish, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. I’m just bitter.”
“Don’t be bitter. You’re beautiful.” Clare grants an mmm pointed solely in her direction, which Harper waves off glumly. “If you don’t believe me, we can always ask Austin. Oh, wait, he’d probably just lie about—”
“Clare—”
Before Harper ventured into drunken territory, she gave Clare and Dylan a basic rundown of the events that transpired over the last three months. Liam leaving, her downward spiral, reconnecting with Austin, connecting with Austin in a different way, her desires conflicting with her instincts, giving in and then giving up—the whole mess of it. Dylan, with all of his gentlemanly knowledge, determined and told Harper that Austin was likely terrified and emotional, that he probably meant well, while Clare, with her woman’s intuition, wondered aloud what else Austin had lied to her about and why all men are scum—present company excluded. Harper sided with Clare, of course.
“You need to call him out on his shit,” Clare instructs, not for the first time, but now Dylan couldn’t chime in with a rebuttal. “I mean it.”
“One manicure does not a found woman make… or something like that,” Harper laments. “I can’t talk to him yet.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Shouldn’t.”
“If you’re doing it for you, to help you in some way, then it’s still a Harper-centric event on the road to attaining independent Harper-dom.” Clare nods convincingly and queues up Austin’s number on her phone. “Just fucking yell at him. It’ll make you feel better. Trust me. I’m getting a goddamn Masters in Mental Health Counseling. And, you know, if I’m wrong and that doesn’t work, we can send Dylan to kick his ass. Because, mmm-muscles.” She sets the phone down on the table between them and pushes it slowly toward Harper. “It’s your call—literally.”
Harper bites her lower lip contemplatively as she reaches for the phone, and before she can think about it any further, Clare leans over and dials the call, deciding for her. Harper looks at Clare wide-eyed, horrified, but presses the phone to her ear when it starts ringing—decision officially made.
“Clare?”
“No,” Harper says quietly, remaining oddly composed for being drunk and upset. “It’s me.”
“Harper.” Her name falls from Austin’s mouth like it’s the answer to all of his prayers, and in a way, it is. “How—how are you? I’ve been so worried about you.”
“I’ve been better,” she answers steadily, as if the conversation were going in a civil direction. It isn’t, and Clare leans back in her chair and silently applauds as Harper continues, “How about you? Talk to Liam lately?”
“You’re still angry,” Austin notes solemnly. “Harper, I’m sorry. I don’t know how I can prove it to you, but I really am very—”
“You’re goddamn right I’m angry. And disappointed. And betrayed. What else have you lied to me about, Austin?” she throws at him over his apology, looking to Clare, who gives her a nod and an encouraging thumbs-up. “I mean, if you lied about loving me for a whole fucking decade, how can I trust that anything you say is true? I thought you were my friend and all along you just—”
“I never lied to you about anything—ever.”
“Except about Liam?”
“Other than Liam.”
“Well, don’t you think that’s a big fucking lie to tell?”
“Harper, the things I said—the things you heard me say—”
“They’re things I should have said to him—not you. If you wanted to yell at him about hurting you, fine. But you should have left me out of it.”
“Is that what this is about?” Austin asks, sounding weary. “You’re mad because I got to yell at him and you didn’t?”
“I’m mad because you lied to me and because—” Harper hangs up the phone without finishing, losing her train of thought and wanting to say things like, I didn’t mean it, and I’m not mad, and I need you, at the end of the sentence. Slowly, she puts the phone down and slides it back across the table to Clare, who looks at her as if she’s trying to read a foreign language.
“I’m sorry, Harp,” Clare says softly, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze.
“It’s okay. I—I just feel bad for—I don’t want to hurt him. Even if he hurt me, I—” Harper takes in a giant breath and lets out an equally large sigh as she looks toward the small, abandoned patio bar. “Just help me find the vodka before Dilly gets back.”
***
The main bar reopens at a quarter to ten and is pretty well packed by a quarter after. Austin, however, barely notices the crowd as he walks straight across the space, up to where Dylan stands drying glasses behind the bar, and asks, “Where is she?”
“Well, hello to you, too, Hayward.” Dylan grins widely at him. “What can I get ya?”
“Come on, man. You can’t possibly hate me this much.”
“I don’t hate you.” Dylan shakes his head and picks up another glass, runs his rag around the rim. “All I said was hello. Jesus Christ, Hayward. So dramatic.” Dylan puts down the glass and grabs Austin’s standard order from the cooler behind him, pops off the top and sets it on the bar between them. Austin quirks a brow at the bottle and Dylan raises both of his in reply. “What? You don’t want a drink? On the house, man. Because that’s what I do for people I don’t hate.” Dylan leans forward and his voice drops to a low whisper as he says, “And for people who I’ve been forbidden by beautiful women to disclose their location to.”
“Dylan, please, I need to see her.”
Austin’s tough façade fades and is replaced with a pleading glance, which cracks Dylan open. He’s known Austin for quite some time and not once has he ever witnessed the vulnerability Austin is showing now, and Dylan knows he was right about Austin’s intentions.
“I defended you, you know,” Dylan tells him, taking the beer from where it sits and swallowing down a gulp. “I get you, man. I’ve been you.” Austin says nothing, only hangs his head. He’s heard the story before, seen the scars that mirror his own, and he knows where this is going. “My dad used to beat the crap out of me and it fucked up a lot between me and Clare for a really long time. I did a lot of dumb shit to that girl, thinking I was doing right by her, because what other example did I have to follow? I wasn’t any good to her.” Austin won’t look at Dylan, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t listening. He nods his head slowly, solemnly, and Dylan reaches across the bar to clap a heavy hand on Austin’s shoulder. “Look, I don’t want to lecture you, man. You don’t need it, I know. But it took me a lot of mistakes and years of therapy to learn that at some point, you have to stop being your past and start being all the things your past doesn’t want you to be. Otherwise, you’ll end up a sad and lonely bastard, just like him.”
“I know I fucked up, man,” Austin sighs, fisting a hand in his disheveled hair. “I knew it the second it happened.”
“Why’d you do it, then?”
“Because I love her,” Austin says, finally meeting Dylan’s eyes as raw emotion nearly overtakes his ability to speak. “I did it because I’m an idiot and I fucking love her.”
“Right answer.” Dylan hooks a thumb toward the staircase at the opposite end of the bar. “Third door on the left. Go get ‘er.�
��
“Thank you,” he sighs, relieved, as he bolts for the staircase, nearly knocking over a handful of stools and patrons in the process. He apologizes hastily, but doesn’t stop moving. When he reaches the stairs, he shouts, “Thank you so much,” across the bar to Dylan, who only smiles in return as Austin takes the steps two at a time.
The third door on the left is closed, but light and shadows stream out from beneath the door, and he thinks that he can almost tell Harper just by her projected, skewed shape, but it’s only when he hears her laugh that he is sure he’s found her. Without knocking, he turns the handle and presses the door open, the hinge creaking loudly enough to announce his presence.
“What the fuck, Austin?” Clare asks sharply, getting to her feet from where she sits on Dylan’s bed and puts her five-foot, ten-inch frame in his away. “Get out.”
“Clare, I just need to talk to—” Austin shifts to glance around Clare, locking his eyes with Harper’s. She’s seated on a trunk at the foot of the bed, her knees held tight to her chest as she sways softly from side to side. “I just need to talk to you, Harp. Let me explain.”
“Did you somehow not understand from your phone call earlier that she, I don’t know, doesn’t want to talk to you?”
“Clare, you don’t even fucking know what—”