The sun has risen and climbed nearly halfway across the sky when Harper awakens to find herself with only his sheets once more. She knows Austin was there beside her, holding her, even if there’s no longer a body of evidence to confirm it. Slowly, she rises and finds her clothes neatly folded and stacked on the dresser by the bedroom door, sign of his presence, and a note written in his jagged, messy writing. Stay as long as you’d like. Or go. If you stay, we need to talk, it reads, and she slides it into the back pocket of her jeans before she pulls them up to her hips.
Washed in the yellow-white light of day, the kitchen doesn’t look like it did the last time she was in it. Or maybe she didn’t notice the flecks of gold in the granite countertops or the photo of Austin’s mother taped to the side of the refrigerator, because she was too busy looking for answers in green eyes filled with longing. She sighs as her hands brush across the stove, the place where she’d asked him if he wanted her, the place where she welcomed all of this to begin. She can almost feel his presence behind her as she lingers at the stove, remembering that night in the purest of detail, and she leans back, only to find he isn’t there.
Sighing, Harper trawls through Austin’s refrigerator and cabinets, looking for something to make for breakfast. She settles on eggs and toast, and pulls a pan from the cabinet she now knows they’re kept in. She eats alone at the island, in the same seat she sat upon last time, as if it’s her side of the countertop, her place, and loses herself in thoughts of it becoming that way. It’s easy for her to picture her cookie dough beside his Tecate on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, her tea kettle situated on the otherwise barren stovetop, the handmade Damascus steel knives she inherited from her grandfather displayed on their ladder-like stand in the corner. The thought trails with her throughout the day as she showers in his bathroom, uses his shampoo and imagines her toothbrush beside his in the cup on the bathroom counter, and dresses in his clothes, pilfered from the dresser she could share with him. She sees it in the books that line the shelves that hang on the wall opposite the kitchen, the way her copy of Franny and Zooey would fit perfectly beside his copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
As she waits for him to return home, she pulls his Salinger from the shelf and settles onto his sofa, turns the worn pages of it with one hand and with the other, lazily toys with the guitar he left there last night—a custom Martin D-18 bought by Dan and Sly for his twenty-first birthday. Throughout the day, she soaks it all in, and something about being in his clothes, touching his things, walking across his floors and looking out his windows, it feels completely like home.
Liam lived, and still does, despite his absence, in his childhood bedroom for the whole of the time they were together, and it never felt quite as welcoming to Harper. Though they were never an imposition, nor was she treated as one, his parents were always there, which meant treading lightly and staying on guard. When she slept there on weekends, they slept fully clothed and wrapped innocently in each other’s arms, never knowing if Dan would wake Liam for an impromptu rafting trip or if Sly would come in and ask him to take out the garbage. There was always someone milling about, or the threat of someone who could be, and none of the house, save for his room, was Liam’s. Not that Harper needed or wanted a lot of space, but the towels weren’t his, he didn’t buy the groceries, there weren’t touches of him in every inch of the house, and while it was a house, it just wasn’t the same as this.
When Austin’s key turns in the lock hours later, after she’s finished nearly the whole book, she’s reminded of the spare key in the bottom of her purse and she knows she’s not ready to surrender it—to give him up. She gets to her feet, smoothes his t-shirt over her ribs, rakes a hand through her bedhead, and waits to greet him.
“You stayed,” he says when he sees her. The sight of her makes him ache. She stands in the space where the living room becomes the kitchen, his well-worn Calexico shirt, which he knows she can’t possibly know is his favorite, drapes over her and falls to her thighs like a dress. Her hair is in disarray, washed but unstyled, and she wears no makeup, not even the mascara she hardly ever goes without. He wants to tell her she’s beautiful and pull her to him, but he only pockets his keys, then his hands, and walks slowly across the foyer. “I didn’t think you would.”
She crosses fully to him and slips her arms through the space between his sides and bent elbows, wraps them around him, but he is stone. His hands don’t leave his pockets and his back stiffens beneath her touch. She pulls away as she feels it, hangs her head.
“You can’t just do that. I can’t be that for you.”
“I know,” Harper whispers, backs away from him and moves to sink back down on the sofa. He follows her, but stands before her, unwavering, and she can’t bring herself to look at anything but his boots as she starts to cry. “You deserve better,” she admits.
“I may deserve better or worse—I don’t know—but I know I want you. I’ve always wanted you. You, however, can’t say the same.” The words come after a while, quiet and calm, after the tears that slip from her eyes manage to soak directly into his heart. He falls to his knees with a sigh and pulls his fingers through his hair, because he wants so badly to cover Harper’s body with them instead, but he just can’t. She reaches for him, and they’re back to that place from weeks prior where she moved her fingers through his blonde curls and found out what it was like to touch him. He moves against her touch, into it, and then lets himself be hauled up by her arms, lets himself feel her lips against his neck. It’s only momentary, a brief slip in resolve. “You can’t—Harper, stop.”
“Right,” Harper says with a nod, lets her chastened hands fall to her lap. “I should go.”
“Why did you even bother to stay?” The words crash hard against her as she stands and staggers against them, grabs the arm of the sofa as she hinges at the waist beneath their weight. The book falls to the floor, her place lost as it hits the tile, and she can’t look away from where it rests. She stares at it hard as Austin comes up behind her. The sight of it blurs with her tears as he asks, “Why? For one last—one last way to break my heart? Do you have any idea how cruel that is? Do you?”
“No.” The word stops her, so firm and heavy in her ears, and she shakes her head at it disbelievingly as her bottom lip trembles. She fists her hands in his shirt and pulls him so near to her that it’s almost torture. He can feel her heartbeat through his chest. When she looks up at him, it’s with pleading, tear-filled eyes and the only reply he can give to what she’s begging for is, “We can’t, because you can’t—you can’t even get out the words, Harp. And I won’t. I never should have.”
“I can, Aussie. I can.” Harper’s tears fall down her cheeks, drip from her chin, and land where Austin’s chest meets hers. She looks down at the spot where they fall, then up at him once more, and fights to get out a steady, “I can do this.”
“I wish I could believe you. I wish I could let you destroy yourself and me, and not care about the consequences. But look at us, Harp.” He shakes his head solemnly, eyes closed as if he would rather do anything but look at them, at what they’ve done to each other. “This isn’t—it’s been, what, two weeks? And in those two weeks, how much have we hurt each other? How many times has he come between us without even being here? How many times have I made you cry?” She whimpers, but doesn’t offer an answer to any of his questions. “I wish I could touch you, kiss you without wondering whether or not you’re thinking of him, whether or not you’ll push me away or if you’ll cry and why, but I can’t. Because you’re not ready. You’re not ready and I was selfish to think you were, to hope you were. I don’t blame you, though. Please know that. I set myself up for this.”
“That isn’t—”
“Oh, come on. Why else would you have stopped me last night, Harper?”
“It’s just so soon, so fast, and I think that—”
“Is that it, really?” He can feel her shallow breaths against his shirt as he speaks, can feel the vibration of her body against his as she cries, and it’s so hard for him to not lean in and press his mouth to hers, to be everything he wants and she needs. He takes a deep, steadying breath, then levels his stare on hers, and slowly asks, “Can you honestly stand here, look me in the eye, and tell me that’s the only reason? That it has nothing to do with Liam? I don’t think you can. And I know I’m an asshole for saying this, but it’s—it’s got to be me or him, Harp.”
“That isn't fair.”
“It isn't. I know it isn’t,” he agrees, backing away, feeling the end of the conversation drawing near, the end of them, this. With the distance put between their bodies, there’s more of her to look at and it’s too much, so much that he has to look away. With his eyes trained on the door, he admits, “But it also isn't fair for me to love someone who loves someone else. I've done it for years and I'm still doing it now, and I—I just can’t anymore. I can’t—not like this.”
“I was honest with you when I told you I wasn’t over him, but I don’t love him, Austin.”
“Maybe that’s true,” he concedes, his voice thick with emotion, and Harper’s eyes fill with a blaze of hope. It flickers out when he says, “But you also don't love me.”
She doesn’t reply and he can only wait so long for her to tell him he’s right, so with one final glance at the beautifully broken woman before him, he turns and walks up the stairs, down the hall, and bangs his bedroom door closed with an air of finality. He has to go before he gives in, gives up—his resolve slips with each second he looks into her eyes. She will either come after him or she won’t, and as he folds himself onto his bed, he waits to see which it will be. He’s nearly certain he knows the only door that will open will be the one that leaves him behind.
Clare lives in a pale yellow house on the other side of town, which isn’t actually a far distance from Austin’s, but as Harper finds out, feels like it takes an endless journey to reach when it’s 40° and raining and she’s not wearing pants. Between Austin’s front door and her truck parked around back, the thin t-shirt and all of her exposed skin falls victim to the downpour and even with her truck’s heater on full blast, there’s no end to her shivering. Going home would be faster, closer, but she can’t turn up in the state she’s in. Instead, she parks her truck in Clare’s driveway, so thankful to find her car parked there as well, and runs barefoot through the icy rain to the covered porch, trembling as she rings the doorbell and waits.
“Har—what in the fuck? Where are your pants? Get in—come inside.”
Clare ushers her in quickly and immediately grabs two throw blankets from her sofa. She wraps them around Harper’s shoulders, her hands rubbing over Harper’s arms in an effort to speed up the spread of warmth as she looks on with worry lines crisscrossing her forehead. Harper shakes her head erratically, the shiver that overtakes her hindering her ability to do so in a normal capacity, and for a while, they just stand in the entryway, Harper shivering against Clare and getting her cashmere sweater all wet with rainwater and tears.
“Let me get you some dry clothes,” Clare says softly once Harper begins to tremble less. “Stay right here.”
Clare returns with various clothing items, none of them matching, and Harper notices how unlike her it seems, but it’s such a trivial thing right now. She nods in thanks and takes sweatpants and a waffle-knit Henley from the pile, changes right there in the foyer, all modesty disregarded in favor of warmth. When she’s done, she pulls the cuffs of the shirt over her hands and folds her arms across her chest as the shivers lessen, come in slow waves.
“What’s going on?” Clare asks when Harper’s teeth stop chattering.
“Austin—” As she says his name, she feels a shiver flare through her. “We’re—it’s not going to work out. Which you’re probably—I’m sure you’re heartbroken about that.”
“I am, if you are,” Clare tells her, sincerity clear in her tone. “I was only so hard on him the other night because of what he did and how it hurt you—not because I don’t like him. It’s hard not to like a guy like him. Rough around the edges, but with a big heart, and the way he was so—”
“Please don’t—” Harper lets out a long breath and blinks back tears. “I know what kind of a guy he is.”
“How about I make you some tea?” Clare asks, but it sounds more like an apology than an offer, and before Harper can reply, she heads for the kitchen, gesturing for Harper to follow.
Slowly, Harper ambles after her, Clare’s too-long sweatpants causing her to slide more so than walk across the wooden floor. When she reaches the kitchen, Clare motions toward the cozy breakfast nook and Harper wastes no time crawling into the bench seat that spans the length of the bay windows. The sun has already set, but she looks out over what she can see of the spacious deck, which affords expansive views of the valley, mountains, and Grizzly Peak in the light of day.
“So,” Clare starts minutes later as she hands Harper a large mug of chamomile. “Why aren’t things going to work out? And feel free to explain why you showed up here without pants at any point in time, if you’d like.”
“I showed up without pants because my clothes are at Austin’s. Hard to explain, but I waited for him to get home, dressed in his clothes and reading his book, and when he got home he—he ultimatum’d me. Him or Liam. Which makes no sense because—obviously, it makes no sense. But it’s because we—last night we almost had sex. Like, so close it should count. And the only thing that stopped us was me—I couldn’t and I don’t even know why. And he—he thinks it’s because I still have feelings for Liam. Which I guess is a part of it maybe, because I—right before, I thought of him. I wouldn’t be thinking of Liam, if I was ready. And Austin—he explained it so perfectly today and at the time, I couldn’t agree with him, but it’s been two weeks and just—just look at us. We’ve done nothing but fight and kiss and cry and yell and avoid each other. It’s been one giant mindfuck. Even if I want to be with him—and I do, I really do—maybe I’m just not ready yet.”
“Okay,” Clare says, dragging out the word as she processes Harper’s winding explanation. “Okay, so let’s say you aren’t ready. Rather, you don’t have feelings for Liam and you aren’t ready. How do you think you’ll know when you are ready? And not just to sleep with Austin, or anyone. What has to happen for you to feel you’re ready?”
Harper shrugs and wraps both of her hands around her mug, takes a long sip in hopes that Clare will answer her own questions. She doesn’t though, and the questions just sit there between them until Harper says, “I don’t know,” just to break the silence.
“Well, maybe that’s where you start. Maybe you need to figure out how to get some closure.”
“I cremated our fucking relationship’s carcass.” Harper snorts out a bitter laugh before her features are overtaken with solemnity once more. “What more can I do? Tell me and I’ll do it.”
“Maybe it’s time for you to ask Liam.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Harper and Clare pull into the lot behind Barnes Drug and Beauty, and Harper angles her truck in beside Sly’s sedan in one of the two tenant parking spaces. It’s an old habit. The spot was known as hers for the span of her relationship with Liam, and it feels a little strange to her to look up at the familiar brick façade of the building, knowing Liam isn’t within its walls. Harper cuts the engine and stares through the downpour at the spot where her headlights illuminate the brick. Everything looks the same, but everything has changed.
“Are you coming?” Clare asks, poised to pop open the door and dart through the rain. Harper clears her throat and nods resolutely, but still doesn’t move, and Clare thinks they’re about to circle back around to the hour-long do I or d
on’t I showdown Harper had with herself in Clare’s kitchen. But when Clare prompts her with, “Come on,” Harper swings open her door, and the relief is apparent on Clare’s face.
They skirt the dumpsters and rush up the back stairs, Harper just a little slower in Clare’s too-big boots, as the rain pelts them with icy droplets along the way. There’s no awning at the top of the stairs and Harper, out of habit, slides her key into the lock of the metal security door, eager to get them out of the rain. Though she finds that it works, she pauses, remembering, and she locks the door again as she presses the buzzer beside the threshold. They’re getting soaked, despite Clare’s best efforts to cover them with her raised coat, but it isn’t her place to just let herself in anymore and Harper knows it should only take seconds for Sly to arrive and pull open the interior door.
“Harper,” Sly gasps when she comes into view. A warm smile etches itself onto her face and her eyes gleam, despite the darkness. Harper doesn’t look away this time, and the blues looking back at her are unblinking all the while. It happens in a span of seconds, but to Harper, it feels like she’s spent hours stranded in the sea of Sly’s eyes. She’s rescued from the endless waves and dragged to shore when Sly pushes open the security door, quickly grabs her and pulls her out of the rain and into a tight hug, not caring that Harper is dripping all over her expensive pantsuit. With her chin on Harper’s shoulder, she comes face to face with Clare, who is hunched behind Harper in the doorway, the rain still beating against her back.
“Oh, Jesus. Come in, come in,” Sly says hurriedly to Clare, releasing Harper and moving aside.