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  “You have to want this for it to work.”

  “Stop with the therapy bullshit. I can’t take any more.” Her hands grip her head, and she buries her face in her knees.

  “That’s me telling you the truth. If you don’t want this for you, it will never work. Wanting it is half the battle.”

  “I just want to be left alone,” she says wearily.

  I let out a sigh and run my hand through my hair. One of the worst feelings is watching a patient give up on themselves and knowing there’s nothing you can do about it. I take a card out of my pocket and lay it on the chair beside her.

  “That’s my card. My personal cell number is on the back. Call me day or night, even if you just need to yell at someone or if you run out of gum.”

  She huffs out a small laugh and wipes at a tear. “Thanks.”

  I turn to leave, but she stops me before I get to the door.

  “Luke?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you seen her?” she asks, and her voice is laced with pain and regret.

  I shake my head, wishing I had something to tell her, something that could put her mind at ease when it comes to her daughter, but she’d hate to know my departing memory of Harper.

  “I thought maybe there was something between you two. I swear you could cut the tension with a knife some days in our sessions.”

  “We were, uh, friends,” I tell her, but the word tastes bitter on my tongue. Friends don’t treat each other like I treated Harper. “But I haven’t seen her since our last session.” It’s a lie, but I can’t tell her the truth. It’s bad enough I have to live with that. She doesn’t need to know.

  “That’s too bad,” Sadie says, hugging her knees. “She could really use a good guy like you.”

  I shake my head and feel like crawling into a hole. “I’m not as good as you think I am.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve seen a lot of good qualities in you, and just because I’m a junkie doesn’t mean I’m a bad judge of character.”

  I give her a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes and wish her words were true.

  “Why are you still willing to help me? You must think I’m the worst mother ever,” she says, looking out the window.

  “We all fall down,” I tell her, turning for the door but pausing before I leave. “It's how we get back up that matters.”

  §

  Walking through the door of my apartment, I pass the table by the window and toss my keys into the bowl. The long black curtains taunt me. I thought they’d be a good barrier to keep me from using the window...to keep me from thinking about Harper. I thought they’d help me forget about the blurred lines and the way my heart was cracking open after being locked up so tight for so long. They were meant to keep me from hurting her any more than I already had. But what they’ve become over the past month is a constant reminder. They remind me of what I had allowed myself to become. They remind me of the pain I caused Harper.

  My fingers toy with the edge, wanting to pull it back, but the urge to fuck someone in front of the window is gone. The rush of adrenaline I used to feel is absent. The need to relieve the stress of my day is nonexistent. I’d like to credit Caren with getting me to this point, but the truth is, the desire left me the night I fucked someone in this window with the intention of Harper watching. I fucked someone I didn’t give two shits about, hoping Harper would see me for what I am and that she would run.

  I pull the curtain back enough so that I can see across the way to her building. Like the couple of times before, when I’ve allowed myself to look, the window that I’m assuming belongs to Harper is dark. Every window in the building is dark. Unlike the first night I looked this direction, knowing she was there, I feel nothing...no pull. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve pushed her away and successfully locked her out or if it’s because she’s literally gone. But I do know the emptiness I’ve felt since the day I walked away from her, leaving her on that bench, makes my chest ache. This new emptiness is overshadowing any residual pain from my past. The wound is still sticky with freshly shed blood. She’s left a mark, and as much as I want to forget her, I can’t.

  Harper

  “Hello,” I call out to whoever just came in the door. I finish putting two boxes of hangers back in the storage room and walk out to the main part of the store to see who’s there.

  “Hello,” a manly voice replies, startling me.

  “Oh, hi.” I’m sure the surprised smile on my face says it all. In the month I’ve worked here, I’ve yet to see a man in the store. Even the men who come with their wives always wait on the bench out front. The boutique is small and filled with floral, lace, and all things feminine. Definitely not accommodating to the male population. We have a lot of skirts and blouses and vintage jewelry—stuff that would send most guys running for the hills, unless they’re a cross-dresser, of course.

  “Can I help you find anything?” I ask. I’m not the fashionista that Mia is, but I’ve learned my way around the store well enough to run the place when Mrs. Jackson is away. It’s been a good way for me to make an extra hundred dollars a week. Plus, it keeps me busy, giving me less time to sit around and think too much.

  I finally get a good look at the man, and he’s definitely not a cross-dresser. His crisp white shirt is tucked neatly into a pair of equally crisp slacks. His belt matches his shoes, and his hair is intentionally messy. It’s the kind smile on his face that forces one onto my own. I like the way his eyes twinkle. And the blush on his cheeks makes him even more endearing. “I’m looking for something for my mother. This is her favorite store, and her birthday is next week. But now that I’m here, I’m kinda overwhelmed.”

  He presses his palms together and rests his chin on his fingertips as he looks around the store, and I feel the need to help make this not so torturous for him, especially because he’s doing such a nice thing by coming here for his mother. Most guys would take the easy road and send flowers or buy a gift card.

  “Well, what’s your mother’s name?” I ask, walking behind the counter. Mrs. Jackson keeps a clever little index box with the names of her regulars. It has sizes, color preferences, and even wish lists.

  “Chelsea Bertolini.”

  I flip through the file until I reach the B’s and find her card. She’s a size six. Her favorite colors are navy blue and coral, and conveniently enough, she just listed two new items on her wish list: a beautiful cream-colored lace blouse that’s in the window and a gorgeous statement necklace I remember seeing on the mannequin by the register.

  I walk up to the front and take the blouse from the window. “Your mother has this on her wish list.”

  His eyes light up and he smiles. “That’s perfect.”

  “Let me go see if we have her size in the back,” I tell him, slipping behind the curtain that leads to the storage room. This is a newer arrival, and we still have a few tucked away. Mrs. Jackson likes to keep the small boutique as uncluttered as possible. “She also listed the necklace that’s on the mannequin by the register,” I call out, looking through the rack of blouses for one in her size. “But don’t think I’m trying to be a pushy sales girl.” I laugh and make my way back up to the register with the blouse in hand.

  “You’re anything but pushy,” he says, leaning over on the antique wooden dresser that doubles as the counter. “I’ll take the necklace too.”

  “Great. Can I wrap them for you?”

  “Would you?” he asks with the most adorable grateful expression on his face. “I’m the worst wrapper ever.”

  “Gift sacks are your friend,” I tease, pulling out a few sheets of tissue paper and two boxes. A few minutes later, there are two neatly wrapped packages with pretty blue bows.

  “You’ve been a lifesaver,” he says, taking the boxes. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. I would say I hope she likes the gifts, but I think that’s pretty much guaranteed.” I smile at him, and he quirks an eyebrow at me.

  I
expect him to leave now that his gift buying is complete, but he lingers by the counter a few extra seconds. “I’m Anton,” he says, shifting both boxes to one hand and offering me the other.

  “Harper,” I tell him, shaking his hand.

  “It was really nice meeting you, Harper.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you again sometime.”

  I nod and smile, watching him walk backwards toward the door. “I’m here every Tuesday and Thursday evening.” The words are out of my mouth before I even have a chance to think about them.

  His smile grows, and he nods his head before turning and walking out of the store.

  I’m not sure what that was, but he’s cute, and I think he was flirting with me...and I think I liked it.

  §

  “Harper,” Mr. Chan greets as I walk in the door.

  “Hi, Mr. Chan.” I smile, happy to see him.

  “You look good. I think you eat better.”

  I laugh at him, loving the way he says whatever the hell he’s thinking. “Are you trying to say I’m fat?”

  “No.” His brow furrows, and his expression grows serious. “Healthy. Not so pale. Not so skinny.”

  “Thanks, I guess.” I look down at myself, feeling a little self-conscious. I have noticed that my clothes fit a little different. Not too tight, just filled out a little more. And he’s right. I have been eating better. Having Layla and Connor around every evening forces me to eat dinner, and that doesn’t usually consist of Ben & Jerry’s or Top Ramen.

  “Look happy, too.”

  “I am...I think.” The funny thing is that I haven’t thought much about it lately. In the month or so since I moved out of the apartment upstairs, my life has been different, busier, not as lonely, and I haven’t had a lot of time to think about the bad stuff. Not visiting my mother has helped. I still think about her, and I hope she’s doing well, but it feels good to not be weighed down with the guilt she’s always made me feel. Not seeing Luke has also helped, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think about him either. I do. I think about him daily, sometimes hourly. I wonder what he’s doing, how he’s doing. I wonder if he thinks about me or if I’m just a bad memory. I wonder if I’ll ever see him again, and if I do, what will that be like? Does he hate me? I hope not.

  “Hot sour soup. Extra wontons,” Mr. Chan says, sliding the bowl in front of me. I reach into my bag to get my wallet out, but he stops me. “On the house.”

  “I’m going to stop coming in here if you won’t let me pay.”

  “You still come here,” he says with confidence. “Mr. Chan old. He the boss.”

  I try to hide my smile, shaking my head at the old man. “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  I sit at the table closest to the window, and I watch people pass by as I eat my soup, occasionally making small talk with Mr. Chan. When I’m finished, I go behind the counter and wash a few dishes and sweep the kitchen.

  Mr. Chan tries to argue about my help, but I tell him, “Harper young. She can work.”

  He chuckles, and I continue sweeping the floor.

  §

  “Rooftop barbeque at our apartment Friday night,” Mia says as she and I are shelving books. “I already told Layla, but just in case she forgets to mention it.”

  “That sounds fun. Do you want me to bring anything?”

  “Just yourself and a friend, if you want.” She says that last line like it’s part of a conspiracy.

  “Nope. No plus-ones for me.”

  She huffs and grabs another stack of books. “Layla told me you met a guy at the shop.”

  “Is this why you insisted on coming up here to help shelve books?” I ask, rolling my eyes. I knew there had to be an ulterior motive because Mia hates the stacks. In her words, they’re dusty and smelly. She prefers doing the desk work. Layla likes the computer work. And I like shelving books. It’s why we work so well together. “He was buying a gift for his mother,” I finally tell her, remembering the well-dressed, polite guy who was in the boutique Tuesday night.

  “And he was cute.”

  I feel my cheeks heat up a little. “Maybe.”

  “Has he been back?” she asks, prying for more information.

  “No, but that was only two days ago. I haven’t worked again since then.” I feel a spark of hope flutter in my stomach, and I frown at myself. Do I want him to come back? I don’t think I’d hate it if he did.

  “So, maybe tonight?”

  “I doubt it, Mia.” But I hope so. I think.

  “What about Wyatt?” she asks. “Is he still in the friend zone?”

  “Not even in the friend zone,” I tell her. I don’t elaborate because it’s useless to dig up old bones. Plus, I don’t know what he’s told Kyle, so I just leave it at that.

  “So, Kyle shouldn’t invite him?”

  “I’m not telling you who to invite to your party. I’m only telling you not to invite him for me.”

  “Got it,” she says, reaching up high and sliding a book into its spot. “No Wyatt.”

  “Thanks.” I give her a grateful smile.

  “But maybe Anton?” she says, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

  “Oh, my God. You’re relentless.”

  §

  The weather feels good. It’s hot, but at least there’s a breeze, and the sun is just beginning to set behind the tall buildings of the city.

  “Would you like a refill?” Mia asks, holding a pitcher in her hand and nodding to my nearly empty glass of sangria.

  “Sure.” I stick my glass up in the air. I’m way too comfortable in this lounger to stand up. Mia fills my glass back up and walks over to where a couple of people from Kyle’s work are sitting around a small table. The rooftop is awesome. I wonder if Connor and Layla’s building has anything like this. If so, we should be putting it to use. It would make a great reading spot. I’ll have to check into that.

  The night goes on with simple conversations, good food, and sangria...delicious sangria. Eventually, most of the other guests begin to trickle out, leaving the five of us sitting in a circle, relaxed back in chairs, taking in the night sky.

  “Being up here makes you almost forget you’re in the city,” I say, blocking out the lights with my hands and focusing on the dark expanse above.

  “Almost,” Kyle agrees. “If it weren’t for all the fucking horns honking and sirens blaring.”

  “We need earplugs,” Connor adds, taking a long pull from his beer.

  Kyle leans back further in his chair, stretching his long legs out. “Do you miss small town life, Harper?”

  “Hell no,” Layla answers for me. “She loves it here.”

  Laughing, I shake my head at her. “You know, sometimes I do, but just for the quiet. I don’t miss anything else about it. And I think, now that I’ve lived here a while, I might actually miss the noise.”

  “Yeah, it kind of becomes soothing after a while,” Layla says.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mia chimes in. “I’ve always been a city girl.”

  Our semblance of quiet is interrupted by the creak of the door. All of us look over to see Wyatt walking over to us.

  “Hey, dude,” Kyle says, greeting him with a questioning tone. “What’s up?”

  “Uh.” Wyatt looks around at all of us and points over his shoulder toward the door. “I was in the neighborhood and remembered hearing you talk about cooking out tonight. Thought I’d stop by.”

  My heart speeds up when he looks at me. I have no idea where we stand, and the fact that he’s standing there acting like he belongs here is making me uncomfortable. I know he’s Kyle’s, and therefore Mia’s, friend, but he’s not mine. I thought I made it clear the last time we saw each other.

  “Harper,” he says, nodding his head in my direction.

  “Wyatt,” I say coolly.

  “I was hoping you’d be here.” He walks confidently over to where I’m sitting. “Could we talk?”

  I stare at him for a minute, won
dering what the hell he’s up to and why he wants to talk to me. “Whatever you have to say, you can say it here. We’re all friends, right?”

  He lets out a low chuckle, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sure, of course.” His smile might look genuine to most, but I’ve been around him enough to know that it’s anything but. I’ve put him on the spot. He doesn’t like it, but he’ll play the part to put up a good front for Kyle.

  “I just wondered why you stopped answering my calls and text messages. I miss you.” He acts smooth and sincere, squatting down beside my chair and causing my blood to run cold.

  The pain from my knee connecting with his dick must’ve worn off, or he’s living in some alternate universe where that’s considered foreplay. “I’m pretty sure I didn’t leave any questions unanswered the last time we talked.”

  “Oh, but you did,” he says in a low voice. “I wasn’t finished.”

  Standing from my chair, I have the sudden need to feel bigger. I know he’s trying to intimidate me, but I won’t let him. “Well, I was.”

  He laughs and stands up, taking a step toward me. “Oh, come on, Harper,” he says, cocking his head in a patronizing move that makes my stomach turn. “Please tell me you’re not going to let a little misunderstanding get in the way of what we had.”

  “We had nothing,” I say, using my hands to emphasize my words. “I told you I just wanted to be friends, but that wasn’t good enough for you.”

  “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa.” Kyle is now up out of his chair, standing between the two of us.

  I look around to see the rest of the group, their eyes like a game of Pong—bouncing between me and Wyatt. Layla looks pissed, Connor looks ready to offer Kyle backup, and Mia has her usual resting bitchface in place, so it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking.

  “Dude, if Harper said she only wants to be friends, then you need to back the fuck off.” Kyle’s now a step closer to Wyatt, his body going rigid.

  “Come on, Kyle,” Wyatt says, throwing his hands in the air. “We all know women say that shit because they’re afraid of commitment or wanting someone to chase them.” He pauses to smile, like everyone knows he’s right. “I’m only trying to have a good time ...be a good friend,” he says, throwing my words back at me.