Departure(87)

“I agree. I think it has to be framed correctly to him. But I have this feeling that if it’s presented the right way, if we just give him a chance, he might surprise us. Let’s give him the opportunity to do the right thing. Let’s start by trusting him and involving him and let him make the decision.”

Another pause, and Nick’s voice changes, softens.

“No, it’s nothing like that. It might sound crazy, but I have this feeling that if you don’t give him one last chance, you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.”

He rings off after that, and we sit, finishing our coffee at the small, square wooden table in my kitchen, its white paint chipped, a little too authentic to be shabby chic.

When he’s finished, and our conversation dies down, he pushes up and goes for his coat, which is buried in a pile of clothes that came off rather quickly last night.

“Don’t know what your schedule is, but I have a few errands to run. Should only take a few hours.”

“Right. Well, I’ll just be here. No plans.” Try not to sound crazy. “Nick,” I begin, my voice changed, the use of his name already weird, drawing his eyes. God. I’m that crazy chick the morning after, pressing The Talk. This can only end in disaster. I force myself to sound casual. “We writers, we don’t get out that much.” I shrug, trying not to look nervous. “Don’t date that much either. Well, I haven’t . . . recently.”

He scans my face, his expression serious. “Me either, Harper. Look, my work has pretty much been my life since college. Hasn’t been much time for anything else. Or anyone.” His eyes cut to the bedroom, the sheets still in disarray. “It’s a big deal for me too. I’ll show you how big tonight.”





51





Panic level: one million (out of a scale of ten).

After those words—It’s a big deal for me too. I’ll show you how big tonight—Nick walked over, kissed me on the forehead, and was out the door before I could say a word. It took several minutes to collect my jaw from the floor.

I’m terrified. Even more terrified than this morning, when I thought he was going to roll over in bed, pinch me on the cheek, and say, “Fun times, Harp. Thanks for the memories.” Wink. “Catch ya later.”

I can’t decide if this is better or worse.

I don’t want Nick out of my life, but I’m not bloody ready to make a major commitment. Not ready to marry the guy, that’s for sure.

But if it’s down to marrying him or losing him forever, then what?

It’s not like he’s going off to war.

Got to settle down. Focus. Think.

A solution. When he comes through that door, I will convey to him that I have things in my life I need to put straight, to get on track before I’m ready for anything that serious. It’s the truth. I feel like, for the first time, I have it together—I know exactly what I need to be doing in life.

I wouldn’t have that without the time I spent in 2147. I also wouldn’t have met Nick. I wouldn’t trade either for the world.

I know what I need to be doing with my professional life.

Alice Carter.

Because when you’re young, life is about pursuing dreams. I have the rest of my life to take the safe road. If I don’t write Oliver Norton Shaw’s biography, someone will. They might even be better than me. Or maybe a little worse. But it will get done.

No one else will write Alice Carter’s story. No one but me. She’s depending on me.

That’s what life is about: finding something you can do that no one else can, and working your hardest at it. It’s about finding someone you love like no one else, someone who loves you like no one else does. That person might be Nick Stone. But I don’t know him as well as I know Alice Carter. Not yet.

Now it’s about making a plan to ensure I get to know them both. It’s going to be risky.





My agent sits quietly, listening, nodding.

When I finish, he glances around his office, as if looking for the words.

I cringe, mentally bracing for the barrage that will cut me to the bone. Throwing your career away. Wasting this opportunity I worked so hard to get you. Irresponsible decision.

Those words never come. Instead I hear, “I respect your decision, Harper. I believe you owe it to yourself to follow your dream. I’ll do my best to help you.” The words are like a parachute I sway beneath, holding me up, saving my life as my feet land firmly on the ground.

One down.





My father passed away eight years ago from a heart attack. I miss him very much, and so does my mum. He was a schoolteacher in my small hometown, and the years after he passed have been tough, emotionally and financially, for my mum. He left her two assets of value: our family home and a flat in London that he inherited from his parents, who had been quite well off at one time.

She rents that flat, and for the past few years, she’s rented it to me. It’s a good trade: I insist on paying her slightly more than the unit would fetch on the market, and on occasion, when I’m between projects and a bit late with the rent—well, she’s the best landlord a girl could have.

If I’m vacating, if I’m about to make the change I’m contemplating, something will have to happen with the flat. I want to present her with some options, a clear plan. I want to save her the trouble of coming to London and going through it all. She deserves that. Plus, she’s even worse at decisions than I am.