Mister O(66)

“What’s going on, Harper? You seem pensive,” I say and brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

She nibbles on her lip, looks away, then turns back to me, and the words spill out, piling on top of each other like clowns spilling out of a car. “I-keep-wondering-do-you-think-we’ll-be-like-that?”

“What?” I ask, as my heart speeds up. She’s never spoken that quickly with me. She’s never used her awkward language, and it gives me this wild burst of hope. Maybe Jillian is right.

Holy shit, I hope Jillian is right.

Harper slows, takes a breath. “Will we stay friends?”

The burst of hope dies a cruel, painful death. All the air leaks out of me and I’m utterly deflated, even though I knew this was coming. I’ve known from the start. Her actions have always told me I’m not a guy she wants to date.

But I can’t let on how hard this hits.

“Of course,” I say with a big smile, trying to mask the disappointment rooting in my chest. Because as tough as it will be to not be intimate with her, losing her friendship will be much worse. Maybe best time wasn’t such a bad description after all—Harper and I do have an amazing time together, and I can’t imagine not having her in my life. These last few weeks have been the most fun, vibrant, and wonderful time I’ve had with anyone. If she were gone entirely in the wake of some breakup or weird romantic misunderstanding, that fate would be worse. “That’s what you want, right?”

She nods. “I do want to stay friends. You and Jillian get along. And I want that to be us. I want to go to your signings and save you in line from women with magic bullets in their pockets and dangerous biker husbands. I want to get you detergent to clean the hot chocolate I spill on you. And if you need me at a bowling tournament to throw a few frames, I want to be the one tossing the gutter balls,” she says quickly, racing through each sentence, barely breathing. “I want to see you at dinner with Spencer and Charlotte, or just walking dogs in the park with your brother. Or if you ever get a new shower, I want to help you pick it out.”

God, her words kill me and lift me up. They make me feel so good, and so f*cking awful at the same time. Because it’s clear what she’s saying. When this ends. Because it will end. It has to. It has a beginning, and it will have an end, like all the others who have come and gone. Even though I will miss this woman in a way I never have anyone else.

And I wish that I could tell her I want to be so much more than her wingman and buddy. But if I tell her that, will I risk losing her as a friend, too?

There’s no answer key for me to follow on this count. I can read her cues in bed, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what would happen if I told her I didn’t want to be her teacher—I want to be her guy.

I choose the path I can see clearly. “Harper, you better always be in my life. It’s just brighter and more fun with you in it. And if you need me to . . .” I trail off because what have I actually done for her? Offered dating advice? Mocked a dude who used emoticons? Or just introduced her to multiple orgasms? Is that the mark I’ve left? “If you need anything, I’m your man.”

She smiles faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Will you take me to the train station tomorrow? After Hayden’s party that I’m doing,” she says, and I force myself to blot out the reminder of Hayden’s father, Simon. “I have to go to Connecticut in the afternoon. Remember?”

I nod. She told me she had some parties there this weekend for a few of the Manhattan moms she’s worked for, who’ve since moved to the suburbs, and asked me to feed Fido on Sunday. I don’t even know why she wants me to go with her to Grand Central. But I’ll go. “Of course.”

My chest is hollow. Taking her to the train station feels so inadequate for all that I’m learning I want with her. But I can’t hang my hat on something a romance writer thinks. Jillian wants to believe in true love. She makes a living out of buying into storylines about how the little sister falls for her brother’s best friend, and how lessons in sex turn into happily-ever-after. But this is real life. Real life is full of * bosses, and unrequitedness, and guys who are lucky enough to have everything they’ve ever wanted when it comes to work, and life, and art . . . but who would be fools to think they get to have it all in love, too.

I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just realistic. Harper Holiday has always been a moment in time, and I’ve never been a love-struck fool. I’m a serial monogamist, and this series of nights with her is chugging to its inevitable end.

I reach for her shirt, tug her close, and bring her body flush to mine. “Harper,” I breathe. “You have to know how much I’ve loved everything with you.”

“Me too, Nick. Me, too.” She plays with my hair then says, “Do you want to tie me to the fridge?”

I manage a small laugh. “No. I want something else.”

“What do you want?” she asks, her eyes looking so vulnerable.

“I want to have you. As many more times as I possibly can.”

She presses her forehead to mine, her lips brushing my lips as she whispers, “Have me.”

That begins another night of bliss with her, even though I can’t help but hear the ticking of the clock as we wind down.





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