distress every time she flinched, every time he’d heard her counting her breaths to ten.
When she’d finally sat up, the red rims of her eyes had given away the tears that had fallen while she’d lain there. It had ripped his gut apart that he couldn’t make it all better.
He’d wanted to cradle her close, soothe away her tears, and feel that same sweeping rightness he’d felt before with her in his arms. Instead, he’d held back and watched her walk away from the studio. From him.
Trent cradled the glass in his hand. Holding Harper in his arms had felt like heaven. For so long, after Yasmin, the idea of a permanent relationship had felt like hell. He’d worshipped her from the day she’d walked into Junior’s on her twenty-first birthday for her first tattoo, but despite his best efforts during their two years together, he’d never been enough for her. Hadn’t earned enough, hadn’t been famous enough, hadn’t known the right people. Last he’d heard she was shacking up with some bit-part rapper from the local scene. As for him, he’d gotten into having girls interchangeably and often. He was honest with them, always, about the short-term nature of their relationships. But in the three days since he’d met Harper, he hadn’t thought of anyone else.
“That was something else,” Cujo said, as he walked into the office, poured himself a shot, and swallowed half of it down. “You know the story?”
“Not really. Just that it happened a few years back and she’s been hiding it ever since. I don’t want to push too hard.” Not that he didn’t want to know. It was gnawing away at his gut.
“Who the hell would do that to another human being? That’s some messed-up stuff.” Cujo’s visible shiver summed it up.
“It’s going to be a tough one. Booked it over five or six sessions of a few hours each and we’ll see how we go.” Knocking back another couple of fingers of the golden liquid, he squeezed his eyes closed and let his head fall back on the sofa to avoid thinking about just how tough the first appointment was going to be for her.
“Who do you think did it?”
“No idea. Can’t stand even thinking about it.”
“There’s something about her, isn’t there?” Cujo asked. Trent opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “For you, I mean. Something’s got to you.”
“Thanks, Oprah.”
“Oh come on, dude. I’ve known you long enough. I can tell. You’re different around her.”
Trent sighed. There was no point denying it. He refilled his glass and knocked it back. He just didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
* * *
Crap. Eddie was home. Harper dropped her keys in the colorful fish-shaped ceramic dish that sat on the corner of her tiny kitchen counter. Picking up her broom from its narrow slot beside the fridge, she knocked on the ceiling like someone in an old TV sitcom.
The volume dropped. “Sorry, Harp!” came a bellow.
“Thanks, Eddie,” she yelled toward the ceiling.
Her cupboards and fridge revealed some leftover spaghetti sauce and a dire need to go grocery shopping. Harper made a shopping list while the spaghetti cooked. Maybe she could persuade Drea to drive her. Highly possible if she threw in a free meal.
Harper sat down on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and removed her sweater, throwing it with perfect three-point basketball style through the opening to her bedroom and onto her bed. There wasn’t even room to swing a cat in her apartment, not that she had ever had the inclination to do so. The small kitchen was tiny but scrupulously clean. Hating disorganization, Harper kept every surface clear and the cupboards meticulously tidy. She looked out toward the window that framed the living room. The view was an uninspiring mix of concrete and wires, but the sunlight during the day was gloriously welcome.
It had been, and still was, all she could afford. But it was the closest she’d ever been to feeling safe since the
When she’d finally sat up, the red rims of her eyes had given away the tears that had fallen while she’d lain there. It had ripped his gut apart that he couldn’t make it all better.
He’d wanted to cradle her close, soothe away her tears, and feel that same sweeping rightness he’d felt before with her in his arms. Instead, he’d held back and watched her walk away from the studio. From him.
Trent cradled the glass in his hand. Holding Harper in his arms had felt like heaven. For so long, after Yasmin, the idea of a permanent relationship had felt like hell. He’d worshipped her from the day she’d walked into Junior’s on her twenty-first birthday for her first tattoo, but despite his best efforts during their two years together, he’d never been enough for her. Hadn’t earned enough, hadn’t been famous enough, hadn’t known the right people. Last he’d heard she was shacking up with some bit-part rapper from the local scene. As for him, he’d gotten into having girls interchangeably and often. He was honest with them, always, about the short-term nature of their relationships. But in the three days since he’d met Harper, he hadn’t thought of anyone else.
“That was something else,” Cujo said, as he walked into the office, poured himself a shot, and swallowed half of it down. “You know the story?”
“Not really. Just that it happened a few years back and she’s been hiding it ever since. I don’t want to push too hard.” Not that he didn’t want to know. It was gnawing away at his gut.
“Who the hell would do that to another human being? That’s some messed-up stuff.” Cujo’s visible shiver summed it up.
“It’s going to be a tough one. Booked it over five or six sessions of a few hours each and we’ll see how we go.” Knocking back another couple of fingers of the golden liquid, he squeezed his eyes closed and let his head fall back on the sofa to avoid thinking about just how tough the first appointment was going to be for her.
“Who do you think did it?”
“No idea. Can’t stand even thinking about it.”
“There’s something about her, isn’t there?” Cujo asked. Trent opened his eyes and raised an eyebrow at his friend. “For you, I mean. Something’s got to you.”
“Thanks, Oprah.”
“Oh come on, dude. I’ve known you long enough. I can tell. You’re different around her.”
Trent sighed. There was no point denying it. He refilled his glass and knocked it back. He just didn’t know what he was going to do about it.
* * *
Crap. Eddie was home. Harper dropped her keys in the colorful fish-shaped ceramic dish that sat on the corner of her tiny kitchen counter. Picking up her broom from its narrow slot beside the fridge, she knocked on the ceiling like someone in an old TV sitcom.
The volume dropped. “Sorry, Harp!” came a bellow.
“Thanks, Eddie,” she yelled toward the ceiling.
Her cupboards and fridge revealed some leftover spaghetti sauce and a dire need to go grocery shopping. Harper made a shopping list while the spaghetti cooked. Maybe she could persuade Drea to drive her. Highly possible if she threw in a free meal.
Harper sat down on the bar stool at the kitchen counter and removed her sweater, throwing it with perfect three-point basketball style through the opening to her bedroom and onto her bed. There wasn’t even room to swing a cat in her apartment, not that she had ever had the inclination to do so. The small kitchen was tiny but scrupulously clean. Hating disorganization, Harper kept every surface clear and the cupboards meticulously tidy. She looked out toward the window that framed the living room. The view was an uninspiring mix of concrete and wires, but the sunlight during the day was gloriously welcome.
It had been, and still was, all she could afford. But it was the closest she’d ever been to feeling safe since the
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