Page 161 of One Wrong Move

I get very little sleep.

Maybe it’s her scent on my sheets. Or the silhouette of art frames on the walls of a darkened room—pieces she picked out without ever knowing all of them were being bought for her. Or, maybe, it’s the sickening boulder of guilt inside me.

I don’t know where she is.

My mind runs through all the different options in my head. A hotel. Most likely. Her friend from work. A possibility. The friend she made in Pilates class whose name I can’t remember. Not very probable.

On a plane back to New York.

Hopefully, never.

When I rise in the morning, it’s to a pounding headache and a mouth that tastes like ash. I go for a run, shower, and head to work. Contron’s London office is modest compared to New York, tasteful and not ostentatious, and I have always enjoyed it. Liked it from the first time I stepped foot inside the old stone building.

Right now, it feels like a corporate prison.

I can’t focus on the screen and my emails. Miss whatever my assistant had said so many times that she finally told me she’d write it out for me instead.

I text Harper. Again.

This time, I keep it short. If she’s angry, she needs time to cool down, I think. It seems reasonable. At least, I’m hopeful that’s it.

Nate: Please let me know you’re okay and you found someplace safe to live.

She doesn’t answer. Not until after lunch, when I’ve already decided that the only way to resolve things is to go to her art gallery as she’s leaving work, like some kind of stalker.

Harper: I’m fine. Don’t worry.

Right. Easy. Just don’t worry. But right now it’s the only thing I can do, and the worry lives right alongside guilt and frustration. What else could I have done? See her suffer with Dean and not stepped in? That feels like an impossible choice.

Maybe it felt too serious. Maybe that’s why she’d reacted the way she did. Things with us had gotten deep over the past couple of weeks, and she’d been single only for a few months prior.

I run a hand down the side of my face. Fuck. I can’t have blown this chance.

When my phone rings around 2 p.m., I can’t stop the thrill. But it’s not her. It’s another name on my screen that I’m distinctly less enthused to see.

But I answer. The habit is deeply ingrained.

“Hello, Dad.”

He doesn’t bother with a hello back. He asks if I’ve found someone to replace Knudsen, and I report on the few options Alec and I have already started to work on. Like I did a few days ago.

I’m only a few sentences in when he cuts in, making clear the real reason he called. It comes out as an accusation.

“Neither your brother nor sister have made any plans this summer to come out to the new house in the Hamptons.”

I rub my temple with my free hand. “I think they have other plans.”

“I bought that house a few months ago to have a spot closer to the city for this exact reason.”

“You said the reason was the timing in the market. You’ll be able to flip that property in a few years when the housing prices recover and interest rates drop.”

“Yes, well, that is also true,” he says. There’s no lessening of gruffness in his tone. “Talk to them. Tell them I’m expecting at least a long weekend with the entire family gathered there.”

“I think you can invite them yourself.”

“They’ll be more receptive if it comes from you.”

“No,” I say.

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