Page 19 of Harper

There’s a boulder by the water line to my left, and I scramble on top of it, watching Harper trudge away until she disappears. Then I turn my gaze to the sea.

As desperate as I am to keep talking to her, the conversation we just had was the most we’ve spoken since she returned home five years ago. I don’t want to jeopardize that progress by pushing her too hard, and besides, I need to take a quiet moment to process what we just talked about. Only by understanding her can I hope to find us on a playing field level enough to win her back.

I don’t hate you. I could never hate you.

We have some really intense history.

We were never just friends.

Forget me, Joe. It’s for the best. I promise you. It really is.

Hearing Harper say that she doesn’t hate me is a relief. I thought maybe I’d done something to her—said something to her—that I’d forgotten or didn’t want to remember. Knowing that she doesn’t hate me, and “never could,” is a balm to the rejection I’ve felt. But it makes me even more confused about her behavior. Why won’t she talk to me? Why won’t she even look at me? If she doesn’t hate me, what does she feel for me?

At least she acknowledges the magnitude of the relationship we once had. She doesn’t try to downplay what we were to each other by saying “We were too young,” or “It was a long time ago.” It means a lot to me that we share the truth of who we were to one another, and the love we shared. It was intense. Once upon a time, it was everything.

So it’s easy for me to agree with her on the next point: she’s right—we were never just friends. What I wanted from Harper—almost from the get-go—was on a deeper and more devoted level than friendship. And while I suggested we learn how to be friends ten minutes ago, in my heart I know that a friendship with Harper Stewart would never be enough for me. Not after knowing how it felt to love her and be loved by her. I would always want more. I would never be satisfied. I’m glad she didn’t agree to that because I’m really not sure I could have delivered it.

As for her request that I forget her?

No. Not possible.

Now more than ever, I know that one day I’ll die one day with Harper’s name on my lips. If there’s a chance—even one in a billion—that I could win her back someday, I won’t give up on her, and even if that doesn’t end up happening, I’ll certainly never forget her.

Why does she think my forgetting her would be for the best? I don’t understand.

I take a deep breath and let it go slowly, my cop’s brain looking at the facts and working from every angle.

She doesn’t hate me, and she knows what we had was real. Good.

As far as I can tell, she’s not dating someone else. Though I can’t definitively rule out the possibility of her being in a long-distance relationship, I just don’t sense it, and I feel like I would.

Maybe she wants more than a small-town sheriff? But that doesn’t track; she’s made her home in Skagway for the last five years. She can’t have anything against the town or the folks living and working here. Heck. She’s one of us.

So maybe—my heart clutches—maybe it’s me.

Maybe—despite what we once shared—she doesn’t see me in a romantic light anymore. Maybe her tastes have changed, and she’s no longer attracted to me. And maybe she feels weirdor guilty about that, so she has trouble looking me in the eye. It would hurt like hell if it was true, but I’m not so full of myself that I can’t admit it’s a possibility.

Or maybe it’s something else entirely—something that I can’t even fathom.

There were years there—from ages twenty to twenty-five—when she never came home, and I never heard from her. Through the grapevine, I heard that she was working for National Geographic Expeditions, but honestly, I have no idea where she was or what she was doing. I guess I need to acknowledge that whatever happened during those years could have changed her forever.

And that hurts.

Damn, but that hurts.

A cold wind rolls in off the water and smacks me in the face, sharp and biting for July. I slide down from the boulder, planting my feet on solid ground and heading back toward town. My agreement with Sandra is that we don’t drink liquor alone…which means I’m going to need to find some company.

Fast.

***

The Fourth of July is a big event in Skagway, and a holiday that I only get off from work every three or four years. This year, I have a strong and competent deputy who asked to be in charge today. I was only too glad to hand over the reins so I could enjoy myself. But as I stalk down Broadway, trying to decide where to park myself for a few hours, I don’t feel very festive.

The live music coming from 4thStreet, where the Happy Endings Saloon and Station Bar & Grill sit side by side, coaxes me over, and I find myself in the middle of a block party, saying hello to everyone I know.

“Joe!” calls my friend Wyatt, an Australian who came to Skagway via cruise ship six years ago and never left. He holds up a pitcher. “Come have a margarita.”

Now you’re talking.

---