Page 33 of Harper

While Harper was pretty drunk, she doesn’t have a lot to regret. She drank a lot and danced some, and yeah, she got sloppier and clingier as the afternoon progressed, but I didn’t mind looking after her. Her biggest dust-up was with her brother—they got into it as Hunter headed back to Dyea around six, and Harper insisted that she wanted to stay in town. To keep their conversation from blowing up into a shouting match, I intervened, promising Hunter that I’d get her home safely, and after that, he took off in a snit.

Then, Harper and I shared one more pitcher of margies and she danced a little more before telling me she didn’t feel so good. I was too lit to drive her home, and since I live in town, I decided that taking her to my house to sober up would be best. She threw up twice on the walk back and again on my deck once we gotthere. Her clothes were covered in puke when I put them in the washer, and I had to get out the hose to clean off the deck.

She talked non-stop on the walk home, but she didn’t say much that made sense, honestly. A bunch of gibberish about regrets and consequences and how much she wished that things had “turned out different for everyone.” Even now, my heart wants to believe that bit was about us—about how we lost each other once upon a time—but I warn myself not to hope too much. Not yet, anyway.

I finish my coffee thinking about my favorite part of the night.

While Harper was going on about regrets and tossing her cookies on Main Street, she was also holding my hand.

For the first time in a decade, my girl was holding my hand.

And damn, but that makes me smile.

***

The day moves slow as molasses, but coffee and water help and my hangover clears up little by little until I’m feeling pretty good by the time I head home at six. I take a forty-five-minute evening run, then shower and change into shorts and a polo shirt, my feet bare as I make homemade limeade in the kitchen. It’s her favorite. I remember.

By the time Harper drives up, I’m sitting out on my deck with the pitcher of limeade, a bucket of ice, and two glasses on the side table between two Adirondack chairs. I hope it doesn’t look too much like a date. It’s just refreshments. I tell myself I’d do the same for anyone stopping by for a chat.

(Yeah, right.)

She gets out of her Jeep wearing her work clothes—khaki shorts and an aqua polo—and hops up the deck stairs like she wasn’t rocking a killer hangover twelve hours ago.

“Hey,” she says, pushing her sunglasses on top of her head.

“Hey,” I say. “Thirsty?”

She looks dubious. “Any liquor in that?”

“No way.”

“Then, yes, please,” she says, sitting down.

I place three cubes in a glass and pour the juice, handing it to her. She takes a big sip, then turns to me with a giant smile. “Limeade!”

I nod, my own grin meeting hers.

“Oh my god, Joe! This is the taste of summer.” She takes another big sip. “I used to have dreams about your limeade.”

“Not my body?” I quip, but it lands flat when she gives me a look. I pour myself a glass, too. It is good. Tart and sweet, just like her.

“So,” she says, sitting back in her chair and looking at me askance. “Tell me the bad news. Who needs an apology from me besides you?”

“I don’t need an apology,” I tell her.

“I puked on you. You had to wash my clothes. You slept on the couch.” She tilts her head to the side, her eyes worried. “I didn’t…say anything awful to you, did I?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. I get mean when I drink sometimes.”

“Nah,” I tell her. “You went on and on about lies and regrets. It didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, Harp.” I take a deep breath. “But you’re going to want to give Hunter a wide berth for a day or two.”

“He had to take my Whitehorse tour,” she says dryly. “So, that’s not an issue…for now.”

“You were screaming at him to leave you alone and stop being your babysitter. Said something about already having a father and Hunter being a piss-poor substitute for your mother.”

“I mentioned Mama?” She winces. “Shit.”

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