Page 90 of Harper

“Okay,” I say. “Okay, now. Let’s quiet down.”

Tanner lifts his chin, grinning at me like a puppy who just earned a treat. It’s so much easier to look at Tanner than Joe.

“Hey, Tan,” I say, smiling back at him.

“Hey, Harp!” he says.

“I’m happy for you.”

“Thanks, sis!”

“When McKenna got to town,” I say, “we didn’t know what to make of her. We liked her a whole lot better than Tan’s last girlfriend…” The crowd laughs, many of them remembering Ramona, whom Joe escorted out of Skagway a few weeks ago. “But that’s not saying much.” They laugh again. “Then we got to know McKenna. And she is—I swear—one of the best people I’veever met. She loves hard.” I pause for a second, looking at my future sister-in-law. “She’s one of the good ones.”

Hunter and Sawyer lead the whooping and clapping this time, repeatedly smashing into each other’s chests like scrimmaging quarterbacks. Ridiculous. Sawyer’s going to get sick all over the Parsnip floor if they keep it up.

“And my brother,” I say loudly. Then, in a normal voice as the crowd calms down. “My brother, Tanner. He’s the best.”

Another round of rowdy applause.

I can’t help it—I look for Joe again, and there he is, eyes trained, waiting for me.

You’re my girl, Harper Stewart. Always were. Always will be.

“Love isn’t always perfect,” I say, holding his gaze. “Love can make a lot of mistakes. Love can break your heart. Love can make you wish you’d never…” Joe flinches, leaning forward. My voice trails off. I gulp softly, looking for a port in the storm, and find it in Tanner’s flushed, happy face. “Love can be the best thing that ever happened to you, too.” I smile at my future sister-in-law and then at my brother. “That’s the kind of love I hope for you! Cheers!”

The crowd goes wild as I put the mic back in its place and step down from the podium.

When I glance at Joe’s table, his seat is empty. He’s gone.

Instead of sitting back down at my own table, I keep walking for the exit, not to follow Joe, just for some fresh air. But when I step through the double doors, Joe’s standing on the boardwalk, staring up at the darkening sky.

“Ready?” he asks.

“Joe?”

He doesn’t look at me, but his posture changes. His shoulders slump just a little. But when he turns around to faceme, he doesn’t seem as angry as he was a few weeks ago. He gives me a small, polite nod.

“Good speech, Harp.”

“Thanks.”

“You feeling okay these days?”

“Yep. No more nausea, thank God,” I say, rubbing my still-flat tummy. “I’m almost eleven weeks along. Can you believe it?”

“I’ll be at the appointment on Tuesday.”

“I know.” We swapped brief texts last week about my upcoming appointment. “I’m glad.”

“Hey, Harp, I—I owe you an apology,” he says. “The way I acted at your place? Totally unacceptable. I knew I was upsetting you, and I kept pushing. I was an asshole. I’m really sorry.”

I don’t expect this because I know that his feelings for me aren’t exactly warm and fuzzy.

“Thanks for that, Joe.”

“Yeah. I’ve felt bad about it for weeks.”

“You could’ve texted me.”

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