Page 23

HARPER

Every muscle in my body protests the second I sit up in bed. There's a deep, pulsing ache in my lower back, like my bones are bruised from the inside. My shoulders throb from how tense I must've been all night, and I'm shivering even though I'm still wrapped in the comforter.

The second I step into the shower, a wave of chills washes over me.

Not the good kind. Not the kind that makes your breath catch after a kiss, or the kind Millie gave me last night with her mouth and her hands and the way she said my name like it meant something.

No-these are the feverish, hollow chills that crawl under your skin and settle in your spine.

My head pounds steadily, a dull throb behind my eyes that threatens to build into something worse.

I feel like shit.

It's like my body waited until today-until after the gala, after the rain, after the weeks of trying to juggle too many things at once-before it finally gave up.

Like some internal switch flipped and said, That's enough now.

And maybe it is. Maybe I pushed too hard, for too long.

I don't even remember the last time I slept a full night.

You'd think, after everything, I'd at least get a little grace from the universe.

After all, someone finally touched me like I was more than a body.

Like I was hers. For a few stolen minutes, I felt like I mattered.

I wasn't just someone to be used or left behind.

But no-my body's thank-you gift is a head cold.

At least my outfit is cute, even if it took way too much effort to put together.

Baggy jeans, a slouchy sweater with little soft blue flowers stitched along the sleeves.

My black puffer jacket is zipped up to my chin, and my hair's tucked into a beanie to hide the limp, frizzy mess I couldn't be bothered to fix.

My cheeks are flushed from the cold as I walk, snowflakes catching on my eyelashes.

Still, I'd rather deal with the biting January wind in Vancouver than the storm that's been brewing in my chest since last night.

I heard Millie leave early this morning.

The sound of the front door closing was soft, almost careful-like she didn't want to wake me.

Like maybe she didn't want to face me. I was already awake, of course.

I barely slept at all. I just lay there in the dark, replaying every second of last night.

Her touch. Her mouth. Her voice, low and ragged against my skin.

And then the way she pulled back. Quiet. Gentle. Gone.

I keep telling myself it shouldn't matter. That I knew what I was asking for. That she gave me exactly what I wanted. No strings, no expectations.

But it matters.

It hurts, even if I don't have the right to feel hurt.

I keep seeing her face in my mind-the way her smile dimmed at the edges, like something inside her cracked and she didn't want me to notice.

The way she kissed my cheek instead of my lips, and told me goodnight like we hadn't just shared something that felt. .. real.

God, maybe I imagined it. Maybe I read too much into everything. I'm good at that. Romanticizing scraps. Turning a warm touch into a promise.

How humiliating.

How pathetic.

I tug my sleeves down over my hands and pick up the pace. The restaurant's only a few blocks away, but each step feels like I'm dragging my body through wet cement. I ache everywhere-in the places that are physical, and in the places no one sees.

I've spent so much time, energy, and way too much money I don't really have planning this damn bridal shower. I want it to be perfect-for Shannon, sure. But also... because I need it to be. I need to prove something. Not just to Shannon, but to everyone else.

My old friends.

People I haven't seen in months-people who used to know me, before everything blew up.

I don't know why I still care what they think. I shouldn't. I shouldn't need their approval. But I do. A little part of me still wants them to take my side, to look at me and think, Harper was the one who got hurt. She didn't deserve it. She deserved better.

Is that desperate?

It probably is. But I don't know how to shut it off.

The decorations are already at the venue.

I've been collecting them in bits and pieces for weeks-vintage glass jars for candy, soft ivory table runners, gold place cards with little wax seals I stayed up late stamping one night when I couldn't sleep.

I even ordered these wild, ridiculously expensive floral centerpieces from a guy I know at the flower stall down the street.

Peonies, roses, carnations-delicate and full, like something out of a spring garden.

They're beautiful. Over the top, maybe, but I wanted them to be.

I wanted this day to feel like something. Like I could still make something good. Something people would remember.

My nose is running by the time I reach the restaurant, and my eyes are watery-not from crying, just from the wind, I tell myself.

Inside, everything is already set up. There's soft music playing. Light clinks of glasses and low laughter from the waitstaff as they finish arranging the drinks. The flowers smell incredible.

I start moving, not thinking, just letting the warmth of the restaurant wrap around me like a heavy blanket.

My fingers sting from the cold, my jacket still dusted with snow.

The floral scent from the centerpieces floats through the air-roses, peonies, carnations-and it should be comforting, should make me feel proud.

But all it does is sit in my throat like a lump I can't swallow.

I inhale slowly, shallowly. Tell myself to breathe. To focus. To push last night as far down as I can. I can't afford to be soft right now. I need to be in control.

The front door swings open behind me with a gust of wind, and Audrey blows in like a storm-cheeks pink, hair half-stuffed under a crooked beanie, already halfway out of her coat before the door clicks shut.

My stomach drops.

Shit.

"Audrey." I blink at her, panicked. "I completely fucking forgot to tell you not to come."

She frowns like I've said something in another language. "What?"

"You really didn't have to be here. I meant to text you last night-god, I'm the worst-I'm so sorry."

She shrugs off her jacket and tosses it over the back of a chair. "Too bad. I'm here. What do you need?"

I stare at her for a second. She doesn't even know Shannon. Doesn't owe me anything. She worked a night shift, I'm pretty sure, and still came all the way here because... I don't know. Because she's Audrey. Because she shows up.

"I-" I start to say something else, some kind of apology or weak attempt to shoo her off, but she just shakes her head.

"Put me to work, Harp."

I want to hug her. Really hug her. Let my forehead drop against her shoulder and stay there until the world feels less awful. But my entire body feels like it's running on fumes. Even standing still hurts.

So instead, I sink into the nearest chair and lift my arm to point across the room. "The balloons still need to be tied. I haven't lit the tea lights yet or set the floral centerpieces on the tables. The mimosa bar is going in the back corner, and I need to finish unboxing the-"

"Whoa, whoa." Audrey's voice cuts through the air, low and sharp. "You don't look so hot."

"Please," I deadpan, lifting a brow. "I'm gorgeous."

She laughs, but it's the quiet kind-the kind that means she's not buying it. "I mean you look like hell. You okay?"

"It's just a cold," I say, brushing it off. But the words sound weak even to my own ears.

"I think she should go home."

"I can't," I say too quickly. I try to stand up, to prove I'm fine, but the moment I straighten, the room tips sideways. My vision goes white at the edges, and my knees buckle.

"Whoa!" Audrey's hands are on me instantly, guiding me back into the chair before I can fully embarrass myself. "Jesus, Harper."

"I'm fine," I whisper, but I'm not. I know I'm not.

"You're not," she says, crouching in front of me, her hands gentle on my knees. "I really don't think this is just a cold."

I bury my face in my hands. "I can't go home."

"Why not?" she asks softly, rubbing slow circles into my leg.

Because I came all over your childhood best friend's face and then she practically sprinted to her bedroom like she couldn't get away fast enough. And I'm too much of a coward to look her in the eye.

"I just..." I exhale shakily, forcing the words out. "I need this party to be perfect. It matters."

Audrey studies me for a long beat, then nods slowly. "Of course it matters. But you're burning the candle at both ends, Harp. You can't do it all."

"I have to." My voice cracks, just slightly.

I swallow and keep going. "Shannon asked me to be in her wedding when Isaiah and I were still together.

And I've been scared ever since that she regrets it.

That maybe she thought I was going to be this picture-perfect version of myself I can't seem to find anymore.

This shower-this is something I can do. Something I can still give her. "

Audrey's expression softens. She drops to her knees, sitting back on her heels, and rests her hands on my thighs.

"Harper," she says, voice low and kind, like she's talking to a wounded animal.

"Anyone who gets to call you their friend is beyond lucky.

You hear me? Beyond lucky. And if you feel like you have to prove that to them.

.. then maybe they're not really your friends. "

"I just want to impress them," I whisper.

Because I was the one who got cheated on, but I'm still the one everyone pities. The one people talk about behind closed doors. And Isaiah-he's the one they stayed friends with. He gets to show up to the wedding with charm and confidence and no guilt on his face.

But maybe if today is perfect-maybe if the centerpieces are beautiful and the mimosa bar is flawless and the pictures turn out amazing-maybe then they'll see that I'm doing fine. Maybe then they'll believe I've moved on.

Maybe then I'll believe it.

Especially when I show up at the wedding with Millie on my arm, all pretend confidence and perfect lipstick, faking it so well it almost feels real.

My eyes sting. It's not just the fever, though that's definitely not helping.

I blink hard, trying to force the tears back.

I'm emotional, I know that about myself, but today.

.. today I feel like I'm coming undone thread by thread.

Audrey squeezes my hand. "All right. Here's what's gonna happen. You sit that pretty self in this chair. Drink some water. Boss me around all you want. Then, once the party's done, I'm taking you home. No arguments."

"I can't leave," I say again, quieter this time.

She lets out a soft sigh but doesn't press me. Doesn't argue. Just gives my leg another squeeze and starts rolling up her sleeves.

────────── ????──────────

The balloon arch is more of a lopsided, stubby tower, like it gave up halfway through its own construction.

But it'll do. The candles flicker gently, the banner hangs straight, and the floral centerpieces are-miraculously-intact.

Audrey left about an hour ago, grumbling the entire way out the door.

She only went home because I made her. Barely.

Shannon and her entourage filter in with wide eyes and cheerful gasps, throwing compliments like confetti.

Apparently, the food is a hit, and the mimosas are flowing.

I wouldn't know. I haven't had a single bite.

Just sitting upright in this chair is taking every ounce of strength I've got.

My skin is clammy, my head is a foggy mess, and my whole body feels like it's been wrung out and hung to dry.

The rest of the bridesmaids are mid-conversation, laughing about the joint bachelor-bachelorette trip to Florida next weekend-one I won't be attending, thanks to a work conflict.

A year ago, I would've been heartbroken to miss it.

A weekend on the beach with Isaiah and our closest friends?

That would've been everything. I used to live for this stuff-matching swimsuits, group dinners, late-night drinks, endless talking.

But somewhere between the cocktails and the compliments, Isaiah would always pull me aside and ask me to tone it down.

Not talk over him. Not correct him in front of the guys when they misused financial terms I knew like the back of my hand.

Now? Now the only weekend I want involves our couch, some takeout, and Millie's sock-covered feet pressed into my thigh while she reads. We wouldn't even have to talk-though I'd always want to. I could just be me. Loud, curious, opinionated me. And she wouldn't ask me to shrink.

"It's beautiful, Har."

I blink up to find Shannon settling beside me, her dress fluttering around her legs as she sinks into the chair.

"I'm glad you love it," I manage, voice barely above a whisper.

"You've always been good at this kind of stuff," she says, smoothing the chiffon over her knees. Then, quieter, "I wanted to talk to you."

Something tightens in my chest. She hesitates, "Killian and I have been seeing a lot of Isaiah lately. I miss you."

"You don't have to miss me," I say softly, resting a shaky hand on her knee. "I'm right here. You want to hang out? Say the word, I'm in."

She offers a small smile. "You know what I mean. I miss you two together."

I pull back slightly, stomach turning.

"Well... we're not together."

"But what if that changed?" Her voice dips lower. "I've never seen Isa like this. Ever. He's been wrecked since he saw you with that girl."

I blink at her, stunned. Is she serious? The last time I saw Isaiah, he made a point of telling me how great his life was going. He was practically smug about it.

"It doesn't matter if he's wrecked," I say, steady as I can. "He's the one who tore it apart."

"It was one mistake."

I flinch like she slapped me.

"You can't be defending him."

"I'm not," she insists quickly. "What he did was awful. But it's Isa, Harp. He's the love of your life."

He's not.

He's definitely not.

My heart is pounding. Every inch of me aches, and now this?

"I can't believe you're saying this." I grit my teeth, trying to stay calm as nausea swirls in my gut. "If Killian cheated on you, would you just forgive him and move on like nothing happened?"

"I don't know," she says, twisting her fingers in her lap. "But I wouldn't throw away six years. Or our whole friend group. It's not just about him. The dynamic's changed." She glances around the room. "You can feel it."

Of course I can feel it. I've felt it in every missed invite, every group text I've been quietly excluded from.

"You all stopped inviting me because you wanted Isaiah there. Don't act like I imagined it."

Shannon doesn't deny it. Her silence says enough.

"If me being in this wedding is your way of pushing us back together," I say, voice tightening, "then maybe I shouldn't be in it at all."

"Harper, he wants everything you used to want. Marriage. Kids. You can't tell me you have that with..." Her eyes flick toward me, cautious. "With that hockey player."

I sit straighter, spine rigid.

"Amelia," I snap. "Her name is Amelia."

Shannon's gaze darts around, then drops her voice. "If it's just for show, you can tell me."

I stare at her, jaw slack.

"Why would you even say that?"

She gives this little laugh, like she's trying to soften it. "Because you've loved Isa your whole life. And you're loyal, Harp. That's who you are. No matter what he did, I just can't see you moving on. Especially not with a girl."

I'm way too sick for this conversation.

It's the same thing I've been telling myself for months-that it was too soon to move on. But somewhere along the line, my heart and my head stopped arguing. Things shifted. Quietly, but completely.

There's someone else who has my loyalty now. And it's not Isaiah.

"I need a minute."

I push to my feet, slow and unsteady, and make my way to the drink station. My skin's damp, muscles aching, and all I want is to be in bed. I brace my hands against the edge of the table, eyes shut, breathing deep, trying to push through the fog in my body.

Then the door swings open.

Millie steps into the banquet room like she owns the place-eyes sharp, expression tight. Twenty women turn to look at her, but she only sees me. The moment her gaze finds mine, her pace picks up.

My heart skips. She's gorgeous and intense and completely out of place.

Is this part of the deal? Showing up like a protective girlfriend for my old friends to see?

She doesn't say anything. Just walks straight to me, brushing damp hair off my forehead. Her fingers are warm, gentle. The back of her hand checks my temperature. I try to brush her off, but it's half-hearted, and she knows it.

"What are you doing here?" I whisper, too tired to hide how good her touch feels.

"I'm taking you home."

"I'm fine. And your best friend's a snitch."

She laughs softly, low and warm. "Yeah, well. Her stubborn friend wouldn't listen to her."

"And you think I'm gonna listen to you?"

I don't have the strength to argue. My body's swaying toward hers without permission.

"I know you won't."

Then, suddenly, I'm in her arms. One swift motion, effortless.

Chest to chest, legs around her hips.

Whoa.

She's strong.

I don't even try to fight it.

Just wrap my arms around her neck and drop my head to her shoulder, relief washing through me like a wave.

She grabs my coat on the way out, tucking it around me as she carries me through the door.

She doesn't wait for me to say goodbye to anyone. And I don't want to.

Cold Vancouver air slaps my skin the second we step outside, but it feels good. Grounding. I close my eyes, let my body relax. She places me gently in the passenger seat, buckles me in.

Her lips press against my forehead.

Or maybe I imagined it.

"Weren't you at practice?" I murmur as she slides in beside me.

"Yeah. I left."

"Why?"

She looks over, brow lifted. "Why do you think, Harp?"

"Can't you get in trouble for that? Benched or something?"

"Good thing I'm a Bennett and they need me, right?"

That gets a smile out of me.

A real one. The kind that sneaks past my walls without asking.

By the time we reach the apartment, I'm barely upright. Every step is an effort. Millie sheds my coat by the door, hanging it beside her keys like this is any other night-like I didn't just nearly collapse into her arms in the middle of a bridal shower.

Without a word, she keeps walking, heading straight toward her bedroom. I trail behind her on autopilot.

"My room, please," I mumble as we pass mine.

"Nope."

"Millie," I grumble, pausing in the hallway. "I'm still mad at you."

"Okay," she says over her shoulder. "You can be mad at me all you want. While you sleep in my bed."

It's unfair how easily she says things like that-so simple, so certain, so warm. She opens the door and gestures me inside like it's already settled. And I guess it is.

She kneels in front of me, unlacing my sneakers without a word. Her fingers move quickly, practiced, like she's done this before, and maybe she has-for teammates, for family. But this is different.

Then she moves to her dresser and pulls out a pair of sweatpants and one of her old, soft t-shirts. I know exactly which one it is by the faded collar and worn cotton. She turns back to me, eyes a little cautious now.

"Do you mind if I get you out of these clothes?"

I shrug, voice quiet. "It's nothing you haven't seen before."

The words land heavier than I mean them to, dull with exhaustion and the sting I haven't shaken since last night. Normally, I'd joke. Make it light. But right now I can't pretend. I'm hurt. And she knows it.

Millie exhales like I punched her. She steps closer and gently lifts my shirt, peeling it over my head with such care it makes my throat tighten. She doesn't look at me like I'm an obligation. She looks at me like I'm breakable. Like I matter.

She slips the t-shirt over me, her scent clinging to the fabric-something clean and warm and unmistakably her. My arms slide through the sleeves, and for a second, I feel safe.

She crouches again, easing my pants down, then trades them for her sweatpants. The waistband is loose and soft and smells like her laundry detergent. Every motion is slow and respectful, steady and quiet, like she's not just helping me change but anchoring me.

"You okay?" she asks, almost whispering.

I nod, but my eyes sting. I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe it's the fever or the way I haven't let myself cry in days. Or maybe it's how gently she's touching me-how deeply I've missed being cared for like this. Not out of duty. Just... because.

She takes my hand, guiding me to the bed, and pulls back the covers. I slip beneath them without protest, sinking into the familiar scent of her sheets.

Millie disappears for a moment and comes back with a cold cloth. She sits beside me, dabbing my forehead and cheeks, brushing hair from my face with the kind of tenderness that makes my chest ache.

"You didn't have to come," I murmur, eyes fluttering shut.

"Of course I did." Her voice is quiet. "You looked like you were about to pass out."

I crack one eye open to look at her. "You should've been at practice."

She smiles. "I was. For ten minutes. Then I wasn't."

I reach for her hand without thinking. Our fingers tangle together on the blanket, her thumb brushing over mine. The heat behind my eyes returns, threatening to spill.

"I'm sorry I was mad," I whisper.

"I deserved it."

"But I still wanted you there."

"I know." She brushes her lips across the back of my hand. Barely a kiss. More like a promise. "I wanted to be there too."

I turn my face into the pillow, hiding the way that breaks me a little. She could've stayed at practice. She could've ignored Audrey. She didn't.

"Will you stay?" I ask quietly.

Millie brushes a strand of hair from my forehead, her fingers warm, her touch feather-light.

"You should get some sleep," she murmurs.

"I'll make you something to eat."

She presses the gentlest kiss to my forehead.

Not playful. Not flirty. Just real. Solid.

Quiet.

"My grandma Lizzie used to make us this soup when we were sick," she says as she stands, her voice softer now, almost like a memory.

"I think my mom has the recipe. Just try and sleep, okay? "

I nod, eyes heavy, but something in me can't let her go without asking.

"Why are you doing this?"

She pauses at the door, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She turns her head slightly, meeting my eyes.

"Because I care about you, Harper," she says. Her voice is calm, but there's something else underneath-something unsteady. "More than I should."

And then she's gone.

The room is quiet again. Just me now.

I lie there, still for a moment, tucked under Millie's blanket in her bed for the first time. It's strange being in here without her-like walking into a space that hums with someone's spirit.

The scent of her wraps around me, comforting and familiar: clean laundry, a hint of cedar from her cologne, something warm and slightly sweet like vanilla. It's embedded in her sheets, in the hoodie hanging from the back of her chair, in the pillow beneath my cheek.

I turn my head, eyes slowly adjusting to the dim room.

There's a photo on the nightstand-her with Fizzy and Nico, all of them laughing, tangled in what looks like a massive pile of leaves.

Another frame holds a picture of her moms and sisters at what must've been someone's birthday, a cake with pink frosting in the center.

Her walls are mostly bare, save for a couple of vintage hockey prints and a lopsided drawing that could only have been done by a kid-probably Lia.

A pair of skates hangs by their laces from a hook near the closet.

Her bookshelf is a chaotic mess-some sports biographies, a few novels, and what I think might be a dog-eared journal shoved between two poetry books.

I sink deeper into the mattress. Everything in here smells like her. Feels like her. And for once, I don't feel like I have to be alert or on guard or ready to crack a joke just to keep the air light.

For the first time in days-maybe weeks-I feel safe.

The ache in my limbs is still there. My head is heavy, and my throat burns, but it doesn't matter right now. I let my body relax into her sheets, my fingers curling slightly in the fabric of her pillowcase.

Millie's scent lingers in the cotton, and I breathe her in like a lifeline. I close my eyes and let it hold me.

Not long after, I drift.

To the sound of distant kitchen cabinets opening.

To the quiet hum of Millie moving around.

To the faint echo of someone caring for me just because they want to.

Later, after I've eaten Lizzie's magical soup, as the Bennetts call it-hot, salty, healing in a way I didn't expect-Millie draws me a bath.

She doesn't just point to the bathroom and hand me a towel.

She sets it all up: finds the eucalyptus bubble stuff from under her sink, lights one of those stupidly expensive candles I teased her about, and puts a clean towel on the radiator so it'll be warm when I get out.

I take my time in the water. I anchor my palms on the cool shower tile and let the heat cascade down my spine, my muscles melting bit by bit. It takes far longer than usual to wash my hair and rinse everything off, but I let it happen. I let myself be still. Let the quiet hold me.

By the time I finally dry off and pull on the clean clothes she left folded on the counter-her sweatshirt, my leggings-I feel a little more like a human again.

I open the door.

Millie's sitting on the floor, her back against the wall right beside the bathroom. Her knees are bent, her arms draped over them, head tilted like she was listening for any sign I might've needed her.

She looks up as soon as I appear. "Are you okay?"

I nod, tired. Her eyes linger on mine for a beat longer, then she rises smoothly, offering me my hairbrush.

I try. I do. But my hands are shaky and my arms ache in that dull, annoying way that comes with a fever. I manage maybe two passes through my damp hair before I stop. Honestly, I don't care if I end up with a bird's nest on my head.

Millie watches me with that small frown she gets when she's holding back from interfering. Then, quietly: "Let me do that, baby."

I don't fight it. I just let her. She gently nudges me toward the chair in the corner of her room and sits behind me on the floor, her long legs bracketing my body. Her fingers graze my shoulders as she gathers my short hair in her hands.

The first stroke of the brush is slow and careful. She works from the ends, patiently untangling the knots without tugging too hard. The repetitive sound, the quiet rhythm-it's almost hypnotic.

I sigh and lean back slightly, my head finding her knee, letting it rest there.

"Feel good?" she asks, her voice hushed.

I hum a soft yes.

She keeps brushing, threading her fingers gently through my damp strands between passes, like she's memorizing the texture. Her touch is steady and tender in a way that shouldn't undo me, but it does.

My throat tightens. I swallow. After a few minutes, her voice breaks the silence. "Do you want me to try and braid it, or leave it?"

"Leave it," I say, barely above a whisper.

She sets the brush down and gently smooths my hair one last time. I stay where I am, forehead pressing into the soft fabric of her sweatpants. She doesn't move. Doesn't rush me. Just lets me sit there, held in the quiet.

Eventually, I speak.

"No one's ever taken care of me like this before."

I don't even mean to say it out loud, but it slips out, soft and raw and real. Millie's hand pauses where it had been resting lightly on my shoulder. Then, just as gently, she rubs her thumb in small circles over the fabric of my shirt.

"You deserve to be taken care of," she says simply. Like it's obvious. Like it's always been true.

My chest stings. Not in a painful way, more like something cracking open.

I lift my head enough to look at her over my shoulder. Her eyes are so close-ocean blue, impossibly steady. "Are you faking this?"

She blinks. "What?"

"All of this," I say, my voice catching on the edges. "Picking me up from my friend's party. Taking care of me. The touches, the kisses. Are you faking it? For them?"

Her face doesn't change. If anything, something in her softens even more.

"No, Harper," she says, firm but quiet. "I don't give a shit about the cameras anymore.

I care about you. I'm not faking this."

I believe her.

I do. But it still scares the hell out of me.

She cups my jaw gently, her thumb brushing just below my cheekbone.

"I don't do this for just anyone," she adds, barely above a whisper.

"I'm here because I want to be. I care about you.

Not Harper-the-photographer or Harper-who-looks-good-on-my-arm. Just you. My Harper."

My Harper.

My Millie.

My stupid, stupid heart.