"So what are you going to do about it?"
I say nothing.
Because I have no idea what the hell I’m going to do now after I’ve done what I did to Harper.
"Well, figure it out. Because you just fired the woman you love based on false information. And if you don't fix that, you're an even bigger idiot than I thought."
She hangs up. And I stand in the empty hallway, my mind racing.
Because Harper was telling the truth.
She did choose me over the money. She did love me. She did defend me.
And I destroyed her anyway.
The realization sits heavy in my chest.
Because I know I need to fix this. But first, I need to do something I should have done two years ago.
I need to talk to my brother.
And then maybe I can figure out how the hell I'm going to fight for my wife.
28
HUMBLE PIE AND HANGOVER CURE
HARPER
Sunday morning. It’s not even 10AM, and I’m certain I'm experiencing what might generously be called a near-death experience.
It's been less than twenty-four hours since Amelia's wedding. Less than twenty-four hours since I drank approximately seven glasses of Dad's homemade wine and cried in the bathroom while Margot held my hair and told me I was "processing grief in a healthy way."
Not sure my oldest sister was so right about the “healthy” part.
Outside my childhood bedroom window, Queens is buried under fresh snow. It’s the kind of December morning that looks like a Christmas card—if you ignore the fact that someone's car alarm has been going off for the past twenty minutes.
But inside my childhood bedroom, my body is preparing for its own funeral.
My head is pounding. My mouth tastes like I ate fuzzy Certs, and my stomach—current dumpster fire that it is—is doing its best impression of a trash compactor.
I'm also pretty sure I drunk-texted someone last night, but I'm too afraid to check my phone to find out who.
My reaction to waking up is simple: never drinking again.
Also: never leaving this bed.
Also: possibly dying here and letting my parents find my body in three to five business days.
There's a knock on my bedroom door.
"Go away," I croak.
"Harper, ma chérie, you need to eat something." Mom's voice is way too cheerful for someone who knows I'm actively perishing.
"I'm fine."
"You are not fine. You drank seven glasses of wine and then cried on the porch for an hour."
