"Thank you for doing this. I have a feeling this will be exactly the change of pace you need. Maybe you can even enjoy the mountain town a bit while you're there?"
Harper gathered her things. "I doubt I'll have time to relax, but I'll try my best to take some time for myself if I can."
Even as she said it, Harper knew it was a lie. She didn't know how to take time for herself—had never learned that particular skill. But something about the promise felt important, as if she were making a commitment not just to Bella, but to some part of herself she'd forgotten existed.
The afternoon sun slanted through the windows as Harper headed for the door, already mentally cataloging everything she needed to accomplish before tomorrow morning. Pack clothes suitable for mountain weather. Call Dr. Morrison about covering her sessions. Be open-minded about this spontaneous assignment in the mountains with a shifter community.
Twenty minutes later, Harper's key turned in the lock with the same hollow click that had greeted her every evening for the past six months. The sound echoed through her small house—a tidy two-bedroom in a neighborhood where young professionals convinced themselves they were building something meaningful.
The silence hit her like a physical weight as she stepped inside, her work bag sliding off her shoulder to land on the hardwood floor with a soft thud. Six months ago, this same entrance would have been filled with Matt's voice calling from the kitchen, asking about her day or complaining about his latest client. The memory felt both distant and immediate, like pressing on a bruise that had never quite healed.
Six months ago, everything seemed manageable.
She'd had her routine down to a science: morning sessions with her private practice clients, afternoons at the community center, weekends split between volunteering and whatever Matthad planned. It felt productive and purposeful. Like she was building a life that mattered.
Harper kicked off her shoes and surveyed the living room that still looked exactly as it had the day Matt moved his things out. Same cream-colored walls, same secondhand furniture arranged with careful precision, same stack of psychology journals on the coffee table that she never seemed to have time to read. The only difference was the absence—no guitar propped against the wall, no pile of his books creating precarious towers on every surface, no warm body sprawling across the couch complaining about his day.
The memory of their final fight surfaced unbidden as she walked toward the kitchen. Matt had been sitting at her small dining table, his fingers drumming against the wood in the way that always meant he was building up to something important.
"Harper, we need to talk about priorities."
She could still see the earnest expression on his face, the way he'd leaned forward like he was delivering wisdom instead of an ultimatum.
"I need more from you than stolen moments between your clients and those kids at the center. When's the last time we had a full weekend together?"
Harper opened her refrigerator now, staring at its sparse contents—yogurt, leftover takeout, and a bottle of wine she'd been saving for some celebration that never came. She could hear Matt's voice as clearly as if he were standing behind her.
"Maybe you should cut back on the volunteering. We could have our weekends back. And your evening sessions—do you really need to see clients until eight o'clock? Other therapists manage normal hours."
Even now, the memory of her response made her chest tight with a mixture of anger and something that might've been grief.
"Those kids need consistency, Matt. I can't just abandon them because you want more date nights."
"I'm not asking you to abandon anyone. I'm asking you to make room for us."
Harper pulled a frozen dinner from the freezer—some processed approximation of comfort food wrapped in cheerful packaging that promised satisfaction it couldn't deliver.
Matt's final words echoed in the kitchen's silence. "I need someone who can give me the attention you give those kids. I need to matter as much as your job."
The microwave hummed to life, and Harper found herself leaning against the counter, remembering the cold finality in his voice when she'd refused to reduce her hours or give up her weekend volunteering. She'd expected him to argue, to fight for what they'd built together. Instead, he'd nodded like she'd confirmed something he'd already decided.
The frozen dinner rotated slowly behind the microwave's glass door, and Harper watched it with the same detached attention she'd given Matt as he packed his things. He was professional, efficient, like he was checking items off a list rather than dismantling a three-year relationship.
Maybe it's better this way,she'd told herself then.No distractions. No one demanding time I don't have.
The microwave beeped, and Harper carried her dinner to the dining table where Matt had delivered his ultimatum. The pasta tasted like cardboard and artificial herbs, but she ate methodically, the way she did everything—focused on the task rather than the experience.
Her house felt enormous and claustrophobic simultaneously. Every room held evidence of her carefully constructed solitude: the bedroom where she slept alone, the second bedroom she'd converted into a home office, the living room where she spentevenings reviewing case files instead of sharing them with someone who cared about her victories and frustrations.
I'm a competent, strong woman who pours herself into others,Harper reminded herself, stabbing at her reconstituted vegetables.That's important work. That matters.
But her traitorous heart whispered back.What about someone pouring themselves into you? What about healing the broken parts of you? What about feeling like you're enough just as you are?
Harper pushed the thought away with practiced efficiency. She'd learned long ago that depending on others was a luxury she couldn't afford—a lesson her childhood had driven home with brutal clarity. Self-reliance was safety. Independence was strength.
She finished her meal in silence, rinsed the plastic container, and headed toward her bedroom to pack for tomorrow's mysterious assignment. Soon, her suitcase lay open on the bed like a mouth waiting to be fed, and she began folding clothes with methodical precision.
Mountain weather, Gerri had said. Harper packed warm layers, sturdy boots, and professional clothes that could handle whatever she might encounter in a shifter community that didn't exist on maps. As she worked, the house seemed to press in around her, amplifying every small sound—the whisper of fabric, the soft thud of shoes hitting the suitcase bottom, the distant hum of her neighbor's television through the thin walls.
