Page 47 of Julian

But he doesn’t challenge me.

He never has.

“I see,” he says.

And then he lets it go.

I turn back toward the window and the snowfall that has become steady and continuous.

Behind me, I hear Percy adjust the tray slightly, restoring it to its proper position, reestablishing the order that was briefly disrupted.

“Is there anything else you require, sir?” he asks.

I shake my head, though the gesture is mostly for myself. “No.” A beat passes. “Thank you.”

It isn’t about the tea.

He knows that.

“Of course, sir.”

The door closes softly behind him, the sound swallowed by the room, and I’m left alone with the silence, the snow, and the photograph that sits just slightly out of place on the table behind me.

I stand there, watching the way the snow falls and somewhere in that quiet, my mind drifts back to that day.

The drive home from the hospital.

“Eyes forward, sir,” Percy had said from the driver’s seat, his words delivered as if he was almost amused, like he understood exactly what had shifted and had decided, generously, not to comment on it further.

It had been snowing then too.

I can still see the way the light caught in it, the way Kylie looked down at Ben as though he was the only thing that had ever mattered, the way I knew—without question—that nothing in my life would ever exceed that moment.

They were the center of everything.

Outside, the snow continues to fall.

And I remain where I am, watching it, the present and the past folding into each other just enough that it briefly becomes impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins.

Chapter 13

Harper

The bar scene isn’t for me, but for Abby, I make occasional exceptions.

Low sterile lighting emits an overly contrived aura. There’s a velvet banquette tucked along one wall, a long marble bar stretching the length of the room, and just enough space between tables to suggest exclusivity. It’s loud—but not obnoxiously so. Conversations carry, glasses clink, and behind the bar, a shaker snaps in rhythmic bursts between a bartender’s hands.

This is downtown Manhattan, Nolita to be precise, on a Thursday night.

And Abby was right—it’s packed.

“I told you,” she says, sliding onto the stool beside me with her signature confidence. “I saw this place all over Instagram. The lighting alone? Elite. And apparently”—she lifts a finger as the bartender approaches—“they have the best cosmos in Manhattan.”

I glance around, taking it in. The crowd is exactly what you’d expect—well-dressed and neatly groomed. Men in designer jeans, women in sleek silhouettes, everyone holding a drink that looks like it costs more than my weekly grocery budget.

“And,” Abby continues, leaning slightly closer, “the ratio of single, successful men to emotionally unavailable disasters is supposedly very favorable.”

“Supposedly,” I repeat, already skeptical.