Page 72 of The Truth of Us

“I was young.”

“You bit a girl at a garden party because she said she was going to marry him.”

I gasped. “I was defending myself.”

“You were defending your claim,” he said with a wink at me.

“Oh my God.”

My father laughed. The kind that filled the room and made something inside me loosen. For a few seconds, I did not feel broken.

“He is doing well,” Dad said after a moment, his voice softening.

I looked towards the fire. “I’ve seen some of the work his nonprofit is doing.”

“It’s impressive.”

“It is.”

“He asks about you.”

I rolled my eyes, but my chest warmed unexpectedly. “Keeping tabs?”

“He asked when you would be home.” And he added, “He still brings your mother flowers.”

I took another sip of wine. Maybe staying was not the same thing as hiding, and going back to Chicago could wait.

“I’ll stay,” I said softly.

My father’s smile was gentle. “Good.”

Outside, snow continued to fall over Montgomery House. Inside, the fire burned low; my mother’s cookbook sat open on the kitchen counter, and somewhere down the hall my brother’s door remained closed. But for the first time in years, it did not feel like being sucked into the past. It felt like maybe, finally, being here could help me discover who I might become.

19

HARPER

By the time New Year's Eve arrived, the house felt lighter. Like someone had opened a window somewhere and let fresh air in.

The week after Christmas passed quietly. I slept and read. Worked remotely when I had to, giving my notice at work and helping transition my accounts. I spent more time with my father than I had in years. Some mornings we drank coffee in the library while he reviewed reports and I caught myself up on the workings of the foundation. Other days we walked the property together, boots crunching through snow while he pointed out improvements he wanted to make.

Tonight the house was glowing, it wasn’t polished or curated. It felt intimate, just family friends.

The people who had been here before everything changed, who remembered me.

I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing my hands down the skirt of my dress for the third time. It wasn't something my Chicago self would have chosen. The Harper Lane version of me preferred structure, sharp tailoring, and armor-like neutrals, clothes that forced people to take me seriously.

This dress was different. Soft, rose-colored, with long sleeves and a fitted bodice that spilled into a fluid skirt. It wasn't defensive. It was just... pretty.

My hair curled softly over my shoulders and down my back, and scattered across my nose and cheeks were tiny flecks of gold. Glitter freckles. I had seen them online, thought they looked cute, and then immediately regretted trying them. I leaned closer to the mirror, maybe they looked ridiculous. A knock sounded at my door.

"Come in."

My father stepped inside, and for a second he just stared. Something unreadable crossed his face, then he smiled. "My angel."

I laughed nervously. "What?"

He shook his head. "You look so much like your mother it nearly stopped my heart."