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“As a friend.”
He gave me a curt nod. “I’ll see what I can do.”
* * *
It’s Friday afternoon and I haven’t seen Harrison all week, which is kind of strange. Same goes for Monica and Eddie. The mysterious James PPO in the SUV seems to have done a great job of keeping the media away, so whenever I’ve walked Liza or gone on a coffee run or a hike, I haven’t seen them either. It’s been completely and utterly peaceful.
And, I have to say, a little boring. All I’ve been doing is reading and doing podcasts, more so than normal. All this time I wish I could talk about Harrison and Monica and everything that’s happening here, but I’ve managed to keep it just about the books this time. Luckily, I’ve been able to read a bunch of books featuring a “cinnamon roll hero” (which, no, has nothing to do with those gooey treats from the café and more to do with romance heroes with a soft center), enough that I have a good segment for my listeners, who seem to grow in numbers by the day.
My mother isn’t particularly good to talk to these days either. She’ll happily go on about Monica and Eddie, but if I bring up Harrison at all, she gives me that look, the look she’s given me in the past whenever I started dating someone. I know it doesn’t matter that I’m not dating Harrison, that the thought hasn’t crossed my mind (not to mention isn’t viable whatsoever), but she gives me that look all the same. Maybe because she thinks she knows me, thinks I’ll get some silly idea and start falling for him.
I am not falling for him. Not even close. Not even a little.
But I am spending the day pacing the house, wondering if I should gather up the courage to text Monica just to check in, just to see if Harrison comes up. I’m wondering if Harrison totally forgot about our non-date at the Blowhole. I’m also checking the front door constantly, thinking he might randomly turn up. But then again, why would he? He’s a PPO. His job is to protect the lives of the duke and duchess. His job isn’t to go on a faux date with some small-town schoolteacher as a favor, of all things.
By the time dinner rolls around and I’m helping my mom make a stew, I’ve mentally given up. There’s no way I’m going to the bar by myself. It was either I go with Harrison or not go at all. And I’m very aware that my motives for having Harrison there are on the petty side, but I think he knows that too.
I’ve physically given up too, resigned to sweatpants and a ratty flannel shirt, my hair pulled back into a tangled nest, as we sit on the couch, slurping on the stew as my mom flips through channels on the TV.
I’m trying my best not to be in a foul mood, especially since my moods, particularly my negative moods, tend to transfer to my mother. There’s a reason why I seem peachy keen most of the time—I’ve trained myself that way. Another thing that my therapist unveiled when we discussed my C-PTSD (or complex post-traumatic stress disorder). A lot of the time my negative emotions get buried because there’s no safe place for me to express them, and it’s been that way since I was a kid.
Even so, I know that this week reminded me of what my life is normally like: boring. And how much excitement the royals injected into it. Though my conversations with Monica and Harrison have been somewhat few and far between, just having that interaction with them makes me realize how badly I actually need a friend or two in my life.
I’m contemplating giving Cynthia a call, even though I’ve never really hung out with her outside of school, when Liza starts barking.
My mom and I both swivel our heads toward the front door seconds before there’s a knock.
My heart leaps in my chest.
It can’t be him.
I get up and go over, acutely aware of how awful I look but still hoping it’s Harrison all the same. I mean, who else could it be?
I open the door.
It’s Monica, looking sweet and elegant as usual.
“Hello, Piper,” she says, looking apologetic. “I’m so sorry for just stopping by and not texting. It just seemed silly when you live so close.” She looks past me to my mother on the couch and gives her a quick wave. “Good evening, Evelyn.”
“Princess, come on in!” my mother hollers. “I made stew!”
“We just ate, but thank you so much for the invitation,” Monica says. She fixes her deep brown eyes on me. “Harrison had mentioned earlier in the week that you wanted him to accompany you to the local bar tonight.”
