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But if he feels it, he doesn’t show it. In his professionalism, he strides toward the dryer and starts throwing the laundry in.
“I’m going to go unload the groceries,” I tell him.
“Need any help?” he asks, pausing.
“No. Just do what you have to do here . . .”
I leave the room and head back out onto the path and up toward the car, feeling uneasy. Not in a bad way, per se, but after everything, and especially after what Monica said, I feel like whatever strange and fleeting relationship we had before was . . . just that. Strange and fleeting. And that it won’t ever go beyond that.
And that doesn’t stop me from being foolishly disappointed for the way my feelings went. I never believed I had a chance with Harrison, never really thought he would be interested in me, definitely didn’t think that something would or could happen between us even if he was. But I still had feelings all the same, and there’s really nothing I can do about them except suck it up and try to forget about it.
It’s just hard when he lives next door. Even harder when he has to come by to do the laundry.
I’m heading back for the third paper bag full of groceries when I see Harrison going to the trunk of the car and scooping it up in his arms.
“I’ve got it,” I tell him.
“Oof, it’s heavy,” he says, ignoring me and brushing past me to the house. “What did you buy?” He pauses by the front door and peers inside. “A million bags of flour?”
“Shhh,” I tell him, trying to wrestle the bag away from him, but he’s not having it. “It’s a surprise for my mom. She’s . . . not doing too well.”
Harrison’s face softens. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay, but please, let me have this.” I hold my arms out for the bag. “I don’t think it’s a good idea if she sees you in the house.” Another thing to set her off.
He nods, handing the bag to me, then anxiously rubs his fingers along his scruffy chin. “Yes, of course.”
I take the bag and head inside, placing it on the counter.
Then I head over to the door to close it, but Harrison is still there.
“Can I . . . talk to you?” he asks. “Somewhere private?”
I swallow. I don’t know what I’m expecting, but it can’t be good.
“Sure,” I tell him, trying to smile. “How about the dock? I mean, my dock. It’s half-sunken, but as long as no media are out and about, we should have it all to ourselves.”
I close the door, and he follows me the other way around the house, past the garden (which I eye with disdain since the blackberries have returned), and down the rickety wooden steps that lead to the dock.
Even though it’s the afternoon and it’s north facing, there’s still a bit of sunshine left. I would usually feel relaxed the moment I step here, but with Harrison with me, there’s no chance of that. I sit down on the more buoyant edge of the dock and stare out at the narrow isthmus, the fancy houses that line the shore on the other side.
Harrison stands beside me for a moment, seemingly not sure what to do. Then he finally sits down on the dock beside me, crossing his long legs. Probably doesn’t want to get his suit dirty.
“So . . . what’s up?” I ask him, trying to keep my tone light. “Haven’t seen you for a while.”
“I know,” he says, clearing his throat. “I wanted to come by earlier and talk to you, but . . .”
I wait for him to finish. Ahead of us on the water a fish jumps.
“I just wanted to apologize.”
I turn my head and squint at him. “What for?”
“For a couple of things. But what it really comes down to is that I’m sorry for being a wanker.”
“You aren’t a wanker—”
“No.” He shakes his head vehemently. “No, you’re wrong, Piper. I was a wanker. I got drunk and did things I shouldn’t have done. I acted like a bloody fool, and I embarrassed you, and I’m sorry.”
“You didn’t embarrass me!” I exclaim. “Honestly, you didn’t.”
“I did. If I hadn’t been . . . If I hadn’t lost my temper around that cockweasel, then I wouldn’t have made front-page-fucking-news. And you would have been spared.”
“They didn’t name me, and anyway, I don’t care. I was there. I know what happened. You stuck up for me.”
“Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have.”
Ouch. Now that’s a blow to the chest. “But . . . I’m glad you did. You don’t know what that meant to me.”
“I acted like an idiot. Like I had no control. I just . . . lost it, at a time I shouldn’t have.”
