The ambulance arrives after a few excruciatingly long minutes. The paramedics work quickly, blocking me off from his leg as they wrap it up, though they can’t block the smell of burnt flesh. Or phrases like fourth-degree burns and lose his leg, which wash over me, building a base of sorrow and guilt in the pit of my stomach.
I’m in the waiting room for hours, rocking back and forth, one sentence repeating itself in my mind: if Rogan had stayed home like he wanted, this never would have happened.
Rogan might lose his leg . . . because of me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
HARPER
“Sorry about the wait.” Griffin wipes his hands on a dishtowel and slings it over his shoulder. “How are you, Harper?”
“Good.” I take a seat at the counter in the Lobster Landing and stare around at the bustling shop. “Gosh, it’s busier than I expected.”
“Tour group came through, but it should be fine soon.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed over his chest. Griffin looks so much like his brothers, with the exception of a few laugh lines around his eyes and a bit more wisdom in his features.
“Snowbird tour?”
“What else? And even though you have to talk louder than I’d prefer, at least the groups always love spending their money at the fudge counter. The snowbird tours make it a good Christmas over in the Knightly household.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt it.” I flip open my folder. “Mind if I go over a few things with you?”
“Not at all. Fire away.”
“Thanks. So Sally would love to use the Lobster Landing as the set for the old candy store, but they would need at least three days of no traffic to film. Do you think you can make that happen?”
“Three consecutive days?”
“Yes.” I wince.
He blows out a tight breath and looks out to the shop. “Yeah, I think we can make that happen. I was talking to Jen about what we would do if we had to shut down, and we think we’d just stock up on our most popular fudge and pastries and do a little pop-up stand over in the town square, next to the Snow Roast stall.”
“Oh wow, that’s a really cute idea.”
“We’ll make it happen on our end. You can tell them they can have the shop for three days, but no more.”
“Okay. That’s great.” I make a note. “They love the entire facade and decor, but they’ll have to take down merchandise and move a few things around on the counters, hang some props. Is that going to be okay?”
“Yup, just no extra holes.”
“Perfect.” I make another note.
“They were also wondering if any of the family members want to be extras. I already have Brig down. What about your parents?”
He plays with the towel hanging off his shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure they’ll want a part. You can count them in. Ren and Jen as well.”
I lift a brow. “And you?”
“I’m good.”
“Come on.” I playfully shove his hand. “You’re telling me the famous Griffin Knightly, the town’s resident sweetheart, isn’t going to have a cameo in Port Snow’s first-ever movie?”
He scratches the side of his jaw, looking up toward the ceiling. His whiskers are starting to gather a small splattering of gray, despite him still being young. Probably all those fires and emergencies—and losing Claire.
“Do you think people will be looking for me in the movie? You know, the other lifers?”
I chuckle. “You’re basically the unofficial mayor. I think people would expect the golden boy to show up in the movie.”
“Calling me golden boy isn’t helping.”
“You know what I mean.” I smile.
“Fine. But just a background guy. No lines or anything.”
Satisfied, I write his name down as a yes for an extra. I know I shouldn’t really care, but it would feel weird if Griffin weren’t in the movie. He’s the guy who made the movie happen in the first place, who brought the town together and made it impossible for Lovemark to say no. And the publicity this will bring to the town will be unbelievable.
“I think that’s all I need from you now.”
“Awesome.” He smiles and then says, “You look like you’re in your element with all this production stuff.”
“It’s fun for sure, something I never thought I would be doing, but I love the opportunity.”
“After the movie is done, would you want to continue to work with them?”
I work my jaw side to side, mulling over his question. I think the job is fun and exciting, and helping such a small town be recognized for its beauty soothes my soul, but I’m not sure about the hours and the wandering around from town to town the job would bring. I feel like I just found my home; would I be willing to pack up and move around again?
Instead of answering him directly, I shrug and say, “You never know.”
“Nice avoidance,” he says with a knowing smirk. “I’ll accept that for now, but I do have another question for you.”
Oh boy. From the look in his eyes, I know I’m not going to like it.
“Does this have anything to do with your brother?” I put my pen in my purse, ready for his answer.
“No,” he says smugly.
“Huh. Well, that’s shocking. You know I adore you Knightlys, but man, you do not know how to leave each other alone.”
“Sticking our noses into other people’s business is our job. It’s what we do best. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.” He pulls a cream-colored card from his back pocket and pushes it across the counter. Fall leaves decorate the border, and inscribed in a pretty brown font are the words You’re Invited. I don’t have to read the rest to know exactly what this is. I’ve received the card many times.
“Don’t think about who’s going to be there. Think about the food.”
I shake my head, unsure. “If you asked me seven years ago, you know I would have said yes.”
“You’re a part of this family, Harper.”
“Not anymore.” I look down, but he lifts my chin, meeting my eyes.
“You will always be a part of this family. I already spoke with your dad. He doesn’t have any plans for Thanksgiving, and he doesn’t want to cook. And I’m suspecting the only thing you can still make is boxed mac and cheese.”
“I can make quesadillas now.”
“Well, being that quesadillas aren’t Thanksgiving food, I’m going to count you and your dad as attending.”
“We’re doing dinner at the inn.”
He laughs, a knowing look in his eyes. “I’m surprised how easily you can forget about my roles in town. I run the events calendar, and I know for a fact the inn isn’t open for dinner that night. Trust me, before I even thought about handing you this card today, I ran down every excuse you could give me. You’re out of options. So you can either have dinner with my family, or you and your father can stay home, lonely and hungry.”
“Wow, what a beautiful picture you paint.” I stare down at the invite, the familiar embossed lettering stirring up an ache deep in my stomach. I miss the days when I could go over to the Knightlys’ house, not even knock, and act like I was one of them. It was my second home, and I want nothing more than to say yes, to relive those moments with them. “Rogan would hate it if I were there.”
“Really? Because from what the newspaper said, I think he would love to have you.”
“I don’t know . . . it’ll be awkward.”
“It’ll be fun. Say yes, because your dad already has.”
I groan and lower my head to the bar. “You are all meddlers!”
“You know, the more you fidget, the more you show how nervous you are,” Jen says, coming up next to me in the living room.
It’s no surprise that the Knightlys went all out this year. There’s a long table in the dining room full of food ready to be consumed, and in the living room is a line of tables draped in orange tablecloths and set with beautiful white dinnerware. Scattered around the house are floral decoratio
ns in harvest hues, and in the center of the table is a bountiful cornucopia overflowing with fruits and flowers.
Mrs. Knightly sure knows how to make the holidays feel homey.
“I am nervous, though.”
“Yeah, but you don’t want to give yourself away. Be cool, Harper.”
That makes me laugh. “Easy for you to say. You’re not having Thanksgiving dinner with your ex-boyfriend’s family.”
Jen nods toward the back of the house, where we can hear my dad’s laugh. “Seems like your dad is enjoying himself.”
“He’s always enjoyed your family, especially your dad. He loves all the tales of his fudge experiments.”
“At least someone enjoys them.” Jen rolls her eyes.
Scanning the open space, I bite my bottom lip. Where the hell is Rogan? The last time I spoke with him was through text, when he said he couldn’t “just be friends” with me. I’ve read over our text conversation at least ten times, and with each pass, the idea of falling for him again feels less and less impossible—and entirely anxiety provoking.
But I don’t know if my heart could take a round two . . . or even if I can forgive him for round one.
“He’s supposed to be here. He’s just running late.”
“What?” I ask, trying to act as nonchalant as possible. “Who?”
Jen purses her lips. “You know exactly who I’m talking about.”
There’s no use playing dumb. I sigh and lean against the wall, needing the extra support for my emotionally exhausted body.
“I think he wants more, Jen.”
“Of course he wants more. He’s wanted more from the moment he broke things off with you. He’s just finally starting to do something about it.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m not sure I can handle that. He hurt me, Jen.” I press my hand against my forehead. “I haven’t had the best track record in relationships.” I glance around, making sure no one is eavesdropping. “My last relationship wasn’t amazing, and it’s the main reason I’m back here, trying to figure out life, which is something I haven’t really told anyone. I would hate to jump into another failed relationship when I’m just starting to find my bearings. Sally is really impressed, and I really think this is something I could truly do.”
“What does that have to do with Rogan?”
“I got lost in him before, based my entire life around him.” I shake my head solemnly. “I can’t do that again. It burned me, bad. He left me with nothing.”
“Then don’t get lost in him. Just because you want a career doesn’t mean you need to sacrifice love. You have to find the balance, Harper. You can have both, and believe me, Rogan would support you in all your endeavors. He’s a different man now.”
I’ve noticed. Back in high school and college, he was madly in love with me, but he was also a little selfish. I loved that he had a goal, a vision for the both of us. But that was also a time when I was supposed to be making my own goals.
I failed.
Terribly.
“I don’t know . . .” Before I can finish my thought, the door opens and Rogan breezes in, a can of cranberry sauce in one hand, wearing his signature black wool coat, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of dark jeans. At least there’s one thing I know for sure: my attraction to him hasn’t changed.
Mrs. Knightly is the first to greet him, pressing a quick kiss against his cheek. “You made it. How was your friend?”
“Good.” He holds out the can of cranberry sauce. “For the table.”
Mrs. Knightly rolls her eyes. “Oh, you shouldn’t have.”
“It’s the least I can do. If you need me to slice it up, just ask.” He glances around the house. When his eyes land on me, I catch my breath, suddenly unable to fill my lungs with air.
Giving his mom a quick peck on the cheek, he makes his way toward me. He wraps an arm around Jen and brings her into a side hug, then reaches for me. Before I can think to protest, he pulls me in and wraps me up into a full-frontal embrace, his chin resting on the top of my head, stirring up a whirlwind of emotions in my chest. I don’t know if I’ll make it out of this house with my heart fully intact.
“Happy Thanksgiving, Harp.”
The sturdiness of his arms around me, protecting me, the deep woodsy scent of his cologne . . . it’s all too much.
Don’t lose it, not here. Not now.
Swallowing down the grief for what we once had, I pull away and put my hands in the pockets of my dress. “Happy Thanksgiving, Rogan.”
His eyes burn up and down my body, taking in my black leggings, deep plum dress, and the mustard yellow scarf loosely wrapped over my shoulders.
“You look beautiful.”
You look so handsome, handsome enough for me to forget everything that happened in the past and start anew . . . but I don’t say that.
I can’t.
“Thank you.” Feeling awkward, especially since our last conversation keeps passing through my mind, I change the subject. “You were with a friend?”
“Yeah, same person I see every Friday, but since it’s Thanksgiving, I thought I’d make a quick visit and bring her some cranberry nut bread from the shop.”
“That was nice of you. Remind me of her name again.”
He chuckles. “Nice try.”
Jen pats my shoulder and walks toward the kitchen, calling out, “He hasn’t told anyone who his ‘friend’ is. We’re all starting to think it’s all in his mind, just like that stupid curse.”
Eyes squeezed shut, Rogan groans.
Oh my God, I can’t believe I forgot to ask . . .
The curse!
At least I have a little fodder now, something other than awkward tension to fill the time while the turkey roasts.
“Ah . . . yeah, that reminds me.” I fold my arms over my chest. “I did hear about that curse.”
He drags his hand over his face. “You can’t believe—”
“It’s so fucked up,” Brig interjects, stepping up to us, holding a glass of apple cider in one hand and a pickle in the other. Um, gross. “This lady goes and casts a curse on us because we broke her palm-reading table. We said we were sorry. I really think it’s the reason I haven’t been able to hold a steady relationship.”
Rogan grips his shoulder. “No, that’s all on you, bro. You’re too clingy.”
“I’m not fucking clingy. I’m attentive. Sorry if being romantic is perceived as clingy these days. Honestly, the dating world is one fucked-up game of trickery and deception. What happened to being open and honest? Like, I can totally tell when you’re using a Snapchat filter. The only hope I have at this point is Griffin. It’s not like Rogan here is making any progress with you.” My pulse quickens at that.
“Dude . . . ,” Rogan scolds.
“Oh, please. Harper isn’t dense. She can see the way you look at her, how your eyes light up the minute she steps into a room, how you suck in a short breath of air when she makes eye contact with you. It’s written all over your face.”
“Beat it, or I’ll beat you,” Rogan hisses in response.
With a satisfied smile, Brig starts to walk away, but not before saying, “He wants you . . . bad.”
Even though the admission is terrifying and thrilling all at the same time, I can’t help but chuckle at the distraught look on Rogan’s face.
At my laugh, the crease in his brow relaxes. “You think that’s funny?”
“Of course. Little brothers may grow up, but they’re still little brothers. That was classic Brig, always blowing up your spot.”
“That’s my life.” He shifts on his feet and winces but covers it up quickly by saying, “Come with me.” It’s the first time I’ve seen him with any sort of pain in his leg. His workout routine must have really helped him heal. I’m tempted to ask, but I hold back, not wanting to bring up the past in the middle of the living room.
Clearly determined to keep me away from his family, he takes my hand and guides me to the stairway.
�
��Where are you taking me?”
“To my room.”
In a flash, he’s leading me up the long flight. Even though I tell myself not to, I can’t help but look at his right leg, wrapped up in his tight-fitting jeans. I desperately want to ask him how he is, but it’s one subject I can’t get myself to touch upon, one question I can’t seem to voice. And I’m sure it’s not something he wants to talk about . . . ever. But still, I’m curious.
Thankfully, from the continuously active lifestyle he seems to lead, I can gather that he’s okay and that he’s hopefully moved on. At least that’s what I try to tell myself.
But with every step we climb, I notice a hitch in his step, a slight pain in his stride, scorching up the side of his leg, a reminder of that night.
The smell.
The burning flames.
The ash of his pants.
His black and burnt leg . . .
The end of his career.
It’s still raw, still heavy on my heart, a weighted brick of guilt on my conscience.
We make the turn down the hall once we reach the top step and pass a few doors before we step through the familiar navy-blue door at the end of the hallway. He pushes inside, and it’s like stepping back into the past. Sports posters still hang on the wall, encased footballs are displayed on his shelf, and the bed where we had many . . . dry-humping sessions is still covered in his navy-blue comforter from years ago.
Pressing past the memories that immediately tighten my throat, I take a deep breath and look around. “Wow, nothing has changed.”
“All our rooms are like this, little shrines to our childhoods. My parents refuse to change them. When Jen brings the kids over here, they get the choice of which room they want to stay in. They love the different ‘themes.’”
“Oh, I’m sure. What was it . . .” I think about it for a second. “Griffin was in the basement with Jen. Jen’s room was lined with New Kids on the Block posters; Griffin’s was neat and clean, nothing on the wall besides pictures of him and Claire.”
Rogan nods.
That Forever Girl Page 23
