Bigger Rock

by Lauren Blakely

  She nods and takes a deep breath. “Right. Of course.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  She shakes her head and flashes a smile. “No, it’s not bad. Your work is your passion. I get it. That makes sense. I feel the same. But my work involves kids, so I guess it’s natural that I’d think about it more. Doesn’t mean I want to get knocked up anytime soon, though.” She holds up a finger for emphasis. “However, I will most definitely want to snuggle that baby when Serena comes home with it.”

  Snuggling babies. Such a foreign notion to me. But this whole past hour has occurred on another planet—Babylandia—and it’s not one I’m terribly keen to visit again soon. Even so, I’m still in awe of how swiftly she handled the situation. “How did you know what to do? With her?”

  She laughs. “It’s not that hard.”

  “Oh yes, it is,” I say, nodding vigorously as we wander uptown. “I didn’t even know what Braxton Hicks were. I can’t imagine what happened when her water broke in the ladies’ room. Please don’t tell me what that was like.” I hold up a hand like a stop sign. “I’m just glad you were there.”

  “Me, too. For her sake. And to answer your question, my friend Abby took a CPR and first-aid class when she started nannying a few years ago, and she asked me to go with her. I figured it couldn’t hurt, since I never know in my job if someone will ever get hurt or sick. And that’s one of the things they touched on. What to do if someone goes into labor.”

  “And you had the car right away, too,” I add.

  She gives a one-shouldered shrug and a smile. “As for my amazing Uber-ordering skills,” she says, and wiggles her fingers, “all I can say is I’ve got some magic hands. They’re quite fast.”

  I kiss her palm. Then each knuckle. “I’m quite fond of these hands,” I say, and for the first time I’m not playing with double meanings. Especially when I slide my fingers through hers. “I like holding your hand.”

  “I love it, too.” Then her eyes light up with an I’ve got an idea twinkle. “Hey! Want to go get a gift for Uber?”

  I frown in confusion.

  She nudges my side. “The baby, silly. We can stop at An Open Book. It’s on the way to your house.”

  “Let’s do it.”

  A little while later, we walk through the front door of the bookstore, and I do a double take.

  Holy fuck.

  I blink.

  Blink again.

  Long black hair. Haunting silver-gray eyes. Carved cheekbones. Ten, maybe fifteen years on me. She’s as gorgeous as the day I met her. I’m not seeing things. There, in the romance section, running her fire-engine-red nails along the spines, is J. Cameron.

  30

  From above the shelves, she catches my eye. A what-a-nice-surprise-to-see-you grin spreads on her face, and J. Cameron emerges from behind the display, dressed in tight jeans, black heels, and a clingy red top.

  “Nick,” she says, her voice smoky and befitting her profession. She drops a kiss on my cheek. I tense, hoping her touchy-feely ways don’t tick off Harper.

  “Hey, Jillian. How are you?” I ask, and the words come out dry and scratchy as I use her name, the one I always called her by. I glance at Harper. Her face is impassive, revealing nothing.

  “I’m fabulous. I’m back from Italy. My new book just released, and I have a signing here tomorrow. I always like to get the lay of the land beforehand.” She turns to Harper and extends a hand. “I’m Jillian, or J. Cameron. So lovely to meet you. I’m jealous of your hair,” she says, and gestures to Harper’s red locks.

  “I’m Harper. I’m jealous of your fictional characters. They have the best nights ever,” she says with a wink, and I nearly stumble.

  Holy hell. The tension in me ratchets up because I do not want the conversation going in a direction where they casually tango near bedroom exploits of her imaginary characters.

  “They do have quite a good time, don’t they?” Jillian flashes another smile. “What brings you both to An Open Book tonight?”

  “Harper helped deliver a baby,” I blurt out, and I clasp her hand as if I’m proud of her. Then I realize I sound like Harper around Simon. My heart rate quickens, because this is too weird to be in the same five-foot radius as my ex-lover and my current lover. Harper knows all these things I’ve done with Jillian because of her book, and all I want to do is reassure Harper that it meant nothing, and no one can even hold a candle to her.

  “How exciting!”

  Harper downplays her role again. “All I did was order an Uber when her water broke in the ladies’ room.”

  I shake my head, squeezing her hand. “No, she was amazing. She made sure that my co-worker Serena felt calm on the way to the hospital, and that everything was going to be fine,” I say, and cast my gaze to Harper, trying to meet her eyes, to read her thoughts, to figure out how she feels right now—if she’s jealous, or annoyed, or embarrassed. I want to tell her I don’t think about other women, I don’t fantasize about them, and she’s the only one I’ve wanted in any way, shape, or form for months.

  Harper points to the back of the store. “I need to run to the ladies’ room. Never got to use it at the party.”

  She darts away.

  And now it’s just Jillian and me in the new release section, a slice of my past sliding into my present. “You look amazing,” she says, and runs her hand briefly down my shoulder. Her touch does nothing for me. It’s only friendly.

  “So do you,” I say politely.

  She raises an eyebrow and then pushes a strand of my hair off my forehead. “Somebody’s in love.”

  “You’re in love? That’s great,” I say, flashing a smile, because I’m happy for her.

  Smiling, she shakes her head then corrects me. “No. You are.”

  I frown. Make a huge no gesture with my hands. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “No, it’s not. I can tell these things.”

  “Because you’re a writer?”

  “You never looked at me the way you look at her.”

  I barely process what she’s saying. It’s not computing. It’s too strange to hear my ex psychoanalyze me, so I turn it around. “You didn’t want that. That wasn’t what we were about.”

  “I know, but perhaps she wants it.” Jillian tips her forehead toward the restroom.

  I frown in confusion, trying to make sense of her comment. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I see it. In the two of you.”

  I roll my eyes, trying to show how much I want to brush off her suggestion. “Whatever you say.”

  But the truth is I don’t want to dismiss the idea at all. She sounds wise and insightful, especially when she adds, “Think about it, sweetie. There’s something there.”

  I latch on to her comments, wondering now if she’s onto something. If she’s figured out the puzzle of Harper in a way I haven’t. It can’t be true, right? She can’t possibly be accurate in her observation. I should drop this conversation. Let it go, poof, like a disappearing rabbit. But the denial I practiced a few seconds ago vanishes, and now the idea takes hold, digging roots into some part of my heart that barely gets used. “Do you really think so?” My voice rises at the end.

  Jillian parts her lips to respond then shuts them a few seconds later as Harper returns to my side.

  “I should go. Get my beauty sleep before the signing. It was lovely meeting you,” Jillian says to Harper then shifts her attention to me. “And to answer your question, yes, I really do think so.” She takes a beat then adds, “I do think it will be a great turnout tomorrow, and I can’t wait.”

  She spins efficiently on her heel, having answered my question about Harper and ensured, too, that Harper didn’t know we were talking about her.

  After Jillian leaves, Harper clears her throat. “So I was thinking about getting Uber I Love You to the Moon and Back. It’s a great book.”

  “Can we add in a copy of Harry Potter, too? For when Uber is older?”

  �
�That sounds perfect.”

  The weirdest thing is, buying a gift for a baby with her isn’t weird at all. It feels right, in its own way.

  “It’s nice you’re friends with someone you used to go out with,” Harper says almost wistfully when we return to my place, the door clicking shut.

  I shrug. “Yeah, it is. Though, I wouldn’t say we’re friends.”

  “But you got along so well at the bookstore,” she points out.

  “It was amicable. We never had deep feelings for each other.” I lean against the kitchen counter and toss my jacket on a stool, then set down the bag with the gift for Serena’s baby. Harper sheds her coat.

  “Did it bother you to run into her?” I ask, reaching for her hand. She lets me hold it. “I couldn’t tell at the bookstore, and I was hoping you weren’t upset.”

  She juts up a shoulder. “I wasn’t upset. But it was a little odd, to be honest.” Her voice drops a notch. “Mostly because I feel like I can’t compare.”

  I shake my head and pull her close, my heart lurching toward her. “Stop. There’s no comparison.”

  “But you chose to be with her. You’re just doing this with me because I asked.”

  My shoulders sink. “I can’t believe you’d think that. This is not an obligation. It’s the best time I’ve had in ages.”

  Best time.

  Okay, maybe that wasn’t the most romantic word choice, but I don’t really know what this conversation is about, or how to properly reassure her that she’s amazing.

  “I’ve had a good time, too,” she says softly.

  I tilt my head, try to study her, to figure out what’s going on in her head—but even more so, what’s in her heart, and if it’s even remotely close to matching what’s in mine. I can’t tell, and I desperately want to know. Because if there’s a chance she feels the same, I should say something. I should let her know I don’t want this time with her to end.

  “What’s going on, Harper? You seem pensive,” I say and brush a strand of hair from her cheek.

  She nibbles on her lip, looks away, then turns back to me, and the words spill out, piling on top of each other like clowns spilling out of a car. “I-keep-wondering-do-you-think-we’ll-be-like-that?”

  “What?” I ask, as my heart speeds up. She’s never spoken that quickly with me. She’s never used her awkward language, and it gives me this wild burst of hope. Maybe Jillian is right.

  Holy shit, I hope Jillian is right.

  Harper slows, takes a breath. “Will we stay friends?”

  The burst of hope dies a cruel, painful death. All the air leaks out of me and I’m utterly deflated, even though I knew this was coming. I’ve known from the start. Her actions have always told me I’m not a guy she wants to date.

  But I can’t let on how hard this hits.

  “Of course,” I say with a big smile, trying to mask the disappointment rooting in my chest. Because as tough as it will be to not be intimate with her, losing her friendship will be much worse. Maybe best time wasn’t such a bad description after all—Harper and I do have an amazing time together, and I can’t imagine not having her in my life. These last few weeks have been the most fun, vibrant, and wonderful time I’ve had with anyone. If she were gone entirely in the wake of some breakup or weird romantic misunderstanding, that fate would be worse. “That’s what you want, right?”

  She nods. “I do want to stay friends. You and Jillian get along. And I want that to be us. I want to go to your signings and save you in line from women with magic bullets in their pockets and dangerous biker husbands. I want to get you detergent to clean the hot chocolate I spill on you. And if you need me at a bowling tournament to throw a few frames, I want to be the one tossing the gutter balls,” she says quickly, racing through each sentence, barely breathing. “I want to see you at dinner with Spencer and Charlotte, or just walking dogs in the park with your brother. Or if you ever get a new shower, I want to help you pick it out.”

  God, her words kill me and lift me up. They make me feel so good, and so fucking awful at the same time. Because it’s clear what she’s saying. When this ends. Because it will end. It has to. It has a beginning, and it will have an end, like all the others who have come and gone. Even though I will miss this woman in a way I never have anyone else.

  And I wish that I could tell her I want to be so much more than her wingman and buddy. But if I tell her that, will I risk losing her as a friend, too?

  There’s no answer key for me to follow on this count. I can read her cues in bed, but I haven’t the foggiest idea what would happen if I told her I didn’t want to be her teacher—I want to be her guy.

  I choose the path I can see clearly. “Harper, you better always be in my life. It’s just brighter and more fun with you in it. And if you need me to . . .” I trail off because what have I actually done for her? Offered dating advice? Mocked a dude who used emoticons? Or just introduced her to multiple orgasms? Is that the mark I’ve left? “If you need anything, I’m your man.”

  She smiles faintly, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Will you take me to the train station tomorrow? After Hayden’s party that I’m doing,” she says, and I force myself to blot out the reminder of Hayden’s father, Simon. “I have to go to Connecticut in the afternoon. Remember?”

  I nod. She told me she had some parties there this weekend for a few of the Manhattan moms she’s worked for, who’ve since moved to the suburbs, and asked me to feed Fido on Sunday. I don’t even know why she wants me to go with her to Grand Central. But I’ll go. “Of course.”

  My chest is hollow. Taking her to the train station feels so inadequate for all that I’m learning I want with her. But I can’t hang my hat on something a romance writer thinks. Jillian wants to believe in true love. She makes a living out of buying into storylines about how the little sister falls for her brother’s best friend, and how lessons in sex turn into happily-ever-after. But this is real life. Real life is full of asshole bosses, and unrequitedness, and guys who are lucky enough to have everything they’ve ever wanted when it comes to work, and life, and art . . . but who would be fools to think they get to have it all in love, too.

  I’m not bitter. I’m not angry. I’m just realistic. Harper Holiday has always been a moment in time, and I’ve never been a love-struck fool. I’m a serial monogamist, and this series of nights with her is chugging to its inevitable end.

  I reach for her shirt, tug her close, and bring her body flush to mine. “Harper,” I breathe. “You have to know how much I’ve loved everything with you.”

  “Me too, Nick. Me, too.” She plays with my hair then says, “Do you want to tie me to the fridge?”

  I manage a small laugh. “No. I want something else.”

  “What do you want?” she asks, her eyes looking so vulnerable.

  “I want to have you. As many more times as I possibly can.”

  She presses her forehead to mine, her lips brushing my lips as she whispers, “Have me.”

  That begins another night of bliss with her, even though I can’t help but hear the ticking of the clock as we wind down.

  31

  I pace up and down Sixty-Second Street. I drag my hand through my hair. I stare at my phone again.

  I am not jealous that she’s with Simon. I am not annoyed.

  I check my texts again.

  * * *

  Princess: Running late. I helped them clean up and then had to grab a coffee after the party.

  * * *

  I will my teeth to unclench. I let go of the jealousy roiling inside me. Harper is a friend, and I won’t lose her as a friend.

  I think of my dad and his yoga mantras, his calm demeanor. The guy is unruffled, and he takes everything in stride. Yup. That’s me. Life is good, I’m a lucky bastard, and I’m as cool as Saturn’s surface with the fact that Harper is getting a coffee with Simon before I take her to Grand Central Station for God knows what reason.

  Besides, I’ve got my own coffee
. So there.

  When Harper rounds the corner, clutching a paper cup, the Hemsworth dad by her side, his hand wrapped around into his daughter’s smaller one, I take a deep, fueling breath.

  Because you know what? He’s better for her than I am. She likes kids. She wants kids. She’s really good with them. I didn’t even know what a Braxton Hicks contraction was.

  If I’m going to be her friend, I have to let this envy go.

  They stride up to me, and I paste on my biggest, brightest, happiest, shit-eating, nothing-is-fucking-wrong-with-me smile. “Hey Harper. How are you?” I turn to Thor and say hello. “How’s it going, man? Was the party good?”

  Hayden goes first. “It was the best ever. Anna the Amazing did the coolest tricks.”

  “She was incredible,” Simon says, chiming in, and nope, I totally don’t want to put chicken bouillon in the showerhead in his bathroom. Nope. I don’t want to swap out his deodorant for cream cheese. Because really, I haven’t done that shit since I was sixteen and pranking Wyatt.

  I’m a grown man, and I don’t need to beat my chest or stoop to that level. Besides, I can be Harper’s friend, even if she dates this dude and wears her butterfly panties for him.

  Smoke billows out my eyes as that image evilly taunts me. I crush the coffee cup in my hand, and the remnants of my drink squirt all over the sidewalk.

  Oops.

  Hemsworth: one. Nick: zero.

  “Everything okay?” Harper asks as I toss the cardboard cup in the trash can then try to wipe the drink from my hands.

  I laugh it off. “Shouldn’t have upped the weights at the gym this week. Didn’t realize how strong my forearms were getting.”

  “My daddy is strong, too,” Hayden says and grabs Simon’s arm and holds it up. Yeah, he’s a candidate for arm porn, too. Curses. “He’s a super star!”

  “That’s what she calls me,” Simon says, in an “aw shucks” manner, and it is not fair that this guy looks like a movie star and is humble, too. It’s like finding out your favorite athlete gives all his money to animal charities.