“Why not?”
“Because I held out hope that Asher would come around. But then I saw the engagement announcement online, and I knew it was officially over. I should have accepted it already, but it didn’t feel real yet, you know?”
Jealousy simmers within me. Even after he cheated with her best friend and discarded her, she still clings to the hope that he might return? Why would she want that?
“Do you still want him?” I ask, holding my breath as I study her face, waiting for her response.
In those agonizing milliseconds before she answers—though it feels like hours—I pray she says no.
“I want the future I was building.”
“But you’re not in love with him anymore?”
Harper smiles softly, twisting her cup in her hands. “Asher was my first everything. We’ve been together since we were thirteen. There’s a part of me that will always love him.”
“But are you in love with him?”
Her gaze remains fixed on her coffee, but she tilts her head slightly. “I don’t know. It’s tough to sift through my feelings with all these other emotions swirling around.”
“What do you mean?”
“Am I still in love, or am I simply mourning the life I thought we were creating? Am I jealous, or just hurt by how everything unfolded? It’s hard to separate it all right now. It’s just a jumble of messy feelings.”
“I’ll stop by your place later to see if your dad needs anything. I meant it when I said that in the coffee shop,” I say.
Looking up, she seems taken aback. “Uh, yeah, he’ll appreciate that. I’ll… let you get back to work.”
I watch her leave, feeling guilty about how abruptly I ended our conversation. I needed her out of there before I said something I shouldn’t, something that might push her away.
Why does she still care about a man who treated her so poorly? Asher has always been that way. But now? Now he’s the embodiment of trash. He cheated on her with her best friend, gave Kenzie a cheaper version of the ring he once gifted Harper—which he pawned for cash—and stole her wedding dreams.
Why can’t she see that she deserves better? Someone who would move mountains for her if she asked. A man like me. Or just me.
Chapter 5
Harper
It feels like Ford has gone out of his way to avoid me since the coffee shop incident. He’s the first person who made me laugh about this situation when all I want to do is cry. I miss him.
At least Gina and Lance’s engagement party will keep me busy tonight. The Moose Lodge where it’s being held is already filling up, and I have the perfect excuse for not having a date: I’m the photographer.
I’m capturing candid shots of the room, searching for the perfect angles that will make it memorable for Gina, while successfully dodging awkward small talk from nosy neighbors eager to share their condolences about my lack of a date, my failed engagement, and my ex’s constant presence in my life.
Betsy Johnson tried to corner me again, so I maneuvered to the front door, the cold air acting as a barrier between us. She always complains about the chill, even in summer.
When Gina asked for decorating ideas, I shared everything I wanted for my own engagement party. Asher didn’t think throwing one was worthwhile, so we never had one.
There were definitely red flags I should have noticed, huh?
I even helped Mom decorate the Moose Lodge. Christmas lights twisted with garland are strung along the walls, and the tables are draped in deep red tablecloths, adorned with holly centerpieces. We’ve set up a beautifully lit archway as a photo prop, making the space stunning—especially for a place usually filled with aging men and the stale scent of cigar smoke.
Ford steps through the doors, and I can’t help but smile as I snap a few shots before he turns and catches my eye. The camera lens captures what my mind already knows: the crisp navy button-down stretched across shoulders that could carry a small village, the charcoal dress slacks that hug his thighs in ways flannel never could. His sleeves are rolled to reveal forearms mapped with veins, and the top button of his shirt strains slightly when he nods hello, as if the fabric itself is protesting its containment of him.
My fingertips tingle against the camera. God, what is wrong with me? This is my ex’s best friend.
He gives me one of those slow, deliberate nods that somehow communicates both respect and something decidedly less respectful, and I feel heat bloom from my chest to my hairline. My dress suddenly feels too tight, the room too warm, my skin too sensitive.
But then the next couple I photograph freezes that warmth like a January midnight: Kenzie, in her too-tight ruby dress with already-wilting curls, and Asher, with his practiced smile that never quite reaches his eyes, are walking right toward me.
