When I return to the city, work is a Band-Aid on the sucking chest wound Harper left me. But I cling to it anyway. Double shifts. Overtime. Extra calls. Anything that keeps my hands busy and my head quiet. Fire is easier than memory. It almost works.
Until Carlie tells me she is going to Harper’s wedding. I see the pictures on social media, each one gutting me. Not long after, my sister tells me Harper is pregnant. Quickly, the math runs through my head, and there’s no way it’s mine. It’s a relief, of sorts. As much as I’ve always wanted a family, I would hate myself if I ruined hers.
I pretend to be happy for her. Part of me is, because I wanted that for her. But the selfish asshole side of me rages.
And then one day, Carlie corners me in my kitchen one night, eyes sharp, voice shaking. She’s pieced it together, I’m not sure how. My silence tells her the rest. “She’s my friend, Aiden,” she snaps. “My best friend. She was twenty-two. What were you thinking?”
I don’t answer. There isn’t one that makes this better.
Then she says the words that stick. “You are never to speak to her again. Ever.”
I don’t argue. I don’t defend myself. I nod, because she’s right. Because whatever I felt doesn’t outweigh the damage I could’ve done to my sister. Because Harper had her whole life ahead of her, and I would’ve been the wrong gravity for her—too heavy, too broken, pulling her off course.
So I don’t argue. I let Carlie rant and be mad at me, because she sees Harper as a innocent in this. Can’t say I disagree. She sure as hell didn’t know what she was getting into with me.
Carlie forgives me eventually. In pieces. With boundaries. Harper’s name becomes something we don’t say.
Years pass. I stay alone by choice, or so I tell myself. Every relationship fizzles before it starts. Every woman gets compared to a ghost she never had a chance of beating.
It’s fucking stupid of me. I should try with someone else. But I don’t have it in me to give a shit.
I tell them that one-night stands are all I’m good for. A few try to fix me. You can’t fix another person, I tell them. The stubborn ones try anyway. But I get good at fending them off. It’s better for them to stay away from me. Selfish assholes deserve to be alone.
But sometimes, late at night, when the firehouse is quiet and sleep won’t come, I remember the way Harper looked at me like I was more than my damage. Like I was someone worth choosing.
I hate that she was wrong about me.
The only good thing I did that weekend was telling her I was a mistake. I deserve my solitude. I tell myself that I like the quiet. I prefer cooking for one. The pitter patter of little feet is not in my future. I’m a firefighter—it’s not fair to ask a child to never know when her father is coming home.
Family life isn’t for me.
Families are for people like Harper Myers.
HARPER
Friday nights at Clover & Mint have a rhythm I feel in my bones.
The music hums low and warm, something familiar enough to keep people lingering. Glassware clinks in constant counterpoint—ice cracking, shakers rattling, citrus peels misting over fresh cocktails. The bar is busy without being overwhelming yet, that sweet spot where energy buzzes but no one’s shouting.
I move behind the bar on autopilot. Pour. Shake. Strain. Garnish. Slide. Smile.
At twenty-eight, I’ve learned how to hold ten things in my head at once: which tabs are still open, who’s waiting for a refill, how low we’re running on mint, whether the guy at the end of the bar is about to start telling a story no one wants to hear. It’s a skill I’m proud of. One I earned.
“Harper.” Roz’s voice cuts through the noise from the far end of the bar.
“Two seconds,” I call back, already reaching for the muddler.
Six months ago, I moved back to Columbus with everything I owned stuffed into my car and a five-year-old who thought it was the best road trip of his life. A year ago, I signed divorce papersin a state that never really felt like home. Phoenix still feels like a mirage when I think about it—too hot, too bright, too intense in ways I didn’t understand until I left.
Roz sold me half the bar after I’d been back for a few weeks. Said she liked my instincts. My work ethic. My refusal to cut corners. I think she also saw how badly I needed something solid. After the renovations, the bar took off faster than either of us expected, especially in the Short North, where people want personality with their drinks and somewhere that feels like it belongs to them.
I glance toward the corner booth. Mason is perched sideways on the bench, legs tucked under him, tongue poking out in concentration as he colors. Dragons tonight. A fresh sheet of paper is already half-covered in thick crayon strokes, multiple heads sprouting from the same body.
A couple of regulars hover nearby like they’ve been invited to judge an art show. “That one looks fierce,” Mr. MacAllister says.
“All dragons are fierce,” Mason replies without looking up. “They protect treasure.”
“What kind of treasure?” Mrs. Baker asks.
