Garrett, never subtle, claps me on the shoulder hard enough to rattle my teeth. “Look at you, all reinstated and shit. Try not to go rogue again for at least a week.”
The laughter that follows is easy and genuine, and I feel something settle into place inside me. I didn’t lose this. I didn’t lose them. Whatever Internal Affairs put on paper, the people who actually mattered saw what happened for what it was.
Outside of work, the city does something I didn’t expect. It rallies.
Once Marcus is officially convicted, insurance clears faster than anyone thought it would. The arson charges stick with enough evidence to make an appeal into a distant fantasy.Reconstruction begins almost immediately, thanks to some old patrons who happened to be contractors. They were chomping at the bit to get started, and the skeleton of Harper’s bar rises again.
They waive fees, and local suppliers give discounts, trying to get the bar back on its feet. Harper doesn’t know how to process it at first.
She stands in the middle of the half-gutted space one afternoon, hard hat crooked, eyes shiny as people she barely knows shake her hand and tell her how much the place mattered to them. She’s on-site most days, hard hat on, clipboard in hand, thanking volunteers until her voice goes hoarse.
I watch her from the edges when I can, leaning against the truck or standing back with Roz, who looks equal parts exhausted and exhilarated. Harper is in her element—confident, decisive, energized in a way that has nothing to do with survival and everything to do with purpose.
She holds it together until we’re back in the truck, and then she breaks down laughing and crying at the same time. “I don’t deserve this. All this help, forfree… It’s too much. But I can’t afford to turn it down, either.”
“You built something people care about,” I tell her.
Our life settles into something I never thought I would have.
Mornings start early. Coffee brewing while Mason eats cereal and tells us about dreams that make no sense. Harper and I move around each other in the kitchen without thinking, sharing space the way people do when it’s no longer new. I drop Mason off at school on my way to shift, and he tells me about spelling tests and playground politics and what he’s going to be when he grows up this week. It was a dog walker, not too long ago. Now, his future is space miner.
I can’t wait to find out what it’ll be next week.
He insists on one more hug before he gets out of the truck, even when the bell is already ringing. His little face goes serious when he says, “Be careful.”
“Always,” I reply, just as seriously.
I’ve seen other people take this stuff for granted, and I’m not sure how. Every day, I wake up so damn grateful that I don’t know what to do with myself. And then, there’re the dinners together.
Homework spread across the table. Mason demanding that I do the big voices when I read bedtime stories. Harper watches from the doorway, smiling in a way that feels unguarded, like she’s finally letting herself believe this isn’t temporary.
And one night, sitting on the couch with Mason asleep between us and Harper’s head resting on my shoulder, the thought lands fully formed and undeniable.
I want this forever.
Carlie, of course, has opinions.
She drops by constantly, armed with takeout and smug satisfaction, surveying the scene like she’s been vindicated by the universe. “I told you so,” she says at least once per visit. “It’s about time,” follows shortly after.
She watches Harper with an expression that’s half pride, half relief, like she’s been holding her breath for six years and can finally let it out. When she catches me looking overwhelmed, she pats my arm and grins. “Don’t screw this up.”
“I mean not to.”
“You’re my favorite brother?—”
“Your only brother.”
She smiles. “So, it’d suck to be an only child, on account of killing you for hurting her again. Don’t make me.”
I sling an arm around her neck and pull her in for a noogie, but she squirms out of it, and I let her. “I promise to do everything I can to never hurt her again.”
She nudges me with her shoulder while we watch Harper and Mason at the dinner table, working on a coloring book. We’re far away enough they can’t hear our whispers. “I know. But it’s in the best friend’s handbook. I have to say it.”
“Truth is, I’m glad you look out for her. Even if that means threatening me.”
“That’s because she’s turned you into a big softy.”
“Probably.”
