I can’t even get a breath out before she bursts into tears and buries her head in her hands. Without an invitation, I rush through the door, scooping her in my arms and kick the door shut.
“Baby, what happened?” I asked, ready to avenge her, like a knight with a sword at the helm, for whatever or whoever did her wrong. Her only answer is a choking sob against my chest.
With a slight bend, I scoop her up, cradling her against my chest and look for the couch. I’ve never been here before but Harper seems to live like any other average twenty-five year old.
Falling carefully into the couch, I grip Harper tighter as to not let her slip off my lap. It takes a couple adjustments but soon enough she’s cradled in my arm, face still buried into the front of my shirt, soft cries still coming. And I feel utterly helpless.
I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know where to start. There’s never been a time I’ve felt the need to fix all the wrongs in the world for one single person, and I’m afraid if I prod her with questions, it will only make it worse.
So I don’t say a word. My arms grip her tight to my body as I press my check against the silky strands of the hair piled on top of her head.
And I wait.
It’s amazing the things you can learn about someone from just their home. If I walked into five homes blindly, I would still guess this one would belong to Harper. Warmth oozes from every corner, seeping into your skin the longer you stay. Art decorates every wall, prints and canvases, some that look as if she drew them herself, making it seem as if we’ve landed into a museum and not a living room.
It’s all her, every inch.
Minutes tick by and with each one that passes, her breathing evens out, and she melts deeper into my arms. It’s a feeling unlike anything I’ve ever encountered and all at once, it's like a missing piece of me quietly slides into place.
I love her.
I love her, and I want this. This moment where I’m her comfort, every day. Every day for the rest of my days.
Harper stirs. Her face is still pressing into my chest when I look down at her. “Do you want to talk about it?” I ask. Her next breath is heavy, warming where her lips arepressed against me and a weak answer is muffled by my shirt
“No.”
I brush a few fallen tendrils of hair back so I can see her. One eye peels open and looks up.
“It can’t be that bad.”
“I’ve ruined everything.”
“Everyone makes mistakes but I doubt you ruined anything.”
Harper sits up in my lap. “What do you know about making mistakes? You’re perfect.” Her face screws into a glare when I laugh. I lean forward and place a kiss against her cheek, and then the other until her face softens.
“I wish that was the truth, Sweet Girl, but I am the furthest thing from perfect.”
She huffs out in disbelief, rolling her eyes as she does. “I called the manager of the band I scheduled months ago to confirm they had everything for Saturday and they told me, my assistant called and canceled them a few days ago.”
“What?”
She expels a large breath. “I don’t know how it happened, or why, but I didn't call to cancel and there was nothing I could do to get back on their books. It’s like someone is sabotaging me.” Anxiety pushes her voice up an octave as she talks. “I don't know what to do. I’ve ruinedthe ball, which helps so many departments which I’ve now also ruined. Maybe you’re not perfect but I doubt you’ve ever nearly taken down a town with your job.”
“Have I told you why I’m here, in Cupid?”
A few of the coiled tendrils framing her face shake with her head. The story isn’t even shocking, but it sits in my chest and I’ve been walking around with this shameful medal since I got here. My fingers slip up and down her leggings, a soothing pattern that was initially for her but now it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment.
Harper is the least selfish person I’ve met, I doubt that once she finds out, she’ll leap from my lap and cast me from her house, but I hook my hands around her hips as if that will keep her here anyway.
“I’ve belonged to Midnights since it began, before it even began. I gave Maxine the start-up funds to open the place,” I begin, brushing my thumb along the sliver of skin showing between her bottoms and the small tank top.
“You know Maxine?”
There's an unmistakable infliction in her voice. “Not like that. Maxine and I are friends, and only friends. We met in business school. She came from a family where she had to work nights and weekends, with no days off to even afford school, and I obviously had money to spare. I don’t remember how we found out each of us preferreda certaintypein the bedroom but as a gift for her one of her birthdays and for myself I gave her the funds to start Midnights.”
“And you two have never been together?”
