But layered over it was something else: a dark, tight anticipation that made my breath shallow.
Like the moment before a door opens.
That night, I went to Harper’s, anyway.
Not because I wanted to socialize.
Because I needed to see if I could.
Because I needed to prove to myself I could still play the part.
Harper lived in a restored downtown condo building that smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and old money. Her place was all velvet pillows and curated bookshelves and the kind of art that looked expensive because it was.
She opened the door wearing leggings and a sweater with one shoulder slipping off like she’d just stepped out of a lifestyle shoot.
“You’re alive,” she said, eyes scanning me. “That’s a start.”
“I’m fine,” I said, stepping inside.
Harper made a sound of disbelief and held up a glass of red wine. “Do you want to tell me why you’re vibrating like a tuning fork, or should I just start guessing?”
“Harper,” I warned.
She grinned. “Okay. My first guess is: you met a man.”
“I did not.”
“My second guess is: you met a manin your headand now you’re addicted.”
My cheeks heated.
Harper leaned in, delighted. “Oh, my God. That one hit.”
“Stop,” I said, but it came out thin.
She took my coat and hung it, then pushed me toward her couch. “Sit. Talk. Confess. I’m not letting you deflect with policy jargon tonight.”
I sat, palms pressed to my knees, feeling the weight of my phone in my pocket like a pulse.
“Nothing is happening,” I said.
Harper arched an eyebrow.
I inhaled and tried to find a safe version of the truth. A version that wouldn’t make me sound insane.
“I got invited to a summit,” I said carefully. “Upstate New York. Last minute. It’s … good for work.”
Harper’s gaze sharpened. “Upstate?”
“Yes.”
Her expression changed in a way that made my stomach drop. “Lia.”
“What?”
“You’re not going to New York because it’s good for work,” she said, quiet now. Not teasing.
I held her gaze and felt something inside me tremble.
