"And you feel something with Ryan."
"Yes." Harper met her eyes, defiant. "I do. I know you think I'm making a mistake. I know you think I'm falling into old patterns or whatever. But this is different."
"How is it different? You barely know him."
"I barely knew Cole either! The difference is, when Ryan walks into a room, I can't breathe. When Cole texts me, I have to remind myself to respond." Harper's voice cracked slightly. "You're the one who told me—when it's right, you don't have to convince yourself it could be great. It just is."
Emmy opened her mouth. Closed it.
She had said that. To Cole, just a few days ago. About Harper. Telling him to let go of someone whose heart wasn't in it.
"Ryan hasn't been vetted," Emmy said. "We don't know anything about him. His relationship history, his attachment style, his?—"
"He coaches youth basketball," Harper interrupted. "He's helping his dad with medical bills. He's teaching himself to cook because he wants to be able to make dinner for someone someday." She laughed, a little wild. "What else do I need to know?"
"Those are nice qualities. But nice qualities aren't the same as compatibility. You could have all the chemistry in the world and still be fundamentally wrong for each other."
"Or I could date the 'right' guy on paper and spend every dinner wishing I were somewhere else." Harper's eyes were bright now, angry. "You want to know why things with Cole feel like work? Because they are work. Every text, every conversation, I'm performing enthusiasm for a man who should be perfect and isn't. And I'm tired, Emmy. I'm tired of trying to manufacture feelings because someone looks good on a spreadsheet."
"I'm trying to help you?—"
"No, you're not." Harper's voice went sharp. "You're trying to be right."
Emmy's hand stilled on her mimosa glass.
"You're mad because it wasn't your idea," Harper continued, the words picking up speed now, a dam breaking. "Because you can't take credit for this one. You've spent weeks telling me Cole was the answer, and now I'm choosing someone you didn't pick, and you can't stand it."
"That's not?—"
"It is, though." Harper's eyes were too bright, her voice cracking at the seams. "You're so desperate to prove you're good at this—at relationships, at matchmaking, at fixing people—that you need the reflected glory from everyone else's love life. Because if you can make it work for me, for Grant, for whoever, then maybe that proves you're not a disaster at relationships yourself."
Eight months is your ceiling.
Grant's voice, from that first meeting at Antonio's. She'd laughed it off then. Made it a joke.Those who can't, teach.
But the truth was uglier than that. Daniel, who'd been sleeping with his coworker for three months before Emmyfinally noticed the signs she should have seen from week one. And before Daniel, the musician who'd gaslit her so thoroughly she'd apologized when she caught him lying.
Two examples. She had more.
And every single time, Emmy had missed the warning signs that should have been obvious.
She was supposed to be good at reading people. Where had she ever gotten that idea?
Emmy couldn't speak. Couldn't move. Could only sit there while Harper's accusation echoed in the space between them.
The server arrived with Emmy's food. Neither of them spoke while she set down the plates.
When she left, Harper's voice was quieter. Gentler. "I'm sorry. That was harsh."
"It was honest." Emmy's voice came out thin.
"Yeah." Harper sighed. "It was."
They sat in silence for a moment. Emmy stared at her eggs benedict without seeing them.
"I just want you to be happy," Emmy finally said. "That's the whole point."
"Then let me be happy." Harper reached across the table and grabbed Emmy's hand. "Ryan makes me happy. Real, stupid, can't-stop-smiling happy. Even if it doesn't work out—even if I get hurt—at least it'll be real. At least I'll have chosen it for myself."
