Why did she stay?
In my line of work, there isn’t room for error.
Watching your crewmate’s back. Checking your equipment is satisfactory. Paying attention to your surroundings.
One slip, and everything can change.
Over the years, the theory has crept into my personal life too.
And that night was a monumental fuck up.
Had I been fully aware of what was happening, I would’ve told her to leave, not stay and comfort me. She should’vewalked away, leaving me to my demise. The simplest but my least favorite, because despite all the vitriol over my moment of weakness, having her beside me, delicate fingers intertwined with my rough ones…I liked it.
Her calm to my storm.
Years ago, before my PTSD diagnosis, intense, vivid nightmares were a nightly occurrence, to the point they left me too exhausted and shaken to attend work or carry out daily tasks. These days, they pop up every few months but are still as intense.
To Harriet’s credit, she didn’t utter a word when she appeared for breakfast. Once we said goodbye to my family and I drove her back to Iris Meadows, our conversation was brief and light, as if she knew instinctively what I needed.
Since then, we’ve spoken almost every day. It’s been nice, and while the idea of seeing her again leaves me on edge, I miss her, which isn’t an emotion I’ve felt toward another person in a while. Even my family can be a lot sometimes.
Today, I had another session with Kevin. Harriet wasn’t mentioned, but we discussed my recent night terror and the potential triggers. Sixty minutes later, my brain was fried, and I was emotionally drained, wanting nothing but to collapse on my sofa and sleep for an eternity.
Unfortunately, my calendar is booked, and I’m meeting with Harriet—and her friends—at the Smokey Barrel. It’s only fair, considering she’s met my family and hers are in New England, but I can’t imagine her friends are too ecstatic to meet me.
I pull up in the parking lot of the distillery, where Harriet and her friend Parker work—“the firecracker,” as I’m told—whom I should expect a grilling from. Talia, “the lawyer,” and Margot, “the florist,” will also be there. I remember how protective they were of her at the haunted house, knowing fullwell they won’t take it easy on me this evening. Talia is the only one I’ve officially met, which was not during my finest moments.
Fuck, they’re going to grind my balls to dust.
Turning off the ignition, I climb out of my truck and walk toward the large red-brick building. Aged whiskey barrels line either side of the front entrance, and a distinct, sweet, malty smell hits me the moment I enter. I walk through a small corridor until it opens in to a large warehouse-looking space, lined either side with more barrels and banquet-style seating in the middle. The maître d’greets me with a smile, but I’m distracted by something across the room. Or someone.
Harriet stands with her friends by the bar, chatting away, wearing a pale blue fitted dress and boots. After weeks of not seeing her, this single glimpse arrests my central nervous system. What really falters my heart and turns my legs to lead is her laugh, floating through the busy space.
She catches me staring, and her mouth stretches even wider. Then, I see it. Still slightly hidden, but there, underneath the cashmere of her dress, is a small bump.
I suck in a sharp breath, dragging my eyes away from the swell of her stomach and the delectable width of her hips, forcing what I hope passes as a smile. She drifts my way, carefree and graceful, while the coils wound around my body vibrate and tighten.
“Hey.” She squeezes my wrist. “Are you ready for this? I told them to play nice, but they’re women on a mission, so if you need to fake an emergency, you have my permission.”
I’m left cold when her hand falls away. “I’m wearing my old college cup to protect the goods in case they get violent.”
Her gaze falls to my groin before darting up. “Noted. FYI, Parker goes straight for the jugular. You’ve been warned.”
Our easy banter shoos away the unease, and by the timewe make it over to the three women, I’m ready for the inquisition.
We take a seat at the end of a table, order some drinks, and after some quick intros, the interrogation begins.
“So, Warren-Not-In-Marketing, what are your intentions with Blondie?” Parker dives right in, flicking her lavender hair over her shoulder and pinning me with a sharp stare.
“Tone it down.” Harriet jabs her in the rib.
Parker raises her hands, feigning innocence. Jokes aside, I’m here to win them over, not sit with my tail between my legs, spouting excuses.
Clearing my throat, I cast my gaze over them all. “I intend to be there for Harriet and the baby in whatever capacity they need me. I fucked up, and I’m sorry I wasn’t there to support her during the first couple of months, but I’m here now. We’re a team, and I’m grateful she’s given me a second chance. If I fuck up again, the three of you have permission to punish me however you see fit.”
Talia taps a finger to her lips. “I’m going to need that in writing.”
“You got it.” I nod firmly.
