I just look at her, not rushing to say it’s okay. I don’t tell her she doesn’t need to apologize. It’s been almost a year since she stood in my living room and tried to dictate my life, but not holding onto anger doesn’t mean pretending it didn’t hurt.
“I... I’m sorry, Cecily.” She glances at Felicity, offering a shaky, tearful smile. “I was... a patronizing bitch.”
“Yeah,” I say softly, a small smile on my lips. “You were. And I forgave you a long time ago.”
She breaks with a sob and launches herself into my arms, holding on tight. I wrap my arms around her and look at Felicity over Harper’s shoulder. Felicity just mouthswhat the hell?and all I can do is shake my head.
Harper has always been the embodiment of composure. Not the hugging type or a woman who leaves the house unless she looks like she’s stepping into an editorial shoot. And now she’s in my arms in sweatpants. Crying and shaking like the ground has disappeared beneath her.
Something is wrong. Bad wrong.
And the thought solidifies when she begins to cry harder on my shoulder, her full weight leaning into me. She’s much taller than I am, and after a moment the position becomes awkward, so I guide her to one of the couches.
When we sit, I keep my arms around her, offering the only comfort I can.
Felicity leaves the room and returns a moment later with a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses balanced on a tray.
When Harper finally manages to pull back, she takes the glass with trembling hands.
“Tell us what’s going on, Harp,” Felicity asks, sinking into the couch across from us.
“Jonathan...” Harper starts and her voice fractures again.
My eyes find Felicity’s over Harper’s head.
Please don’t let it be what I think it is. Please.
After a few unsteady breaths, Harper tries again. “Jonathan wants a child.”
For half a second, relief washes through me, but looking at her face, I realize this isn’t good news.
“Okay,” I say, stroking her back. “You still don’t want children, is that it?”
She shakes her head. “I do. I did...” she cries, pressing a hand to her chest. “It was always me.Iwanted children. At least two.”
I blink at her, stunned. “But, Harper, you always said—”
“I lied!” she cuts in through sobbing. “I lied when I said we didn’t want them. When I said I was happy like this—that I wasn’t meant to be a mother. Jonathan didn’t want kids. He wanted Montgomery Clifford. He wanted freedom and trips and just the two of us.The life. So I told myself that was what I wanted too.”
Her breath stutters.
“And after a while... I started believing my own lie.”
She folds in on herself, hiding her face in her hands.
Felicity scoots to her other side and begins rubbing her back too. “Harper,” she says carefully, “if this is still something you want... you’re only forty-two. Medicine has come a long way. There’s time for a safe, healthy pregnancy.”
Harper lifts her face, eyes red and glassy. “I spent years convincing myself I didn’t need children. And we have a goodlife. A happy one.” She dabs at her cheeks with the tissue Felicity hands her. “I just don’t understand why he wants this now. Out of nowhere.”
She rises abruptly and begins pacing across the rug.
“I don’t want to go through this at this point in my life! The nausea, my body changing, stretch marks...” Her voice trembles, anger pushing past the tears. “I was gearing up for perimenopause—not diapers.”
Then she stops and turns to us, disbelief written all over her face.
“And it’s not even like he asked me. He barely told me and he’s already looking into surrogacy.” She throws her hands in the air. “He brought a candidate home today. To meet us. Who does that? On a Saturday afternoon? When I’d finally planned to relax?”
“Son of a bitch,” Felicity mutters, her fingers curling into the couch cushion.
