I fiddled with the rim of my glass. “All that…I can’t. I can’t even imagine. And somehow, he still shows up for Harper. And she’s… she’s such a good kid.”
Cami nodded, a gentle, knowing smile playing at her lips.
We sat without speaking, both of us thinking about loss and rebuilding, about how life keeps moving even when it feels like it shouldn’t.
Then Cami said, “He deserves someone good,” looking at me suggestively.
I let out a slow breath. “Cam…”
“I’m not saying you have to fall in love with him, Dani.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“I’m saying you don’t have to keep proving you’re untouchable,” she said softly. “You can want things. You can have things. You don’t need permission.”
The lump in my throat surprised me. “I’m just not used to… slowing down.”
“Then start small. Like Milkshakes.” She said, gently pushing my shoulder.
I laughed, shaking my head. “You’re as bad as Harper.”
“I take that as a compliment.” She said, flipping her hair over her shoulder.
We stayed out there until the sky turned indigo and the string lights flickered on overhead. The conversation drifted—from work, to the twins’ latest slime obsession, to the fact that I still hadn’t finished decorating my apartment. Even after the laughter faded, her words lingered.
Later, when I was driving home, windows down, night air curling through the car, music blasting, I passed the park where I’d first truly seen Logan.
I remembered the way Harper had grabbed my hand that day, and how Logan had watched us,A hint of amusement lingered, but it was tempered by something warmer beneath it.
Cami’s voice echoed in my mind:You don’t need permission.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I didn’t.
But old habits die hard.
When I got home, I dropped my keys on the counter and glanced at my phone, half-expecting a message that never came. The apartment was still, the hum of traffic outside the only sound.
I poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter, staring out at the city below.
Maybe Cami was right. Maybe I worked too much, thought too hard, played things too safe.
But maybe, just maybe, I was starting to want something more.
Chapter 8
Logan
Most nights in our house follow the same rhythm;
a pattern that is equal parts comfort and survival.
I come home and hang my keys on the chipped hook by the door. Harper drops her backpack with a clatter as she skids across the cold tile floor, her sneakers squeaking in a playful slide that filled the room with her vibrant energy. She immediately launches into the little moments of her day, her voice bright with that usual enthusiasm that somehow manages to make every bad day a little less sharp.
The house is homey, a three-bedroom condo in Huntington Beach with cold tile floors and an ocean breeze that slips in through the windows. Elena and I bought it when we found out she was pregnant because she had always wanted a home close to the beach. I never had the nerve to let it go after she passed, even if it meant working extra hours.
The walls are dotted with Harper’s drawings, stick figures, and hearts, the same characters showing up again and again. The desk that sat in the corner of the living room serves as my workstation for the security company I started with last year. I monitor feeds, review reports, and write up risk assessments forthe security firm I work for. It’s not glamorous, but it pays well and, most importantly, it lets me work from home most days.
That was the deal I made with myself after I switched roles; no more travel, no more overnight jobs. Not after the way Harper used to cry every time I packed a duffel bag.
