Chapter 7: Cheeseburger for One

Valentina waited exactly until they reached the valet stand before turning to Harper with the solemn expression of a woman about to deliver life-changing advice.

"So. Why don't you fuck Keaton?"

"Valentina!"

"What? You can't tell me you didn't notice him looking at you. That man watched you like you were the last decent thing on earth." Valentina caught Harper by the shoulders and turned her toward her. "He's gorgeous, he's rich, and he clearly has a weakness for you. That's practically a public service announcement."

Harper glanced toward the restaurant doors, half expecting someone to have overheard. "Could you be any louder?"

"Of course. I haven't even started." Valentina's eyes narrowed with mock concern. "When's the last time you did something purely because you wanted to? Not because Myles wanted it, not because it made his life easier, and not because you were trying to be the perfect little fiancée. And don't give me that look. I'm asking a serious question."

Harper opened her mouth, then closed it again. Heat crept up her neck. The answer was embarrassing, not because it was scandalous, but because she couldn't remember. She couldn't remember the last time she'd chosen a dress without wondering whether Myles would approve, eaten what she actually craved, or made a plan without first checking whether it fit around his schedule.

Valentina's teasing expression softened. For a moment, the noise and glitter of the restaurant seemed to fall away, leaving only the two of them beneath the warm lights by the curb.

"Harper," she said more gently, "I'm not telling you to jump into bed with him. I'm telling you that you're allowed to want things again. You're allowed to have fun. You're allowed to look at a handsome man and enjoy the view without feeling guilty about it."

Harper let out a breath that turned into a laugh. "You make it sound like I've been in a convent."

"A convent would have been more fun. At least the nuns would've let you sing." Valentina gave her shoulders one last squeeze. "And for the record, if you ever decide you do want Keaton, I support you wholeheartedly. For research purposes, obviously."

"You are unbelievable."

"And yet you love me."

"Unfortunately."

They burst out laughing, loud and unladylike, in front of a valet who had clearly decided that rich people were stranger than he was paid enough to understand. The laughter loosened something inside Harper. It was the first time in months that she hadn't been monitoring herself, measuring every word and expression to make sure she wasn't too loud, too needy, or too much trouble. For a few seconds, she was simply herself: a woman laughing with her best friend on a warm Los Angeles night.

Valentina pulled her into a tight hug and kissed her cheek. "Call me if you need me. Or if you need Keaton. Or if you need to burn down a mansion. I can arrange supplies for all three."

"Goodnight, Val. Please don't commit any felonies before breakfast."

"No promises."

Valentina climbed into her car, gave Harper a final wave through the open window, and disappeared into the stream of headlights. Harper stood for a moment watching the taillights recede. Then she handed her keys to the valet, slid into the Cayenne, and started the drive home.

Usually, she filled the silence with music. Tonight, she left the stereo off. The city lights slid across the windshield as she wound down from the hills, and her thoughts settled into a quiet order. Myles had lied to her. He had betrayed her, stolen years she could never recover, and deliberately helped destroy the future she'd worked for since childhood. The truth was monstrous, but at least it was the truth. She no longer had to waste energy inventing excuses for him.

When the Calabasas mansion came into view, its tall windows were dark. The house looked beautiful from the outside, all glass and stone and carefully landscaped gardens. It also looked like somewhere she no longer belonged. Harper kicked off her heels in the entryway and walked barefoot into the kitchen, not bothering to turn on every light. She sat at the island, opened her laptop, and booked a one-way flight to Austin for Saturday morning. When the confirmation appeared on the screen, she read it twice. Then she saved it and closed the laptop before she could talk herself out of anything.

The refrigerator hummed behind her. She opened it and found the plate she'd prepared earlier, still wrapped in foil. Halibut and quinoa. The meal had been planned down to the last detail for a man who had spent the evening laughing about her behind her back. For a moment, she stared at it, remembering how carefully she'd arranged the fish and how she'd checked the clock when he called to cancel. She had even worried that the food would dry out if she reheated it too many times.

What a waste of a perfectly good dinner.

She carried the plate to the trash and tipped the whole thing in. The foil landed with a soft crumple. Harper waited for the familiar guilt to rise, the little voice that always reminded her not to waste food, not to be difficult, not to make a fuss. Nothing came. She shut the lid and felt a surprising little spark of satisfaction.

Then she opened a delivery app and ordered a cheeseburger. A proper one: double patty, extra cheese, fries, and a milkshake. She added a side of pickles, changed her mind, and added onion rings too. If she was going to start making choices for herself, she might as well make a generous first attempt.

Forty minutes later, she sat at the island in her black dress, barefoot, with her hair tumbling over one shoulder and a paper bag spread in front of her. The first bite was hot, messy, and perfect. Cheese stretched between the bun and the patty; the fries were salty enough to make her reach for the milkshake. It tasted like Oklahoma, like roadside diners after swim meets, like her mother laughing across a table and telling her to stop eating so fast before she made herself sick.

Harper closed her eyes for a second. "Mama would've loved this," she murmured.

She was reaching for a second fry when the front door opened. Keys jangled against the entry table. Footsteps echoed through the hall, uneven and a little unsteady.

Myles had come home.