Chapter 9: What Are You For?

Harper woke to sunlight. Not the pale gray light of five-thirty, when she used to creep out of bed to start the coffee, but full, warm, golden morning, slanting through the guest room curtains and landing across her face like a hand. She checked her phone. 8:47. She hadn't slept this late in years. Her whole body felt loose and heavy and strangely light at the same time, like she'd finally set down something she'd been carrying since the Olympics.

From somewhere down the hall, a door slammed.

"HARPER!"

She stretched slowly, arms over her head, and smiled at the ceiling.

"Harper! Where the hell are my clothes?"

Myles stood in the middle of the walk-in closet, half-dressed, hair sticking up, a pair of charcoal pants in his fist. They were wrinkled down the front like an accordion, and his face was blotchy and swollen from last night's whiskey. "I'm late for my meeting! You didn't wake me up! There's no breakfast, there's nothing ironed, and look at these pants!" He threw them on the floor. "What have you been doing?"

He stormed into the kitchen, jerked open the fridge, and made himself a smoothie. The blender roared, and he stood glaring at it, muttering under his breath. "Useless. Completely useless. If you can't even take care of me, what are you for?"

The words echoed off the marble. In the hallway, Harper heard every one. She stood still for a moment, her hand on the doorframe. Then she walked into the kitchen, slow and easy, bare feet silent on the tile, and walked right past him like he was a piece of furniture.

"Hello?" Myles stopped mid-sip. "I'm talking to you."

Harper pulled a frying pan from the cabinet and set it on the stove. Bacon first. It sizzled and popped, filling the kitchen with a smell that made her stomach growl. She cracked an egg into a ring mold, toasted an English muffin until the edges turned golden, added melted cheese and a pinch of salt, and stacked it all together. A bacon, egg, and cheese McMuffin. Homemade, greasy, perfect. Myles watched the whole thing with his mouth slightly open, like a man watching a cat use a toaster.

Just before she took a bite, she paused and glanced at him, calm and almost bored. "Do you have any plans this weekend?"

He let out a long, put-upon sigh. "That's all you have to say? After that shit you pulled last night?"

Harper ignored the quip. She took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and asked again in the exact same tone. "So. Any plans this weekend?"

He stared at her. She stared back, unblinking.

"Fine." He rolled his eyes. "It's my grandfather's birthday. I'm driving up to the old mansion tomorrow, and I'm seeing him about setting up the marriage." He rubbed his temples. "Although I'm not sure it's even worth going through all that again."

Harper knew exactly what he meant. The marriage he was talking about was with Serena, not her. The thought stirred nothing in her. Not even a flicker.

"Okay," she said, and took another bite.

Myles frowned. He had clearly expected a different reaction, tears, maybe, or a plea, or at least a fight. He glanced at her sandwich, then at the empty counter where his breakfast should have been, and looked away, irritated. "Whatever. I'm not going to be back until Monday. I've got a project to wrap up, so I'll be staying at the old mansion through the weekend." He grabbed his jacket off the chair. "Just get someone to deliver meals to the office for me."

He didn't wait for an answer. His phone rang as he hurried toward the front door, and when he checked the screen, something in his whole body changed. His shoulders loosened. His scowl melted. When he answered, his voice dropped half an octave and went warm as honey.

"Hey, Serena."

The door shut behind him. Harper stood alone in the kitchen with the sandwich in her hand, listening to the car start in the driveway, pull out, and fade down the hill.

Then silence.