Sighing, I lay down three aces. “It was,” I return, leaning over to peck her mouth. I know she has the fourth ace. She will never discard an ace. Which usually always ends up being a detriment when I go out and she has to deduct the points from her hand. “What were you saying again?” I tease lightly. I look forward to this day all week when I’m in town. It’s the night where I let myself eat carbs, and drink booze, and have as much skin to skin contact with my girlfriend as I possibly can. I feel human—I’m more than what I do.
Norah’s melodic laugh is cut short by the shrill pierce of my doorbell. “I’ll get it. Go grab the popcorn from the microwave,” she says, laying a soft hand on the side of my face. The doorbell rings again, more frantically—someone slamming it over and over.
Narrowing my eyes, I follow Norah as she rushes to the front door. “Did you order food or something?” I ask, peering out the geometric printed curtains Norah hung when she deemed my windows too naked last week. I don’t see any cars parked out by the street. Nothing to indicate we have a visitor.
“No,” she replies, shrugging and throwing the door open with all the care of a bulldozer. A wave of unease filters through the air and saturates the deep breath I inhale.
“Is he home? Is Ben home?” I hear her voice and the tenor and know it’s not good. Watching Norah’s profile as she takes in Harper confirms my most dismal suspicions.
“What happened? Oh my God, Harper, what the hell happened?” Norah murmurs, pulling her into her arms. “Where’s your car?” Norah narrows her gaze out the door and looks both left and right while Harper buries her face in the front of her T-shirt.
“Close the door,” Harper whispers. It takes all of these seconds for me to make my brain behave the way it should have—the way it would have if some bad guy with a bomb strapped to his chest came through my front door. Somehow Harper sobbing in my doorway turns my voice box to ice and my feet to lead.
Harper calls my name again, asking for me.
“What happened?” I croak.
She turns out of Norah’s embrace and faces me. Her body relaxes almost completely at the mere sound of my voice. The opposite of relaxation washes over me when I see her face.
The second I see her cheek, she turns her gaze to the floor. “I’m fine. Can we talk? I’m fine, really.” I know enough about women to know when they say they’re fine, the opposite is true.
Harper meets my eyes. Hers are red and ringed with black makeup. Apart from the dark red mark on her cheekbone, there are red splotches on her neck. The very same neck I cherish has been marred by hands. Large ones.
“Come on. Let’s talk,” I say, gesturing toward the couch.
Harper brushes past me and sinks down into the sofa, pulling one of the new throw pillows onto her lap. She puts her chin on it and keeps her gaze pointed at the floor.
Norah has already vanished into the bedroom. Shaking my head, I sit next to Harper and pull her into my chest. She breathes in deeply once and then falls apart.
“I hope I’m wrong, Harper, but if I’m not, you need to start at the beginning.”
“Which beginning?” she asks, sobbing. “There are so many.”
“Please tell me you called the cops.”
She nods against my chest. “Of course I did. Which makes this so much worse.”
I clear my throat. “I need to hear you say it. All of it.”
Harper leans away, as if finally realizing our seating position might not be chaste and friendly enough. She pulls her cell phone out of her sweater pocket, hiccups, and scrolls until she finds what she’s looking for, and hands me the phone. It’s a screenshot of my Insta photo of Harper, at the concert, on her birthday. “He saw it,” she whispers. “Marcus saw it. I told him it was nothing, but he’s been acting strange since our double date—says I don’t look at him the same way I look at you.” Harper lowers her voice as her gaze darts to my closed bedroom door.
“I don’t have him on my account,” I say, finality in my voice. Like I can erase this by using reason.
She ignores me, still staring off toward my bedroom. “Because I won’t marry him.”
I close my eyes and blow out a breath. My heart rate accelerates as my mind tries to pick apart every angle she could be aiming for. “We’re getting off topic. Tell me what happened.” I brush my fingers across her cheek and wince when she does.
Harper puts her face in her hands, mindful of her cheekbone, and speaks low, “You don’t have him on your account. You have some bottle blonde named Sexy Jenny, though. He created a fake profile to add you. He thought he’d have a better chance at stalking you if he was a twenty-something chick. And it worked.”
My stomach sinks. I know exactly who she’s talking about. Even though my profile is private I’ll add people I don’t know every once in a while. I remember wondering who the chick was, but I’d had a few beers and she was blonde and hot.
“He called me a slut. A commitment-phobe who’d rather fuck around with guys like you than marry men like him.” She raises her head and looks at me. “He’s been under a lot of pressure here,” she explains.
I shake my head. “Don’t you fucking dare stand up for him.” My voice booms, echoing off the walls.
Norah won’t come out. She probably won’t even listen to our conversation.
Harper takes my hands in hers. “I get it, Ben. He moved here for me, with me, to be with me, and I keep turning him down. I’m not making excuses for him, because we both know there’s no excuse for this,” she explains, gesturing to her face and then neck. “He saw the photo and got mad.” She shrugs. “It happened so fast. We were talking one second and I was on the ground the next. He didn’t hit me. He grabbed me by the throat, told me to stop feeding him bullshit excuses, and then threw me into the desk.” She rubs her face. “I caught the corner. Or rather, my face caught the corner.”
