What You Leave Behind (24 page)

“I’m sorry,” Liam heaves out, and he knows he has so much to be sorry for. He narrows it down when he says, “About Austin, about hitting him. I—that shouldn't have happened. You asked me to be civil and I—it’s just so hard to see you and not—”

“You wanted to leave, Liam. You wanted this.” The words are hard and cutting and they silence him immediately. She’s bold and on fire and it’s every maddening feeling she couldn't verbalize in California. She stares at him, unblinking, as she says, “You should've stayed gone.” He stares back at her, taking all of it. He waits, as if he knows she has more to say.

“He’s good to me. He loves me.” Harper swallows thickly and looks away, whispers, “You gave me up.”

“I never should have. Never,” he whispers back.

All of it feels too intimate and private for Harper's liking—whispering to each other about their past. They’re hashing things out on a sidewalk in the middle of town, where anyone could hear. She doesn’t think he deserves the whole town to know he’s apologized, and she pulls him by his jacket sleeve to the side of the pub, the side that backs up to a thicket of trees so no one will see them. He follows willingly—he will do anything. But when they reach their destination and there’s nothing but the trees and the creaking of their branches, Harper can’t look at him. She should have let him scream his sentiments on the sidewalk.

“Do you think you'll ever forgive me?” Liam asks after time ticks by. She still can’t look at him, won’t, but he looks at her, looks at the cheeks he used to kiss, the hair he used to stroke, and he needs her forgiveness, he needs hope. “I’m not talking about today or tomorrow, or next year, even. But, one day, do you think that there’s a chance that you won't—I don’t want to think that you’ll hate me forever.”

“I don't hate you,” Harper whispers and it’s just as soft as the wind through the trees. “I tried—I couldn't.”

“I think you both do,” Liam says meekly.

“That has nothing to do with you.”

“If I didn't leave—“

“But, you did.” Harper clears her throat and leans back against the side of the building. She stares up at the sky as tears seep from her eyes. “Did you expect me to wait for you? I didn’t know what—I didn’t know if you were ever coming back, Lee.”

“I’m back, Harp. I’m back, and I’m so sorry.”

His words are whimpers, tiny cries of apologies and admissions of guilt and wrong-doing. He takes her hands in his and she lets them stay there for a moment, then pulls away.

“Sorry or not, you still left. You left and I love him. That’s all there is.”

Hilary watches mindfully from just inside the shop, standing at the carving station without anything to carve, as Harper waits for Austin’s truck to rumble down the street. She sits on the curb, half in and half out of her line of vision, with the light of the moon shining in her hair, turning it a muddled grey-brown. There’s never been moonlight on her—he always arrives well before it can touch her. Hilary starts toward Harper over and over, thinks of how she’ll help her heart this time, but she doesn’t know where to begin. So she waits, as Harper does, ready to be there if she needs her, even if Harper doesn’t know she’s there at all.

Her tune changes nearly an hour later, when she knows that Harper’s mittens couldn’t possibly still keep her fingers warm. She moves with a purpose this time, her strides long and quick, and makes a loud, clamoring show of opening the door so Harper knows she’s there. Harper stands and wipes the tears from her cheeks with the hands she can barely feel, but puts on a smile when she turns to Hilary. She says nothing, but simply walks to her and wraps her arms around her shoulders. Harper bites her lip as the tears flow again, and wonders if Hilary knows she’s crying. She knows enough—all that could be said, apparent in Austin’s absence—but all she says is, “Come on, let’s go home.”

The ride is short and punctuated by the heavy silence of Hilary’s unasked questions. Harper sweats beneath her coat as her whole body shivers and shakes, despite the heater on at full-blast. In the few short minutes that Hilary drives, Harper thinks of every reason that could’ve kept Austin away, everything from heartbreak to death, and her anxiety to see him becomes overwhelming. When they reach the driveway, Harper pulls her keys from her purse and tells Hilary to go on in without her, before she gets in her truck and drives well over the speed limit toward Austin’s.

When she gets arrives, she doesn’t even bother with the back lot. She parks in the street and rushes to his door, her key to his front door burning in her palm. All of the lights are off, but she listens intently for signs that he’s home. Nothing creaks, nothing chimes or rattles, or scrapes against his tile floor, and all Harper can hear is her own breath and her heartbeat thudding in her ears. Her key’s pointless, if he isn’t inside, but she knocks anyway. Slowly she interprets the silence and nods her head and closes her eyes. It’s all she can think to do.

Then, she waits. Because she isn’t going anywhere, and she’s out to prove it.

She sits in her truck with the heater on low and waits to see Austin’s headlights swing around the corner from Oak Street. One hour passes, then another, and her eyes grow heavy, her heart grows weary, and her stomach knots with worry and fear. She knows what it’s like to feel uncertain now, and she wants to tell Austin just that.

She tells his voicemail, instead.

“Aus, it’s—it’s me. I don’t know where you are, but I hope you’re okay. I couldn’t take it if you—I just—I’m sorry. Just let me know you’re okay. I’m here, okay? I’m here. Always.”

At a quarter to ten, she can’t take the inaction and begins canvassing Ashland—Wingspread Park, the liquor store, the dugout of the high school’s baseball diamond, and finally, Rhodes. She saved it for last, because Dylan likely would have texted her, asking why she isn’t with Austin, if he showed up solo. She finds out she’s wrong and her breath catches in her throat when she sees Austin’s truck parked near the back of the lot. She pulls in beside it and gets out of her truck, walks around the side of it and trails her fingers across Austin’s hood. Her lips twitch up into a small smile—she’s found him. She pulls her hand from the cold metal and shoves it into her pocket, walks toward the bar with her heart pounding hard.

It’s late, but the bar is still packed with the regular crowd of blue collars and the women who love them, even a few children. Harper navigates through what seems like nearly the entire population of Ashland, tripping over feet and bumping elbows as she tries to spot him through their bodies. She doesn’t see his blonde curls or his smooth skin, she doesn’t smell that mix of sawdust and smoke that is only him, and her stomach knots again, loses the relief it felt in the lot. By the time she makes her way to Dylan, she’s frowning.

He’s busy slinging beer and burgers to a group of undergrads, but he smiles over at her when he sees her, holds up a finger to tell her to wait. She does as he asks, wedged between two barstools topped with men she doesn’t know, and hops up on the bottom rung of both stools and cranes her neck to continue her search. She sees everyone she doesn’t care to see, a few people she can’t place, and her frown grows deeper.

“Reed,” Dylan states and it sounds like a greeting when his smile is factored in. She turns to look at him and he hands her a beer without her having to ask. She takes a swig too quickly and beer dribbles out of the corner of her mouth and down to her chin. Dylan catches it with a cocktail napkin and his smile fades. “Slow down there, killer. Rough night?”

“Have you seen Austin?” Harper asks, tapping her nails on the side of the glass bottle—the 
tink-tink-tink
 it makes quickly becomes the soundtrack of her anxiety. “His truck’s here, but I can’t find him.”

“I’m just a bartender, Harper,” Dylan tells her and she sees the way he won’t look at her, the way his gaze goes to the door. He’s not saying anything, but his eyes say everything. He knows something and Harper knows that he does. “It’s a busy night, you know.”

“Dill—”

“Can I get you anything else?” He cuts her off and still won’t look at her, fiddles with his bottle opener and wipes down the bar between them. She shakes her head, but he doesn’t see it, and takes the silence for what it is. “Alright, then. The beer’s on me. Let me know if you need another.”

“Dylan—”

“I’m his friend, too, Harp,” Dylan says as he backs away. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

Harper stares at his back as he walks down the bar to take an order. She tastes pity in every sip of her beer. She gulps it down as fast as she can and looks over the room again. At the bottom of the bottle, she nods to herself and accepts what Dylan’s mouth couldn’t tell her—Austin isn’t in the bar. His truck remains, but he’s gone, and that means that he had to have left with someone. Her palms sweat and her stomach pitches, and she needs another drink.

She calls Dylan back to her, hands him the empty bottle, and asks for a vodka and tonic with lime. He nods, makes it, and hands it to her without a word, then waits as she squeezes the wedges and tosses them into her drink. She knows he’s waiting for her keys. Beer is one thing, but liquor is another, and he has a policy—one that’s generally only enforced for her and Clare. She gives them up without a fight and tells him to keep her drinks coming. She can sleep it off on his couch, when she’s done.

A stool opens up and Harper slides onto it, drinks atop it until the legs feel wobbly beneath her small frame. She leans against the bar then and asks Dylan for a double, but he gives her a single with a light pour. She gives him a smile, one accompanied with a glassy stare, and he sighs as he squeezes her limes for her—she keeps missing the glass.

“Last one, Reed,”he tells her as her lips meet the rim of the glass and her teeth clink against it. He winces for her because she can’t feel the pain, and decides he’ll hold her hair back if he needs to. She doesn’t care about what comes next, how she’ll feel the next day. She only cares that she’s alone and that the alcohol stems the ache in her chest. She takes another swallow, a large one, and closes her eyes. It’s then that Dylan says, “I’m really sorry, Harper.”

“He loves me and he’s not here. He loves me. Why isn’t he here?” Harper slurs the words and tears slip down her cheeks, drip into her drink and mingle with the liquor. Dylan looks at her, looks away, looks at her again, and he can’t bring himself to tell her anything. “Where is he, Dilly? Where is—”

“Harper,” Liam says softly at her side and unlike earlier in the day, she gives him no reaction. Dylan looks at him, at her, at him, deciding whether or not he needs to intervene. Liam seems solid enough, so Dylan steps away to call Hilary. When he’s gone, Harper looks over at Liam with her glassy stare and her tears and tilts toward him on her stool as she shakes her head. All he can do is catch her, right her with his hands on her shoulders, and hold her as she cries until she wants him to let her go.

When she does, he sits beside her and doesn’t touch her again.

He watches her drink, watches her cry, and he knows what vodka means. She drank it when she bombed her SATs the first go around, the first time they had a real adult fight, when her father died. He knows she probably drank it when he left. He almost hopes she did—that losing him meant that much to her. But none of those reasons are why it’s in her glass tonight. Now, she drinks it because of Austin, and he, like Dylan, knows why.

Austin left with Gemma, and Liam saw them go.

“It’ll be okay,” he tells her, but Harper only shakes her head.

“This hurts,” she whimpers into her glass, and Liam looks her over to try to find the source of her pain. He sees her hand clutched to her chest, and he knows what she means by
this
. His own chest aches at the sight. “Love isn’t supposed to hurt,” she slurs and looks him in the eye. They’re big and brown and spilling tears just as they were on the side of I-5, but they’re not tears for him, her heart doesn’t ache for him—and no matter how his hurts because of this, he knows it’s a self-inflicted wound. “Why does it hurt?”

“Because it matters.” He tries hard not to plead his case, but he wants to tell her he knows this firsthand—he knows just how much love hurts, especially when you leave it behind. Instead, all he says is, “But he feels it, too. You can’t hurt the ones you love without hurting yourself. Trust me.”

“You hurt?” she asks meekly realizing his implication, and it knocks the wind right out of him. All he can do is nod solemnly and avert his eyes—this isn’t about him, and he won’t make it so any more than he already has. But her hands reach for him as she says, “I’m sorry you hurt,” and he can’t bear to deny them.

“It isn’t your fault,” he croaks out as she messily pulls him to her. He almost forgot what it felt like to be in her arms—almost. They don’t hold him as tightly as they used to, but they still overlap his spine at the same place they always have, her fingers still touch the same spot on his shoulder blades when they do. It takes all his strength not to crush his arms around her and pull her into his lap—it takes even more to pull away.

“Fault or not, I’m sorry we’re all hurting,” she says.

“Me too.”

The air between them grows thick and they stare at the space there, until Hilary fills it. When she does, Liam steps aside and lets her leave. He lets her leave because he has to, because he left her. And while he hopes that one day she’ll return to him, he can’t precipitate it.

All he can do is hope.

“Are you sure?” Gemma whispers and reaches for Austin’s hand. He is motionless, allowing her fingers to thread with his, her small thumb to wash over his knuckles, as he closes his eyes. It’s his answer, his way of telling her yes, and she understands. She pulls his hand over towards her, his arm moving weakly in her grip, and settles it on her knee. She runs her fingers over his splayed palm, bites her lip, then tells him, “It’ll be okay.”

“Will it?” he asks, his throat dry enough to crack the words. He licks his lips, but they don’t moisten, and his next words have just as many fissures. “I wanted to apologize—I went to tell her and—” He takes a deep, dragging breath, then says, “I saw him—him and her. His hands were on her—all over her.” Gemma doesn’t say anything, because all she wants to say is a soft 
I told you so
. She traces the lines in his palm and tries to figure out what they mean—she wonders which of them is his love line. He closes his hand over hers before she can figure it out, and grips into her flesh and bone so tightly. When she looks up to meet his stare, his eyes are sharp, and his mouth slowly says, “I’m going to lose her.”