Author: Kristan Higgins

When Nick arrived later that afternoon, Coco and I were the only ones in the Laundromat, the mother and daughter having left an hour before. He smiled as he pulled up in front of BubbleNSqueak. “Yo, Harper, get in the car, woman,” he called, pushing his sunglasses on top of his head.

“The mating call of the Brooklyn male,” I grumbled, but my laundry was already folded and stowed in my suitcase, so I hefted my bag into the trunk and got in the passenger seat. Coco curled up in my arms, resting her teensy head on my collarbone. “Where now, chief?” I asked. “Back to the thrill of the open road?”

“Actually, no. Can Minneapolis wait till tomorrow?”

“Another meeting?” I said, a twinge of irritation flashing. Should’ve bought the damn plane ticket.

“Nope.” He gestured to the backseat. “A picnic.”

“Oh.”

Nick and I had never been on a picnic together. I remembered that one time we’d tried, the ill-fated chicken salad, the fight that marked the beginning of our end.

“Is that okay?” Nick asked, and looking up at him, I saw that he remembered, too.

“That’s great,” I said, clearing my throat.

Half an hour later, we were down by the Missouri River, looking at some rather odd, cut-out statues of Lewis and Clark and Sacagawea as they pointed to a parking lot…or the river, more likely. Nick pulled a blanket out of the trunk and grabbed the cooler that ostensibly contained our food.

We found a place near the train bridge and sat looking out at the wide, blue Missouri. “What do you think of the bridge?” I asked, and Nick smiled.

“Not bad,” he said. “It’s not Brooklyn, but it’s okay.” It had always been Nick’s habit to compare bridges to his beloved Brooklyn Bridge and find them wanting. Not even the Golden Gate could measure up. “Orange is orange,” he used to say, “no matter what you call it.”

We let Coco off the leash to explore, which she did for approximately four minutes before deciding a nap was in order. She lay next to me on her back, her paws in the air, sneezed twice, wagged her tail and fell asleep.

“Hey,” Nick said, nudging my arm with something. It was a little package. Gift-wrapped. “Happy birthday.”

I sucked in a quick breath. He was right. I guess I’d sort of forgotten the date, being on the road, not constantly on the computer. And of course, it wasn’t my favorite day of the year, given my history and all. Funny that neither my father nor BeverLee had mentioned it. Well. Other things on their minds.

“Open it,” Nick said.

It was a pendant, a polished stone, gray and lovely, framed with silver twists. It was somber but lovely, one of a kind. “Thank you,” I said.

“The stone’s from the river here,” he said. “A souvenir.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Want me to put it on?” he asked, then, at my nod, knelt behind me. Nick’s hands were quick and gentle, barely brushing my skin. “Happy birthday,” Nick repeated, and for a second, it seemed as if he might kiss me. But he didn’t.

“Thanks,” I whispered, not quite able to look him in the eye.

But my heart was sweetly sore, because September 14 wasn’t just my birthday or the day my mother had left me…it was also the day I’d met Nick.

“So what do you want to do tonight?” Nick asked after a few minutes.

“Let’s go to the movies,” I said, and that’s just what we did. First we checked into a chain hotel. Two rooms, of course. I left Coco in mine with Animal Planet on and strict instructions to limit her room service to three desserts and three only, then met Nick in the lobby. We walked down the street to the theater. Two horror flicks, three romances, one cop movie. “Nightmare on Elm Street, or Saw?” Nick asked.

“Oh, Nightmare, definitely,” I said.

“So romantic,” Nick murmured. Without asking me if I wanted any, he bought me a vat of popcorn and a root beer. We found seats and did what we’d done in the olden days—proceeded to talk incessantly throughout the film’s murders.

“Ten bucks says the virgin dies before the slut,” I said, taking a sip of my soda.

“You’re on. Oh, hey, don’t go in the shower, for God’s sake,” Nick advised the scantily dressed college student on the screen as she tiptoed into the bathroom. He stuffed a fistful of popcorn into his mouth. “Well, okay, there you go,” he added as she was slashed to death by Freddy’s fingernails. “Can’t say I didn’t warn you. Your poor parents.”

“Do you mind?” asked a kid in front of us.

“Listen, son,” Nick said. “I’ll save you some suspense. Everyone dies.”

“Ass,” the kid muttered, getting up and moving ten or so rows away. We ignored him.

“Nick,” I murmured, “should I ever head into the cellar armed only with a ladle after the police have just warned me that a psychotic killer is on the loose, please slap me.”

“Shut up!” someone else hissed.

“Will do, Harpy, will do. Oh! Yuck! Okay, I didn’t see that one coming. Can you actually do that with a corkscrew?”

The hisser moved.

God, it was fun! The popcorn was fresh, the root beer wasn’t watered down, and sitting there in the theater, giggling inappropriately as teen after teen was hacked, the thought came to me that if only Nick and I had done things like this when we were married—picnics and movies and harvest dances—we might never have gotten divorced.

If only.

When the movie was over, we returned to the humble hotel. Nick walked down the hall with me, murmuring something about seeing me safely to my door. Uh-huh. I slid the card into the slot and opened the door. Checked to make sure Coco was okay—she was sleeping on her back in the middle of the bed—then turned to my ex.

“Thanks for a great date,” I said, my knees suddenly buzzing.

“You’re welcome. Happy birthday,” he murmured. His eyes dropped to my mouth. I swallowed.

Sleeping with him is definitely ill-advised, said the lawyer part of my brain. Unfortunately, the blood flow had redirected to my girl parts, which gave a hot and sudden throb. Nick looked at me, his eyes as dark as an abyss into which I would cheerfully throw myself. The lawyer part of me gave a distant, outraged squeak.

His lashes…they were so pretty, thick and unexpected, and when he smiled, which he was doing now, the loveliest lines spread from his eyes, and those eyes, so often tragic and gypsy-sad, were happy now.

A week ago, I wouldn’t have dreamed of sleeping with Nick. Now though…now…okay, the brain was definitely struggling for survival as the girl parts continued to croon…Nick and me, naked and in bed…that seemed like a wicked good idea.

The lawyer part committed hari-kiri.

Nick reached out and touched my cheek. “Good night, Harper. See you in the morning.”

“Yes! Okay! Right. You too, Nick. See you, I mean. In the morning.”

He glanced back at me as he walked down the hall to his own room, a half smile on his face, and if he’d been two steps closer, I would’ve grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him into my room, common sense and history be damned.

Okay, why did he leave? Huh? Hmm? Huh? Men. I mean, really! Men! Who knew what went on in their tiny brains? Had he just saved me from myself, or completely insulted me? Hmm? Should I be grateful or furious? I yanked on my pajamas, washed my face, brushed my teeth and got into bed, frustrated…and yes, maybe a little relieved.

Suffice it to say I didn’t get a lot of sleep. Tangled thoughts battered me like a debate team on steroids.

Nick and I lived in different states.

So? Try the long-distance thing.

We have completely separate lives.

They don’t have to be separate.

We already tried this, and it was an epic failure.

You’ve changed.

Please. People don’t change.

He still wants you.

He just walked away from me.

Don’t be coy.

We’ll never get over our past.

Hmm. That might be true.

The past certainly haunts me.

Yes. Okay, you win.

With a sigh, I kicked back the covers, got out of bed and clicked on a light, earning some very tragic and confused blinking from my dog. Great. It was 3 a.m., not an hour when sound decisions are often made.

Then I did something I hadn’t done in a long time. I sat down in front of the mirror and took a good hard look.

I knew—intellectually, anyway—that I was pretty. Beautiful, even. My hair was envied by most of the population on earth. Eyes were green and clear. Bone structure quite strong yet still feminine.

It’s just that it was my mother’s face, too.

I didn’t simply take after her…I was practically a clone. My father was tall, thin, dark and handsome. I was tall, red-haired and fair. Every day for the past twenty-one years…every day…I’d had to look in the mirror and see the face of the woman who walked out on me. I hadn’t heard her voice in more than two decades. In all that time, she had only managed to send four postcards with a combined total of twelve sentences.

And as of today, I was the same age she was the last time I’d last seen her.

That was quite a thought. Quite a thought indeed.

The envelope was still in my computer carrier. Slowly, I got up and withdrew it, sat back down and, with another glance at my reflection, opened it up.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

NICK WAS ALREADY drinking coffee and staring out the window of the little hotel restaurant when I came in from walking Coco the next morning. My dog jumped up on the seat next to him and stole a slice of bacon, and I ruffled his hair before sitting down.

“Hey,” he said, looking a little confused at the gesture of affection.

“Hey yourself,” I answered. “Sleep okay?”

“Not really,” he said. “I lay awake for hours, horny as a teenage boy.”

“Duly noted,” I said. “So. Are you bound and determined to get to Minneapolis today, Nick?”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“Feel like a little detour?”

He must’ve sensed something was up, because he gave me a long, speculative look, as if reading my soul. (Wow. Corny. Sorry.) “Where would you like to go?”

“Aberdeen, South Dakota. Maybe three, four hours from here. If I drive, that is.”

“And what’s in Aberdeen?”

“You mean in addition to the Sitting Bull monument?” I asked, having spent some time on Google a few hours ago. I took a sip of his coffee, which he noted with a wry look.

“Yes. In addition to that.”

“My mother.”

Saying those two words out loud…it took something out of me, because suddenly, I couldn’t keep up the cute banter and my hands were shaking, Nick’s coffee sloshing over the rim. He took the cup from me and held both my hands in his, held them tight.

When he did speak, it was brief. “Ready when you are.”

MY THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY had fallen on a Saturday, but my parents and I headed to Boston on Friday. On a plane, oh, yes. The ferry only went to Woods Hole, whereupon we’d have to take a bus or drive our aging Toyota, which just didn’t fit the glamorous night my mother had planned.

She and I had spent weeks researching the very best restaurants in the city, comparing views, decor, street desirability, menus and wine lists…not that I’d be drinking of course, but just to assess the class of the place. Class was a very important noun to my mother. And so we’d come up with Les Étoiles. “Perfect,” she pronounced. “Harper, this is definitely our kind of place. Now we just have to clean up your father, and we’ll be all set.”

She let me stay home from school that day, and I was thrilled. My mother was my absolute favorite person and always had been. She was much younger than most mothers of kids my age; in some cases, almost a generation younger. And she was so beautiful! She’d been a model, of course, and never lost her love of looking fantastic. Still a size four, that glorious hair, those green eyes. My mother looked ten years younger than thirty-four and she knew it. She was a wonderful flirt, and all the fathers loved her, of course, discreetly checking out her ass or her boobs, which she showcased in low-cut tops and tight jeans or miniskirts. She had flair, she had style, and she was fun. I was so proud to be hers, it was impossible to voice. The only real difference between us was that I was a really good student, and she hadn’t been. Otherwise, we were practically twins.