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I'm a planner, yet I hadn’t planned for what I would say to him.
“Julian?” My voice is barely a whisper.
“Poppy,” he acknowledges. The relief in his voice turns my eyes into a water fountain—not the pretty Italian kind, either, more like the cheap Home Depot version.
“I’m sorry,” I confess, the words feeling inadequate for the gravity of the situation.
He's silent for a heartbeat.“Why, Poppy?”
“I was…scared, confused…and,” I push myself to be honest, yet falter.“Did you know me before I moved into my apartment?” I ask. I recall the shock on his face when I unexpectedly appeared at work. It had seemed genuine.
“No,” He replies, but it sounds heavy.“I didn’t know you.” Pause.Why is he pausing?“I have some stuff I have to explain, Poppy.”
What does that mean? That sounds like culpability.
“I want to say it in person.” He adds.
My hand shakes.“I just need some time to think, Julian.”
“Pumpkin, please come home,” he pleads.
The next thing he hears is my snort of air as I cry.
Home.
It's a concept I never thought I'd grasp again. Yet there I was, beginning to find it in Julian. He was helping me build it.
"I just wanted to tell you I love you," I admit. Is loving another man who hasn't been honest just another cycle of a bad relationship? A groan slips from my lips, and then I eye the gas station. I wonder if Harper can get me a bottle of wine? It'd be cheap, and the hangover would be gruesome, but maybe it'd be worth it.
"Don't hang up, Pumpkin, please."
"Did you lie to me?"
"I...yes and no. Let me explain in person."
I close my eyes, torn. "I just need time, Julian. I—" My words are cut short as I see the man approaching Harper. "I have to go," I say, hanging up before Julian can reply. The call was too painful, a complete mess.
I wipe away the tears with the inside of my shirt. Not my proudest moment, but certainly not my lowest either. I fan my eyes, trying to dry the tears—I don't want Harper to see me like this.
"Sorry, miss, their card machine is down, and he doesn’t have change for a fifty. Do you?" I overhear the man and ask Harper.
I lean over the console for a better look. Up close, his features are striking. I think god just sent Harper a test to see if she truly loves Kent. The man's accent is unmistakably French, and his appearance is straight out of GQ. The old Harper might have convinced this man to take her in the back of his car, but the new Harper merely rolls her eyes, giving his well-structured face scant attention.
"Yeah," she says, "But I'm not foolish enough to pull out my wallet in front of a stranger."
The man's grin is captivating, but nothing compares to Julian’s warm smile. No one can compare to Julian.
"Wise women," the French man retorts, continuing to step back, giving Harper space. "Just let me know when?" he adds with a flirtatious smirk.
"Wait at your car," Harper retorts sharply. "I’ll finish first." She handles the nozzle with determination.
He nods, but before turning away, his gaze sweeps into the car and locks onto me. His flirtatious grin fades to something undefinable, as if he recognizes me or thinks he does, even though we've never met before. He nods at me once, how a brother would nod at a younger sibling. Stranger. Unsettling.
Harper opens the driver's door. "Never talk to strangers, okay, Pops? Or take your wallet out where they can snatch it."
"But you talked to him, Mom," I joke.
"I can beat the shit out of that cashmere-wearing prick. You can't," she pauses, then asks, "You cried?"
