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"I'd like to think that in some other universe, Peter is alive," I whisper, letting the thought comfort me like a soft blanket on a cold night.
“That’s a nice thought,” Julian says genuinely.“But what about this universe? What about your life, Harper?”
“What about it? I’m living it.”
“What about loving it; what about loving someone else,” Julian suggests. He pushes off of the car and grabs the grocery bag.“I didn’t know Peter, but if it were me in his shoes and Poppy had another chance at love, at being loved by someone who was safe, genuine, and pure, then I’d want her to have that.”
I look at the house again, at a dream a young man once had for his future. A dream, something not tangible for him anymore.“I’d want that too,” I whisper.
Is it tangible for me? Can I have the future Peter wanted but with someone else?
I watch Julian go inside, making his way to the kitchen, where he begins to make coffee to surprise Poppy. I push out of the car, my legs feeling like a baby deer trying to find her footing on the ice. I make my way to the garage. It’s so old that the door isn’t electric, and it takes a lot of effort to shake loose the rust so I can shove it up and open the door. There, inside, is a ghost from the past. Leaning against the old wooden walls is a rusty old bike.
Peter’s bike.
The bike I rode on the handlebars of. The same bike he rode me to this house on.
I walk up to it and hesitantly touch the handlebars, half worried that they might disintegrate if I touch them for too long.
Eventually, it doesn’t kill me. I grab the bars and pull it free from the cobweb-covered wall. It cries and creaks, a sound mirroring my heart as I push it down the driveway. The tires are flat, dead, and devoid of air, like Peter. I can’t even ride it, so I just push it down the sidewalk, pushing it into my current reality.
Glancing ahead, holding the handlebars so tightly, my knuckles scream, and tears roll down my face as I face the dawn of a new day. Somewhere in the universe, I’d like to believe, Peter is still riding this bike, and I’m laughing, swinging my legs, my heart filled with love as I sit on the handlebars.
I glance down at the bike, at the flat tires. My reality.
Julian is right. When I return home and put this bike away, I have to start living this life and not fantasize about a life in an alternate reality.
I love you, Peter, and I always will, but I think I love someone else, too.
Chapter 37
Poppy
I roll over and dig my toes into the sheet. A deep inhale snaps my eyes open. Another inhale fills me with skepticism. "Is that pumpkin I smell?" I voice, hoping it becomes true. Is it possible to smell pumpkin spice in your dreams? Does that make me clinically insane?
I roll again, almost falling out of the strange bed. The wine we had last night tasted like grape juice mixed with rubbing alcohol. Ok, so I'm not entirely sure that the last statement is one hundred percent true, but I feel confident. Note to self: don't ever drink wine that is in a soda can again.
Box wine? Well, that makes sense in some circumstances, like desperation. Trust me, the French would agree. Canned wine? No. Never.
Standing and stretching, I swallow a mouthful of desperation because I need coffee—good coffee.
After yesterday, Harper and I ordered pizza and cheap wine. I went to bed early, and Harper, well, I’m not sure what she did. I left her sitting on the couch. She seemed reluctant to go to bed when all I wanted to do, after fleeing, driving through scary roads, and reaching the end of our impromptu road trip, was get into a clean bed and sleep.
I grab the knob on the door; it takes an extra wiggle to open it because the screw is loose. The air in the hallway makes me feel like glue is seeping into my cracks. Freshly brewed coffee has a way of making you feel whole again.
"Harper," I shout. Another inhale.Yes! Fresh coffee."I love you." I squeal. I begin to walk down the hall quickly. It's not just any coffee, either. I know that scent, slightly like autumn, cinnamon, cardamom, cloves, and pumpkin.
I grin. Harper knew what I’d need. That reminds me, how the heck am I going to thank her for everything she has done? Even the small touches like the coffee?
If I Google 'gift ideas for a world-class hacker,' what will come up?
I turn left directly into the kitchen, looking directly into the eyes of someone I love. My feet stumble, and I grasp the doorframe as I sway. "Julian," I gasp. "What…" My eyes blink faster than windshield wipers on a rainy day. I think my heart even makes that distinct squeeze, similar to when they run over the glass too quickly.
“Hi,” he says, his smile hesitant and worried-like. He doesn’t look away; he just reaches for the coffee pot, puffing out steam like a little train. "I brought a peace offering,” he tells me, lifting the pot.
He glances toward the little nook by the window, where a small bistro table for two sits.“Pumpkin spice coffee and pumpkin muffins with fresh cream cheese," he adds, his voice dropping a bit softer now.
"Am I dreaming?"
