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“Hello Kitty notebook? Pink stapler?” I don’t know what made me say it, but I couldn’t help it, and Harper’s face lit up in a grin as she punched my arm.
“I’ll take those things in Monday. Today I dropped off my work tiara so it’d be all ready to go when I arrive.”
I laughed. “It’s great how that all worked out.”
“It is.” Silence fell between us then, and she watched me drink the beer. I felt awkward with her watching me that way, but there was something about it I liked at the same time.
“What’s the job, anyway?”
“I was angling for President or at least Chairman of All Things Important.”
“No dice?”
“I guess not. I’m the new events manager.” She raised her glass.
“Sounds good,” I said, clinking my bottle to the edge of her water. As I did it, I felt a twinge of guilt, and as soon as I acknowledged that little ping, the feeling grew and swelled until it avalanched around me, burying me beneath its weight. It occurred to me, not for the first time, that sitting here with a gorgeous girl, making light conversation and actually enjoying myself, was probably not what I deserved to be doing. I was a widower—and part of me felt responsible for my wife’s death. Shouldn’t I be thinking about that? Beyond the guilt I felt around Jess, I felt guilt whenever I wasn’t thinking of her. I wasn’t sure what the expiration date on guilt and grief was, and I bowed my head trying to figure it out.
When I looked up again, ready to make some excuses so I could wallow properly in the darkness back at home, Harper was watching me.
“Can I ask what happened?” she asked in a soft voice, those bright eyes fixed on my face.
I held her gaze a moment and then dropped it again. “What do you mean?”
“With your wife?” Her voice was soft, welcoming. Encouraging. And I was tempted to stay in the light of her kitchen, the aura of her smiling presence. But I knew I should leave. I put the bottle down, preparing to stand.
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “It’s not my business. I shouldn’t have pried. You just look so sad sometimes, so lost. I wondered…” she paused, her eyes darting away and a light blush climbing her pale cheeks. “I wondered if I could maybe help. Talk about it, I mean.”
“Hey,” I said, working to make my voice reassuring and kind. “It’s okay. I just don’t really talk about it, I guess.”
She nodded, and her smile returned. “Don’t go yet, okay?”
I didn’t want to. God, I wanted to stay in the light of her happiness, the shine of those laughing eyes. “It’s been a long day.”
“Five minutes,” she said, and when I looked up to meet her eyes again, there was something new there, something pleading and sad that surprised me. “Stay with me for five more minutes. Please?”
I might have squinted or wrinkled my nose. Something in my face asked the question my voice didn’t.
“I get scared. I know its stupid. I’m a grown woman. But it’s so quiet here. And I’m just not used to being…so alone.” She looked down as she said the last part, and that little disloyal piece of my heart twisted again inside my chest.
“Okay,” I said, wishing for the sadness to disappear from her. Harper was bright and glorious—seeing her sad made the world feel tilted and wrong. “It is Friday night, after all.” I felt a smile come naturally to my face. I’d go home and wallow to punish myself, but I didn’t want to punish Harper. If she wanted company, I’d be company.
She got up and went to the coffee table in the front room, returning with a deck of cards in her hands. “War?’
“Really?”
She lifted a shoulder and cut the cards in half, giving me one part of the deck.
“You’re not even going to deal?”
“What difference does it make? It’s not a real game.”
“I’ll teach you a real game.” I held out my hand for the rest of the cards and shuffled them multiple times before dealing us each seven cards and setting up the table for Kings in the Corners.
“I’ve played this,” she said, her voice breathy suddenly as she squinted at the cards. “A long time ago.”
“This is a mountain card game,” I said. “We never played it at home, but every time we were up here we played this game all the time.”
“Yeah,” she said quietly, her voice still quiet, her eyes distant.
