Page 67 of Knocked Up By the Silver Foxes

She watches me as I move. I don’t rush. I never do. The ritual matters. I grab a heavy-bottomed pan, set it on the induction burner. Olive oil—good oil, thick and green. I pour with my thumb over the spout, just enough. Garlic slices hit the oil with a whisper of sizzle. I let it cook, slow, until the smell rises like a promise.

“What’re you making?”

“Spaghetti aglio e olio. Simple. Fast. Good.”

She smiles faintly. “You always feed me when I’m tired.”

“Because you forget to feed yourself.” I glance at her. “Harper, you’re the kind of person who’d skip breathing if it got in the way of a deadline.”

She doesn’t argue. Just tucks her hands between her knees, watching me. “I didn’t know how to say no as a kid.”

The words come out quiet. Unexpected.

I don’t turn. I keep stirring the garlic, lift the pan slightly to let the oil swirl. “Say no to what?”

“Everything.” Her voice cracks slightly. “Jason and Rebecca—my dad and his wife—they had this... way of making everything feel like a transaction. A gift came with a list of ways you were supposed to thank them. Dinner meant sitting through three hours of their commentary on my career, my body, my shoes. It wasn’t love. It was... theater. And I played my part.”

I add crushed red pepper to the oil. The scent bites sharp at the back of the throat. “So you learned to earn your place.”

“Yeah. By sixteen, I was managing the front desk at a boutique downtown just so I’d have my own money. Took night classes through community college. Drove myself to every job interview dressed in secondhand suits from Goodwill. Still got passed over for girls with ‘connections.’ I didn’t break the glass ceiling—I climbed it with a hammer.”

I turn then. Set the pan aside. Pour the pasta—already cooked and held—into the oil and garlic. Toss in parsley, a shower of Pecorino. I plate it quickly, bring it to her with a fork and a glass of still water.

She picks up the fork, twirls a strand. “You didn’t say anything.”

I lean against the counter across from her. “Didn’t need to. I was listening.”

She chews slowly. Then laughs, a dry, quiet thing. “They came to my office back in New York.”

I go still. “Jason and Rebecca.”

“Walked in like they owned the place. Told my assistant they had an appointment. They didn’t.” Her knuckles whiten around the fork. “Jason said, ‘We just wanted to remind you that families stick together.’ Like I’m supposed to feel guilty for not inviting them to some gallery opening.”

“And you?”

“I smiled. Handed them a brochure. Told them the next event was invite-only.” She lifts her eyes to me. “I fired up the shredder while they were still in the elevator.”

I almost smile. Almost. But there’s too much ache beneath her tone. “You think they’ll leave it?”

“No.” She sets the fork down. “They’ll try again. They always do. But I don’t belong to them anymore. I haven’t for years.”

“No,” I say softly. “You don’t.”

She watches me. “You never flinch when I say stuff like that.”

“Because I see you.” I step closer. “The part of you that still carries the weight—the part that thinks she has to prove herself every single day, that one misstep means the floor drops out. But fuck them. You earned every damn thing you have. You built it. And anyone who can’t see that doesn’t deserve a seat at your table.”

Her throat moves as she swallows. “You really believe that?”

I reach out, take the fork from her hand, set it aside. “I know it.”

She’s quiet then. The only sound is the slow tick of the cooling kitchen. Then—“How did you and Monica... you know. End?”

I don’t answer right away. I pick up a dish towel, fold it. Not because it needs folding, but because my hands need something to do.

“I came home early,” I say. “Sixteen hours in the air, crew changes, delays. Got a last-minute clearance to land an hour ahead of schedule. I called. No answer. So I thought... I could surprise her.”

I glance up. Harper’s eyes are steady on me.