Page 107 of Julian

Percy nods, like honesty is all he ever expected from me tonight. Not much different from most nights, really. It’s what makes him the closest confidant I have.

“I wonder what we would have done for his seventh birthday,” I say quietly, my gaze still fixed on the photograph.

Percy’s eyes drift toward the rain-streaked windows before he says softly, “I still remember that morning he was born. You sprinted through the maternity ward after I had alerted you she was in labor. I had never seen you move that quickly in your life.”

“Kylie was yelling at everyone,” I say as the memory returns to me too.

“She was terrifying,” Percy agrees. “One nurse fled the room. I believe it was her first delivery… or would have been had she stayed.”

I smile.

My eyes drift back down to the photograph. “I had a dream about Kylie the other night.”

Percy remains still, attentive.

I lean back slowly in the chair, dragging one hand down my cheek while I try to untangle thoughts I’m not certain I fully understand myself. “We were on the yacht… watching the sunrise.” I see it in my mind’s eye, clear as in the dream. “And Harper was there.”

I stare into the scotch while rain taps softly at the windows. “Kylie told me Harper was there for me and I woke up feeling…” I exhale slowly. “Guilty.”

Percy studies me now. “Because of Ms. Hawthorne?”

I nod. “Things with her are moving quickly. Much faster than I expected.”

And if I’m honest with myself, part of what gives me pause isn’t the speed itself but how little I want to slow it down. I pause before finally voicing the thought that has been clawing at me since the dream.

“Do you think I’m moving too quickly?”

Percy’s expression turns contemplative. “Oh, sir,” he says gently, “there is no proper timeline for grief. Or recovery from grief, for that matter.”

I lean back in the chair while he continues.

“The simple truth is that moving forward with your life is the only option any of us truly have. The alternative is remaining frozen beside ghosts forever… and that, sir, is no solution at all.”

I take a sip of my scotch.

“But of course,” Percy says, “we are only human.” His eyes drift toward the photograph still resting in my hands. “We do not let go of the past easily, particularly when the past contains great love.”

“Truer words,” I murmur.

Percy folds his hands loosely together. “That is the eternal conflict of the human condition, I think. We spend our lives grieving what we lose while simultaneously fearing what it means to move beyond it.”

Percy rises slowly from the chair and rests one hand against the desk. “You loved your wife deeply,” he says. “Nothing will ever diminish that.”

A chill runs through me. “I know.”

“But loving someone new does not erase the love that came before.” His expression gentles. “The heart is not nearly as finite as people imagine. It’s capable of learning to love again.”

I lower my eyes again to Ben’s photograph. Then, before I can respond, the front doorbell rings, the sound cutting cleanly through the stillness of the townhouse, and both Percy and I look toward the study door.

A faint crease forms between Percy’s brows. “Were you expecting anyone, sir?”

“Of course not,” I say. “Certainly not today.”

This day, each year, is a day of solitude. Only Percy has ever spent meaningful time with me, and for that I’m grateful.

But visitors?

No. Absolutely not.