Page 12 of Julian

“And do you have a last name?” I press.

“Hawthorne, sir,” she says, and I don’t like the formality, even though I know that’s how she’s been trained.

“Well, Harper Hawthorne,” I say, allowing the syllables to roll off my tongue, “interesting perspective this morning from you.”

A brief flash of surprise loosens her expression before professionalism reclaims it. “I’m happy I could help.” A beat passes. Behind us, staff enter and exit the arena. “Have a good day, Mr. Langley.”

“I intend to.”

I turn toward the entrance as the doors part, stepping into corridors lined with banners, framed jerseys and Vipers’ history.

Yet as I walk toward the executive level and the litany of problems awaiting resolution, I find my thoughts resisting the tidy compartmentalization I usually demand of them. They linger instead on the image of a woman in a forgettable uniform whose insight cut cleanly through a problem my senior staff had circled for hours.

Chapter 4

Harper

Abby’s halfway through raiding my refrigerator when she asks, “What’s with the lack of snacks? When was your last supermarket run?”

Beau stands beside her, head pushed halfway in to sniff the meager contents while his tail wags furiously.

I’m leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t have to judge my groceries,” I say, unwilling to tell her that given my recent job loss, I really can’t afford snacks outside of those I buy for Dylan to take to school.

“I’m not judging. I’m assessing,” she corrects, pulling out a container of almond milk and squinting at the expiration date. Beau stares at her with unfettered hope in his eyes. “It’s what happens when two girls grow up on the Lower East Side sharing bodega sandwiches. Survival instincts.”

I laugh despite myself. “We turned out fine.”

“Debatable,” she says, gently pushing Beau out of the way and shutting the fridge. “Remember when we…” Abby pauses, eyes roaming over me critically before narrowing. “What’s wrong?”

Abby has known me since we were eight and thought the F train was an adventure. We grew up five blocks apart in walk-ups with radiators that clanged like percussion sections and parents who were always working. We learned early how to navigate crowded sidewalks and louder adults. There’s no version of my life she doesn’t already have context for.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, my gaze dropping away.

She moves two steps, comes toe to toe with me, and peers at me in a way that makes me hot under the collar. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” I say. She narrows her eyes and I sigh. “Okay. I’m… not fine. I got fired.”

“What!” she exclaims. “Why?”

I shrug helplessly, trying not to sound too whiny, which will trigger Beau into a full-on apoplectic fit. “I have no clue.”

“What are you going to do?” she asks, concern etched in every angle of her face.

“For that I also have no clue,” I reply glumly. “Look for another part-time job. And I’ve put in a request for as many shifts as I can get with the limo company.”

“I’m sorry, Harps. You know if I can help—”

I wave off her offer with a swish of my hand through the air. She knows me well enough to know I hate being a charitable cause and immediately makes a motion with her hand to zip her lips.

Abby leans back against the counter opposite me, arms folded now, mirroring my posture. “How’s Dylan?”

“Doing amazing! His last progress report was solid. B’s, mostly. A in history.”

Abby’s eyebrows lift. “Look at him go. Best decision ever for him to come live with you.”

“I know.” I can’t stop the small smile. “He’s like a new kid since he moved back.”

We both know what that means. I never had a dad growing up and it was just me and Mom forever. But then she met hippie Marley when I was thirteen, and although they never married, he moved in with us and assumed the role of my “father,” though I can’t say he ever lived up to the role, at least not in a traditional sense. He’s a good man… but he’s flighty and lives with his head in the clouds.