Page 51 of Julian

“Do what?”

“That thing where you retreat into your head and suddenly this becomes a problem you need to solve,” she says, narrowing her eyes. “Spill it, Harper.”

I hesitate, because I already know how this is going to sound.

But it’s the truth.

“Why would he be into me?” I say finally, the words coming out quietly. “I mean… he’s a multibillionaire. You said it yourself.”

Abby blinks. “So?”

“Well—” I gesture vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. “Look at him. Look at his life. The women he’s probably surrounded by. I’m…” I trail off, shaking my head. “I’m me.”

Abby stares at me, unimpressed.

“I don’t even know why we’re talking about this,” I continue, pushing past it. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not like anything can actually happen. I have Dylan. I have responsibilities. I have a life that doesn’t leave room for whatever this is.” I take another sip of my drink, like that settles it. “I take care of myself,” I add, more firmly now. “I always have.”

Abby doesn’t respond right away, which is unusual. Then she sets her glass down slowly, turning fully toward me.

“Harper,” she says. I glance at her, wary. “You are always so busy trying to fix someone else’s problems. Your parents. Dylan. Me. Beau, even… Everyone.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she doesn’t let me.

“Everyone but yourself,” she finishes.

I shift slightly on the stool, my grip tightening around the stem of my glass. “That’s not true—”

“It is,” she cuts in. “And you know it is.”

I look away, out toward the bar.

“You forget to take care of the person who matters most,” Abby says, softer now. “You. And at some point, you have to start thinking about yourself. Not just surviving. Not just getting through the day. Actually thinking about what you want.”

I let out a small breath that comes out as a little laugh because this is funny…to me at least. “I know what I want.”

“Do you?” she asks.

I don’t answer.

Because suddenly, I’m not so sure.

Abby studies me, then shakes her head slightly, like she’s putting it together in real time. “You are the only person I’ve ever met who actually liked working in customer service.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “Liked might be a stretch.”

“No,” she says, her eyes steady on me. “You liked it. Not the job itself—but what it was. You liked helping people. You liked solving their problems, making things better for them, even when they were being completely unreasonable.”

I shrug, uncomfortable now. “It was fine.”

“It was more than fine,” she insists. “You cared. You always care.”

I sip the last of my drink, trying to hide the discomfort.

“And that’s great,” she adds. “It really is. But at some point, you need to ask yourself—what makes you happy?”

The question hangs there.

And for the first time in a long time, I don’t have an answer.