Page 52 of Julian

Chapter 14

Harper

The private terminal is quiet, in direct contrast to the hustle and bustle of New York City.

I sit behind the wheel of the Range Rover, engine off, the last traces of heat from the vents slowly fading into the chill that presses in through the glass. My hands are wrapped loosely around a paper cup of coffee that has long ago lost its warmth, but I haven’t tossed it; it gives me a tangible object to hold on to, and I can use the grounding effect it provides.

The dashboard clock shifts quietly to 11:58 p.m. The Vipers are now two hours late.

I roll one shoulder back against the seat, working out the stiffness that’s present from sitting too long, waiting without anything to do but be aware of time passing. The delay came through hours ago—weather over the Midwest, rerouting, holding patterns, all the things that sound abstract when you’re on the ground but apparently dictate everything once you’re in the air—and so I’ve been here, tucked into this pocket of stillness just outside the city’s reach.

At first, I filled the time the way I always do, letting distraction carry me through the minutes. I scrolled through my phone, checked in on Dylan—home, fine, quickly becoming a Vipers superfan after attending that game—answered Abby’s running commentary on the bar we’d been at the other night, even opened my banking app like I could will the numbers into a figure more comforting if I stared at them long enough. Not that I’m complaining. Since landing this job with Julian, my account is the healthiest it’s ever been, but that doesn’t stop the drain of raising a teenage boy.

But dwelling and ruminating on what’s going right or wrong, isn’t the way to spend my down time. I pick up the latest book I’ve been reading, a fascinating account of a 19th century marketing guru who no one’s heard of but whose story I’ve found incredibly fascinating and downright informative. I love reading these historical accounts of incredible people that today’s generations have overlooked.

Outside, the terminal glows in a soft wash of artificial light, the concrete stretching out in clean lines that are too orderly compared to the chaos of Manhattan just twenty or so miles away. Every now and then, a distant sound breaks through but those noises seem far off, like they belong to a different world.

I lean my head back against the seat and let my eyes drift closed, breathing in slowly, letting the stillness settle into me.

In these in-between times, the ones where no one sees, the solitude is nice, but I do wonder what it would be like to share these moments with someone. A partner. The yearning comes when I’m most alone.

I open my eyes again, my gaze drifting out through the windshield toward the sky, where thick clouds hang low and heavy, obscuring most, but not all, of the stars.

And then I see the plane. At first, it’s just a flicker of light breaking through the cloud cover, then the plane emerges slowly, its blinking lights steady against the night as it descends with graceful precision.

I straighten slightly in my seat, my fingers tightening a fraction around the coffee cup as I track the plane’s movement, the low buzz of the engines gradually reaching me through the closed windows. There’s a calm in watching it, about the certainty of its trajectory after hours of delay, as though no matter how long the path took, no matter how many obstacles it encountered, it was always going to find its way here.

The wheels touch down in a smooth, controlled motion, the plane gliding along the runway before gradually slowing, and moving toward the terminal. With midnight pressing in, the world held at a quiet distance—I let myself have it. This peace.

Because I know it won’t last. I know that the second that plane door opens, everything will start again. The movement and the conversations, the responsibilities waiting just beyond the edge of this stillness.

The terminal is ground-to-ceiling glass from the front entrance to the tarmac beyond, affording me prime viewing as the plane taxis. I watch as the aircraft rolls to a slow stop and the ground crew roll out the mobile boarding stairs for the passengers to disembark. The first figures begin to emerge, shadows at first, then familiar shapes as they descend one by one into the night.

Julian is first, and why does my pulse speed up upon seeing him?

I watch how he moves—decisive, unhurried but never idle—and even from this distance, I recognize it immediately. He doesn’t linger at the bottom of the stairs, doesn’t turn back or wait for the others to catch up, but instead heads straight into the terminal like the night, the delay, the entire inconvenience of travel is acknowledged and then dismissed. He carries his large leather garment bag over one shoulder, a duffel in the other hand as he crosses the slick tile floor and exits the door where I’m parked at the curb.

I step out of the Range Rover just as he approaches, the cold air biting sharper now that I’m fully exposed to it, my breath pluming in soft clouds between us.

“Long night?” I ask as I meet him at the back of the vehicle.

“Longer than anticipated,” he replies, settling his luggage in the cargo space. “Weather held us longer than expected.”

I nod, already moving to open the passenger door for him out of instinct, even though I know he doesn’t require it. “At least it was worth it.”

That earns me a brief glance, amusement flickering in his eyes as he slides into the seat. “It usually is when we win.”

“Five to one,” I say, because of course I know. Dylan and I watched the game tonight at the apartment.

Julian settles back, one hand coming up to rub lightly at the back of his neck. “Should have been a shutout,” he says. “But the win is exactly what we needed. The team’s finding its rhythm at the right time.”

I circle around to the driver’s side, slipping back behind the wheel as the rest of the players disperse—laughter, voices, the camaraderie of a team riding the high of a solid win carrying through the air.

“They seem like they’re in a good place,” I say as I start the engine, glancing over at him briefly before easing the car into motion.

“They are,” Julian replies. “We’re approaching the midpoint of the season, and this is when it matters most.”

I nod, pulling away from the terminal, my focus already shifting to the road ahead. “That’s good,” I say. I’ve learned enough in the last few weeks to understand how the game is as much mental as it is physical.