What You Leave Behind (15 page)

“I don’t feel much like celebrating,” she says wearily, once the dress has turned to ash. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Clare reassures her, laying a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. “How about I order us some takeout from Sesame, track down a Josh Hartnett flick, and just hang out here in sweatpants—which you’ll let me borrow, of course—and maybe drink all of your mom’s shitty Bartles and Jaymes?” Harper sputters out a small laugh through her tears, and reaches up to wipe them away as they begin to stem. “Okay, good. Let’s do that.”

Hilary comes home to find Harper and Clare sprawled on the floor of the living room, with nearly empty containers of Tangerine Chicken and Mao Po Tofu on the floor before them—coffee table pushed aside in favor of extra leg room. The television is blaring
40 Days and 40 Nights
, and the two of them are cackling, wine coolers in hand. When the front door bangs closed and they notice Hilary’s home, Harper is quick to mute the television and fruitlessly attempt to straighten up what little of the floor space she can reach while seated.

“You girls do realize there’s a couch behind you, right?” Hilary asks with a laugh once she has their attention.

“We’ll put the room back together, Mrs. Reed,” Clare vows with all of her wide-eyed charm. “I promise.”

“It’s okay, Clare, and for fuck’s sake, I’m Hilary, not Mrs. Reed. Mrs. Reed was Harrison’s mother and, quite frankly, I’m nothing like that old twat,” she says with a warm smile—incongruous with her foul language—while waving off the mess they’ve made. “But I’m glad you two are having fun.”

“Thanks, Mom,” Harper laughs oddly, finding her mother both quite amusing and just a hint appalling, and gets to her feet, crossing the room to hug her very unique mother. She gives her mother a hug, employing a patting sort of
there-there
motion, as she says, “There’s an order of Coconut Noodles in the fridge for you,” in an effort to divert the conversation in a more normal direction.

“But no more Fuzzy Navels, huh?” Hilary smirks, gesturing to the bottles littered across the living room floor.

“No more Fuzzy Navels,” Harper replies sheepishly, following Hilary’s gaze. “There are, however, three of the disgusting berry ones left in there and a Strawberry Daiquiri or two. I have no idea how you drink the berry ones, by the way.”

“They’re wine coolers, Harp,” Clare calls from the floor. “Part of their whole appeal is that they’re gross.”

“That’s probably not what the manufacturer was going for,” Hilary notes wryly. “Nor is it a terribly strong selling point.”

“You’ve got one smart mama,” Clare remarks, getting to her feet and heading for the kitchen. As she ducks into the refrigerator, she smirks and asks, “Can I interest you in a cold berry beverage, Hilary?” holding a bottle up from behind where the door obscures her from view, swaying it back and forth in her grasp. “Rumor has it they’re disgusting.”

“Well, when you put it that way, how can I say no?”

“Might I recommend the Coconut Noodles with your beverage?” she continues, lifting the takeout box in her other hand and making it dance beside the wine cooler. “I hear they go together horribly.”

“Don’t ever go into sales, Clare,” Hilary says seriously, rounding out the words with a laugh as she settles onto the neglected sofa.

“Mental health all the way, Hills.” Clare drops the takeout box on the sofa beside Hilary and cracks open her wine cooler before handing it over with a flourish. “M’lady.”

“Thank you,” Hilary smiles, lifting her drink in the air, as if to toast Clare’s impeccable service. “Now sit the fuck down and start the movie over. I
love
Josh Hartnett.”

***

Dylan isn’t beneath resorting to subterfuge and Harper finds this out the hard way. Halfway through
40 Days and 40 Nights
, just as they’re about to rewind the DVD at Hilary’s behest, he calls Clare, sounding absolutely frantic on the other end of the line. He says there’s a twenty-first birthday party, a bachelorette party, a big football game on television, the regular crowd, it’s open mic night, and three of his wait staff called out. Clare and Harper race over, hair a mess from lolling about on the floor and makeup smudged from laughing so hard they cried, but when Harper’s truck peels into the parking lot, it’s half empty and the sidewalk tables show even fewer signs of life. Once inside the bar, it becomes clear what has happened.

“Dylan Lawrence Rhodes,” Clare shouts sternly, just inside the door, but she can’t fight the way her lips curl up at the corners or the way her pace quickens to a full-on run. “You sneaky little jerk.”

“You just missed the crowd,” he smirks from his seat at the bar, dimples denting deep into his tanned cheeks as she approaches, because the pub is so slow that the only bartender on shift can sit and swill a glass of scotch with the only patron in the bar, who happens to be Austin. “And this guy insisted we call you two,” he slaps Austin’s chest with the back of his hand, “in an effort to bring a little business to the bar.”

“I did not insist any—”

“Okay, it was all me,” Dylan admits, brown eyes narrowed mischievously. “I wanted to see you.” As Clare reaches him, he pulls her onto his lap, her back pressing against his chest, and he kisses her cheek sweetly as his hands lace together in her lap. “But he did say something about missing one of you.” He nods around Clare at Austin, but Austin’s too busy watching Harper as she nears him hesitantly. When he doesn’t get a rise out of Austin, he hits him again and says, “Isn’t that right, buddy?”

Austin says nothing in reply. All of his focus has been devoted to Harper since the second she walked through the door. She feels this, but can’t seem to bring herself to center her attention on him. Things were left unfinished the other night and, though not intentionally, they haven’t spoken to or seen each other in any significant capacity since—a few texts here and there after a handful of missed calls, failed attempts to catch each other in person, and the occasional glimpse through windows and across streets in passing. It’s the distance Harper needed to take, without consciously meaning to take it, but in the absence of their interactions, she’s forgotten how to act around him. Harper lightly rocks from heel to toe, her boots tapping lightly on the floor as she does so, and he chews his lower lip nervously, eyes trained on her, as he waits for any indication he’s allowed to touch her publicly. All he wants is to wrap his arms around her and hold her—nothing fancy, nothing more.

“You smell like fire,” Dylan observes, his face nestled into Clare’s wavy blond hair. “Was there a luau no one told me about? Mama Reed makes one mean roast pig.”

“It’s winter,” Harper says flatly, breaking her silence. “We only do that in the summer.”

“Why do you smell like fire?” Austin asks, finding his way into the conversation. As he says it, he reaches out and touches her, just a brush of his fingertips down the length of her pinky. At the feel of it, she sorts out past and present and her focus rights itself. She smiles softly, his eyes sparkling as he smiles in return. “What were you girls up to tonight?”

Discreetly, Clare nudges her boot against Harper’s and mouths, “Are you okay?” Equally as subtle, Harper nods once, and hooks her pinky with Austin’s as she says, “We lit the fire pit.” Two tiny steps and she’s at his side and he finds comfort in her closeness, reassurance. As he drapes his arm across her shoulders, his stomach flips as if he’s gambling and the odds are long, but she leans against him as he does, though she still faces Clare and Dylan and looks anywhere but at him.

“S’mores, cocoa, and the like,” Clare continues as she watches Harper’s gaze cast downward. “You know, wintery things. Right, Harp?”

“We burned all of my Liam things,” Harper confesses. Clare reaches across the space between the stools and takes Harper’s hand encouragingly, trying to convey how brave she thinks Harper is for not only burning everything, but for speaking about it—and with Austin, at that. “I’m done.”

Austin doesn’t know if he should tighten or loosen his grip on her, and at this impasse, he holds his breath and waits for something to happen—anything.

“And since when do the two of you hang out?” Clare asks, squeezing Harper’s hand again before releasing it. Just like that, the subject officially changes and Dylan launches into a monologue about how he’s adopting Austin as his new best friend, whether or not Austin likes it.

“You really burned everything?” Austin whispers against Harper’s hair as Dylan rambles on boisterously. She nods softly, but still doesn’t turn toward him, doesn’t look at him. “Are you okay?”

“Would it be okay, if I’m not?”

“Of course,” he says sincerely, watching her for a sign of whether or not she is. Her expression reveals nothing and he finally asks, “But, are you?”

“I’m not sure yet,” she tells him, finally turning toward him. She catches Clare watching them in her periphery, but when she sees his lips and she’s drawn to his heat, she doesn’t hesitate to lean in and press her mouth to Austin’s. “I’m better now,” she says against his lips. “You make me better.”

Austin feels something pang in his chest, something that takes her words and rips the compliment right out of them. He feels reduced to a salve, a quick fix and nothing more, and it does the opposite of heal him. Slowly, without realizing he’s doing it, he pulls away.

“Are
you
okay?” she asks, seeing the way his eyes have gone distant and his mouth has formed a thin line.

He says nothing for a time, just stares across the empty pub as the words reverberate through his head. The more he hears them, the less certain he is of their meaning, but her hand on his cheek is soft and her fingers are guiding him to look at her. When her wide, brown eyes come into view, he sees the worry reflected in them, the concern, and whatever negative connotation he found falls away.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, leaning in and taking her mouth with his own. He loses himself in the feel of her, in the plushness of her lips, the soft lick of her tongue against his. And soon, he understands what he hopes to be the real meaning of her words. Everything disappears—every care, worry, or want—when her mouth is against his. “I’m better now.”

Harper climbs across Austin’s lap and tells him, "I’m glad to hear it," as she kisses him slowly. Slow shifts to quick and shallow to deep, and they soon find skin to lick and bite, company forgotten. When Austin scrapes his teeth along her neck, Harper moans a bit too loudly, and Dylan clears his throat, kicks the bottom rung of Austin’s stool. They go stock-still, eyes closed as they remember where they are, and after a moment of complete silence, Harper whispers, “Just let me say goodbye to Clare. I’ll meet you outside.”

Austin makes it to the lot and smokes halfway through a cigarette before Harper’s upon him. She pulls it from between his fingers and stubs it out as she covers his hands with her own and drags them up her body. She moves to press him back against her truck and his hands slide into her hair to pull her and angle her to him. He licks her neck as she pops the handle on the door, and they maneuver around it, while attached at the mouth.

“You have to drive,” he tells her brokenly, not wanting to be away from her lips, but wanting to get her somewhere private. She groans her distaste and licks at his lower lip, moving him into the driver’s seat and climbing onto his lap. He fists the fabric of the seat in his hands to keep himself from grabbing her hips and pushing up against her. It is neither the time, nor the place, but he wants to be within her, always. “Harper, we can’t do this here.”

“But, we can do this?” she asks in a hot pant against his mouth, pressing her weight fully against his lap. “I need this. I need you.”

“If you’re—if you’re ready, if—if you want this.” He stammers the words out, unable to focus on anything but the soft swell of her thighs where they cross over his. They’re so warm against him and he wants heat, her heat, and he prays that she’ll let him have it, have her. He trails his hands up her thighs, and they beg him to move between them, but he resists and moves them to cradle her face. “Everything I am is yours for the taking.”

The drive is quick, and their hands lie dormant all the while, but once they cross the threshold of his home, that’s no longer the case. Harper grabs him by his wrists and pulls him toward her, crashing them against the wall just inside the doorway. She loses herself in his hands and his mouth, and she pushes him lower against her, wanting more. He complies and falls to his knees, finds new skin to tongue and nip. He looks up at her through thick lashes, his lips pressed tightly against her lower abdomen, and his fingers find the button of her jeans. She closes her eyes firmly and nods her head, tugging the ends of his hair between her fingers.

“Not here,” he says, getting to his feet, and she groans at the loss. He presses his hot mouth against hers, and feels the ache of need in her lips as they move with his. “You were made for worshiping. This may take a while.”

Their clothes fall away as they stagger up the stairs and to his bedroom, pausing to put hands all over freshly revealed skin and press each other’s bodies against the walls along the way. They make it there and fumble through the dark, attached at all of the right points, save for one, and Harper falls back onto the bed. As she settles against his sheets, she draws her legs open—an invitation. Austin crawls between them, up her body, and his mouth finds her neck as his cock slides easily against her clit. She stutters a moan and digs her nails into his back, wanting nothing more than to wrap her hand around him and push him into her. But he’s teasing her just right, in a way that Liam never did—he was all business, always about the big show—and it awakens an unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach that grows until it overpowers the want and the lust. She knows that she doesn’t want Liam, but comparing them, thinking of him—that shouldn’t happen, if she’s ready.

“Austin, I—” she says shakily, tears freeing themselves from her eyes, and he doesn’t notice them until they wet his lips as they drip down her neck. He swallows them and turns to look at her, and when he sees the look in her eyes, it’s telling enough to move him off of her. “Today was the day— I just—it isn’t—”