Текст книги "Finding Me "
Автор книги: Mariah Dietz
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц)
“We are more treacherous through weakness than through calculation.”
–François de la Rochefoucauld
I go around to the back porch and ring the doorbell as I’ve been instructed. My heart is thundering in my chest with a combination of fear and resentment for having to be here. It takes a few moments before I see a small, slender woman approaching me through the window in the door. She smiles warmly at me, but I notice something hesitant on her face that she wipes clear as she opens the door.
“You must be Harper.” Her voice is soft, but assertive. The way her makeup is so perfectly applied instantly reminds me of my mother, though her hair is a rich dark brown instead of my mother’s bright blond. It’s difficult for me to guess her age, but I assume she’s in her forties, maybe early fifties. She takes a step closer to me and offers her hand, and with it the undeniable stench of pot rolls off her. She’s trying to mask it with the gum her jaw vigorously chews, and the perfume I can tell she recently applied, but it definitely doesn’t conceal the smell.
I stare at her for a moment, not certain what to do. Am I really obligated to see someone that might be high? Then again, if I had to sit around all day and listen to other people’s problems, I may have the desire for something to help me tolerate it too.
“I’m Kitty,” she says as I place my hand in hers. “Please come in.”
I immediately feel the need to remove my jacket when the heat blasts me like a hot Californian sidewalk in August. We travel down a short hallway to a door that is already open and waiting for us. Inside, the scent of pot becomes noticeably less in contrast to the odor of paint. Light blue walls surround us, emanating fresh fumes. A large overstuffed sofa sits across from a dark cherry wood desk. The wall behind the desk is lined with filing cabinets that match the desk in color, and I’m sure they’re filled with secrets and fears from others like myself. Several plants dot the room, sitting on the industrial, light gray carpets.
“How are you today, Harper?” she asks, waving a hand at the couch.
As I approach it, I notice a tissue box topping the small end table on the far side, causing my unease to grow.
“I’m good, thanks,” I reply quickly, but my movements are slow as I take a seat on the couch. I discreetly work to avoid eye contact as she pulls her chair to the front of her desk and sits so there’s nothing but a few feet of highly charged molecules of tension between us.
“Why don’t you tell me why you’re here, Harper?”
I raise my eyebrows and clutch my coat to my lap, running my fingers along the seam of my pocket. I’m here out of pure obligation. My Molecular Biology professor, Dr. Kahndri, had approached me for the third time, asking in a concerned tone if everything was alright with me. When I tried to brush her off, insisting I was perfectly fine, just not sleeping well, she stopped and blocked me from leaving the room and told me if I didn’t see someone to discuss things, she was going to go to my student advisor with her concerns and recommend that I use the counselors through the school. Neither option was appealing, but the second even less. So I agreed to meet her friend, Dr. Clarke … or Kitty, the name by which she apparently goes.
“You’re here because your professor is a concerned about your well-being, because she cares about you, Harper,” Kitty answers when I don’t respond.
I silently wonder if she keeps saying my name at the end of each sentence to remember it, or if it’s some sort of psych move. I remain silent and finally meet her gaze, noticing that her eyes are a brilliant shade of green.
“Harper, Dr. Khandri told me you’re not from here. Where did you move from?”
I swallow and try to keep my eyes on her as I reply, “California.”
“Really? What part?”
“Close to San Diego.”
“That’s a beautiful area,” she says, smiling at me again as I nod in agreement. “What brought you so far East?”
“Work.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“I work in a lab as an assistant.”
“Did you work in a lab in California?”
“No.” My eyes slide away from her, sensing her interest in the areas of my life that I’ve worked to avoid for the past several months.
“What do you like to do in your free time?”
I instantly look back at her to see if this is a ruse, but I don’t know her well enough to read if there’s anything beneath her relaxed and calm face.
We spend the next hour discussing topics that range from my interest in running to what I do at the lab and how I’m adjusting to the colder weather. It’s all relatively light and noninvasive and I feel relieved when I stand up to leave.
Fitz waves as I step through the door to the coffee shop we’ve begun frequenting due to its close proximity to the lab. I give him a brief smile and make my way over to him as he stands from the table he’s occupying. Fitz is only a few inches taller than I am, and thin, though not as thin as I’ve become. However, with all of my layers on, I feel huge beside his lean frame as he hugs me.
“You have to try these. You’re going to have a foodgasm,” he says, taking my scarf and unwrapping it from my neck.
“A foodgasm?”
“It’s not as good as the real deal, but there’s a lot less maintenance and time.”
I laugh as I hang my coat on the back of the chair and look to see a ramekin filled with dark chocolate cake topped with chocolate whipped cream and dusted with chocolate curls.
“Dig in!” he says excitedly, scooting his chair closer to the table. He plunges his spoon in the ramekin in front of him and then stops, looking back at me with anticipation lighting his brown eyes.
I take my first bite and he smiles in satisfaction as a quiet moan emits from my throat. The cake is warm and velvet soft. The chocolate is rich and satisfying as it melts against my tongue.
“See? Foodgasm!” he cries with a grin. “Here, drink this with it.” He slides a coffee cup topped with a decorative pattern of cream to me.
“What is it?”
“Just try it.”
I normally only ever get drip coffee; it’s a lot cheaper than the fancy drinks like this one. I swallow my protest as his eyes widen into a hopeful expression that I’ve become more resistant to disappoint and bring the cup to my lips. Fitz’s face lights with a smile again as I take a long sip of the mocha that is irrefutably a delicious change of pace.
“Are you doing this because I just went and saw a shrink?”
“You didn’t see a shrink. You went and spoke to a counselor.” My head falls back on my shoulders as I reach for my spoon again. “H, you have nothing to be embarrassed about. People talk to counselors all of the time. You had a rough year, babe. You need some help talking through the emotions. That’s all.”
I scoff at him and take another bite of cake to ease the discomfort rising in me.
“What was she like?”
“She goes by Kitty.”
Fitz raises an eyebrow. He knows, completing medical school himself, how serious most people take their title of doctor. “Well meee-ow. Does she look like a cougar?”
I laugh in response. “I don’t know. She seems very proper. She reminds me a lot of my mother.”
Fitz leans closer, his smile faltering, and his hand loosening around his spoon, making it dip. I never mention my mother. It sort of just slipped out, and for some reason I continue, “She’s from Texas and was raised to always look perfect.”
“Do you look like her?”
I shake my head and turn my attention to the small alcove that often serves as an impromptu stage.
Fitz doesn’t continue with his line of questioning, knowing with this small gesture I’m done sharing.
The following Wednesday I’m back at Kitty’s, telling her about the different classes I’ve taken through my brief college career.
“What made you decide on medicine?”
“I want to help people,” I reply with practiced grace.
“You can help people by doing all sorts of things. Becoming a translator, a teacher, road construction … Every job helps and assists in some fashion. Why medicine specifically?”
My eyes focus on her green ones that have been perfectly swept with mascara and eyeliner. I shrug.
“You don’t know why?”
I look at the clock on the wall that tells me I still have twenty-five minutes left and then without looking back, I leave.
The next morning at work Fitz beats me to the lab, something that’s only ever happened once.
“New hypothesis?” I ask, unbundling from my winter gear. The snow has yet to come, but it feels like it gets colder each day.
“What are you doing next week?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you that it’s rude to answer a question with a question? Especially when you aren’t responding to said question?”
“Thanksgiving is next Thursday.”
I’m acutely aware of this. I’m also aware that next Saturday is Max’s birthday. I’ve been struggling with a constant debate in my head about whether to send a card or a text—something to signify that I remember. But what would that say? What exactly am I remembering? Simply that it’s his birthday? Or that I am remembering how we spent his last one?
“You’re not spending Thanksgiving like you did your twenty-first birthday—alone in that craptastic apartment of yours.” Fitz’s voice has a slight edge to it that I’ve rarely been on the receiving end of. If this was about anything else, I would be rapidly working to mould into what he’s looking for, but I can’t. He’s not just discussing the possibility of me having to face my first Thanksgiving without my dad; his proposition is leading me to seeing him … on his birthday. Last year that day was a wonderful and tragic day that led to me realizing how much I truly cared about Max.
I shake my head with the resolution there’s no way in hell I’m going to send something to Max for his birthday. I’m not showing my weakness, especially when he hasn’t.
“I’m not flying to California.” My voice is defiant, and at some point my shoulders have squared.
“Then you’re coming home with me.”
My chin tilts and my muscles slowly begin to relax. “Fitz, Thanksgiving is a family holiday.”
His chin lowers as his eyes grow increasingly mocking. I wave my hand a few times, indicating for him to stop as I get my iPad ready for notes, trying to queue him to the fact that I’m done discussing this.
“We’re leaving Wednesday morning at ten.”
“Leaving? For where?”
“My mom’s.”
“Fitz…”
“H, you’re coming home with me. I’m not avoiding this.” I can tell by the rigidness of his body, and the intense look behind his brown eyes, that he’s serious. I’m so relieved that California hadn’t been his intention my entire body seems to be sighing as I slouch in my seat.
“Where does your mom live?” I ask with a resigned breath.
“New York.”
“As in where the Thanksgiving Day parade is?”
“That place is a zoo,” Fitz says, shaking his head rapidly. “People camp out on the sidewalks for days. And if you think it’s cold going from here to your car, you’ll die—” His eyes flash to mine, and his face is tight with a wince that makes my heart constrict with guilt.
“But we could see Santa in person!” I tease in an attempt to brush away the awkwardness.
Fitz smiles gratefully and then sifts through some papers. “Remember to tell Kitty today that you need to reschedule next Wednesday.”
That afternoon, I pull up to Kitty’s and take a deep breath. I don’t know how she’ll react to me since I walked out on her last week. I can’t recall a time I’ve done something so blatantly rude, especially in a setting like this.
My gloved hands wring as I wait for her to answer the door. I see her dark hair first, followed by her smile. It’s warm and inviting, an exact replica of the one she’s greeted me with previous weeks.
“I think you may be in for your first Delaware snow,” she says, holding the door open.
My body shivers from the contrast of her warm house to the cold air outside as I follow Kitty down the hall to her home office.
“I’m sorry that I left.” The words fall from my mouth as I turn toward the couch. When she doesn’t immediately reply, I glance up to see her sitting in front of her desk once again, her green eyes bright and focused on me.
“Are you sorry you left because you feel like you did something wrong? Or are you sorry you left because you’re ready to actually start talking about why you’re here?”
“Because it was rude of me to have left like that.”
“Harper, no one’s going to force you to discuss something you’re uncomfortable with here. With that being said, unless you’re willing to open up and actually discuss something with a little bit of substance, you’re never going to overcome the initial reason that brought you here.”
“I just need some time. Everyone thinks I should be over things already, and I can’t. I’m not. I don’t work like that. I just need some time.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“Everyone!” I cry, waving an arm out to the empty room. “I just needed some space.”
“From whom?”
“Me … I think.” Kitty’s eyes are wide, but relaxed, conveying that she’s listening patiently to my words, not expecting me to go faster or reveal more than whatever I’m willing to give.
I swallow audibly in the silence of the room and lower my gaze to the small fish tank that is a new addition.
“Last spring things sort of fell apart for me. I was dating this guy, and I know that at twenty it’s naive to think you’ve met the love of your life, because really, there’s so much more of your life to live. And this world is so big. And there are so many people on it that if a soul mate truly does exist, it’s nearly impossible to say you’ll ever meet them, because how can you meet everyone on the planet? Unless you believe in fate or something like that, where if you’re destined to be together, you won’t have to go looking for them because your own destiny will make your paths cross. But again, you meet so many people it’s impossible to say when you meet that person if they’re really the one.” I let out a frustrated breath and shake my head slightly to clear the onslaught of long winded theoretical questions.
“Sorry, I start thinking with my philosophical mind about this stuff lately, and it leads me to so many questions and possible answers that my head swims. It’s irrelevant.” I brush my hand in the air again, clearing my invisible words and confessions, and the gesture makes my heart throb as his face appears in my mind.
It subsides slightly as I focus on a new pain. “My dad,” I swallow again as tears begin to swim in my eyes that watch my fingers pull at a loose thread on the cuff of my shirt, “he died.” I press my lips together and blink several times in an attempt to keep the tears at bay.
I cling to the shards of anger her initial question sparked that still resonate within me, relying on them to dull the pain multiplying by the second. “In a few short weeks I lost them both. And then my mom started hanging out with my parents’ lawyer! Their lawyer,” I repeat, tilting my head back against the couch and looking at the far wall. “How can you love someone for over thirty years and then pretend as though they never existed? I just feel so …” My eyes rove over the room, searching for the right words. After a moment I look to Kitty, who’s still looking back at me.
“I can’t tell you what emotion you’re feeling.”
“Betrayed.” The word flies from my mouth before her last one settles, shocking me at my own admission. “I feel betrayed,” I confirm.
“By whom?”
“All of them,” I admit quietly.
Thankfully, Kitty seems to understand without saying anything that this is a big step for me. Telling her about Max, my dad, and my mom—all three sides of my Bermuda Triangle. We sit in silence for a few minutes, neither of us seems to be in a hurry to continue the discussion, and I briefly wonder if she had any idea what kind of monsters I have hidden when this all began.
“Any of those events would be really difficult to adjust to. Having all three of them occur so quickly I’m sure was quite devastating.”
For some reason the empathy in her words, the same one laced within her voice, along with the softness in her eyes, makes tears flood my vision again. This time I can’t prevent them from sliding down my cheeks.
“I know other people experience things so much worse than what I am. I feel so selfish for not being able to just face this.”
“Harper, loss is never easy. And you’re experiencing the loss of three people that you love.” I note that she doesn’t say loved, as in I used to love them, because she apparently realizes that I very much still do.
“What happened?” She leaves the question open, and my mind spins with responses. What happened when? What happened that led Max and I to breaking up? What happened that caused my father’s death? What happened after my father’s death? I can tell by the curious expression on her face that she’s waiting for me to choose my own interpretation of her question, and rather than play into her games, I remove all of the pieces from the board with one fell swoop and replace them all with a safer topic.
“I’m going to New York for Thanksgiving with my friend, Fitz. I’m sorry for the late notice, but I won’t be able to attend our appointment next week.”
“New York! That will be fun! What part are you going to be visiting?”
My mind races to recall if Fitz has ever told me where in New York he grew up as I rub the sleeve of my shirt across my cheeks. “I’m not sure,” I admit, furrowing my eyebrows as I continue to recount his childhood. I know he lived in upstate New York, but I know so little about the area to know how specific or broad that term is.
“Is that safe?” My thoughts clear and I look up to Kitty again and see the concern on her face. “Sometimes it’s easy to lapse into activities that aren’t typical for us when we’re dealing with pain so that we don’t have to face it.”
“Fitz?” I ask. “No.” I laugh once at the thought. “Fitz is my friend. My only friend really. At least here. He and I work together. I’m his lab assistant.”
“Relationships in the office can be—”
“He’s gay.”
Kitty stops talking and looks at me for a moment and I nod. “We’re only friends. Really, I’d be perfectly fine staying here and watching the parade on my laptop, and watching movies all day with some takeout, but he seems pretty set on me going.”
Kitty still appears to be working to redirect her thoughts to this new piece of information. Thankfully it buys me a decent amount of time, and we’re able to discuss little more about any of my feelings before our time ends.
“… Life was meant to be lived. Curiosity must be kept alive. One must never, for whatever reason, turn his back on life.”
–Eleanor Roosevelt
A persistent buzzing makes me groan and open my eyes. It’s dark and cold, making coherent thoughts difficult. The noise continues and I sit up, my heart thundering as I finally realize it’s my doorbell. I reach for my phone and see that it’s not even 4 a.m., and consider my options.
The sound is relentless, and reminds me of a cat howling, rather than an actual doorbell. It so rarely gets used, the sound isn’t familiar at all. I keep my phone tightly gripped in my hand with 9-1-1 already entered on the keypad, ready to press send as I creep to the front door.
The buzzing stops before I reach the small linoleum entryway, and I feel slightly relieved, wondering if it’s a boyfriend or girlfriend of another tenant. I turn and release a deep breath, smiling at myself for being afraid. My smile disappears with the loud bang of a fist against my door that makes me leap in the air.
“I know you’re home, Harper!”
Although I recognize the voice, I still look through the peep hole because this makes absolutely no sense. Fitz is standing on the cement slab, nearly hidden behind a scarf and hat that he has pulled so low it’s covering his eyebrows. I swing open the door with a scowl.
“What are you doing?”
“Come on, California, we’ve got to get going.”
“Have you been drinking?”
“No, of course not. Who drinks at this hour?”
“Are you high?”
“High on life, baby.”
“It’s three-thirty, Fitz!”
His cheeks lift with a smile his scarf hides. “I know. We’re wasting daylight! Let’s go! Let’s go!” His voice is so loud it sounds like he’s yelling through a bull horn.
“My neighbors are going to shoot you. Get in here!” I grip his jacket in my fist as I hiss the words and tug him into my apartment.
Fitz unwraps his scarf, revealing his smile. “Dress in layers. The car will be warm, but you need to have some things you can pile on,” he instructs, ignoring my warning as he follows me inside, still talking at a too-loud volume that has me closing my bedroom door in his face to gain some brief moments of silence.
I don’t bother showering, or even brushing my hair. Accomplishing the simple task of brushing my teeth is a chore. I pack the last of my bath products that I intended to use this morning into my bag and pull on a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and sweatshirt. I tie my Converse shoes and grab the rest of my snow gear and suitcase and head out to where Fitz is inspecting my fridge.
“Where’s all your food? You have to start expanding beyond cereal and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, H. You aren’t five.”
“Need I remind you that it’s not even four? Be nice.”
Fitz blasts the heater and the radio, which streams a playlist from his iPod that I’m familiar with. He plays it on days we’re having success in the lab; it’s his happy, upbeat music that makes his head bounce and smile beam as he sings along. I smile from where I’m curled up against the door with my jacket covering my legs that are folded against my chest as he hits every note of the song without thought.
“What are you smiling about over there?” he asks, turning his attention from the road to glance at me.
“I’m glad you’re bringing me with you.”
Fitz nods a couple of times and then reaches forward to turn the radio down a few decibels. “Is your family disappointed you aren’t coming home?”
“I think they were sort of expecting the news.”
“They’ll all be together today? You once mentioned that they live close together, right?”
“Yeah, my two oldest sisters live less than ten minutes away from my mom, and my middle sister lives just outside of San Diego, about fifteen minutes with good traffic from both my mom and Kendall, who lives near the college.”
Fitz nods, looking lost in thought. His jaw clenches and releases a few times as though he’s working to say something more, but after a few minutes he turns the music back up and returns to singing. I nod off.
“Alright, H, time to bundle up.”
My eyes blink several times to rid the sleep, and I instantly feel the loss of heat as Fitz turns off the engine. We’re in a dark parking garage, surrounded by large pillars and several other small cars.
“We have to bundle up to go inside?”
“We have to bundle up because it’s not even twenty out yet and the wind is terrible. Add another sweatshirt before you put your coat on.” Fitz pulls out a couple of blankets and a bag, and then unloads some camping chairs.
“What are you doing?” I ask curiously, trying not to allow my hopes to sky rocket.
“You said you wanted to see Santa.”
My scream echoes in the vast space as I jump in the air. The hat and scarf I’m holding fall as I race around the car and throw myself at Fitz in an aggressive hug. “We’re going to see the parade?”
“Here I was worrying you wouldn’t be nearly as excited as you had said you’d be.”
“This has been on my bucket list since I was like five!”
“Well, time to cross it off. Lots of layers, it’s cold.”
I anxiously move around, pulling my gear on with a new sense of energy.
The wind hits us like a slap in the face. Although the top half of me is decently warm, my legs feel frozen. But the excitement of what we’re going to do lessens the sting, and we follow dozens of other parade goers to the Upper West Side.
We stake claim to a spot on the far side of a small coffee shop that already has a line winding along the brick front. Fitz suggests that I pile on the blankets and get comfortable to sit for the next five hours while he gets us some breakfast.
We spend the next three hours drinking coffee and eating brioche as we wait for the parade to get underway. Waiting turns out to be an experience all on its own. A woman from South Africa sits on one side of us with her nine-year-old son, and a large group of Germans sit on the other. We take turns going in small groups to find restrooms and refills, and converse easily. One of the Germans, a girl about my age named Anna, is thrilled to learn that I’m from California after I relay a question to Fitz and explain that I’m from the West Coast. She asks me several questions about rappers and music. I think she’s disappointed when I know few of the answers. We discuss customs and traditions, and by the time the parade is about to begin I feel like I’ve known all of them for years.
When you watch the parade on TV they cut to commercials and commentators so frequently that sometimes the parade seems to last far longer than it really does. Being here, it feels like only seconds before people are standing and cheering loudly as Santa emerges.
“I never realized just how big the floats are!” I say in amazement as we watch Santa descend down the street.
“Santa is such a funny name. And having him wear red? It makes me laugh,” Anna says as we remain seated and watch the crowds begin to disperse. “You guys combine Saint Nikolas and Krampus.”
“Krampus?” I ask curiously.
“Your Santa gives presents to the nice children and coal to the not-so-nice ones. Well, Saint Nikolas, delivers gifts to nice children on December sixth, and he places them in our shoes. But Krampus, or Knecht Ruprecht, visits the not-so-nice children, and he puts them in his bag. Then on Christmas Eve Christkindl visits.”
“Our red suit sounds a lot easier to orchestrate,” Fitz says with a smile, standing as several of the others do. “And a little less traumatizing.” Although I’ve loved hearing the stories and differences in cultures, I can sense Fitz is eager to be back in the car, ready for some solitude promised with the couple-hour drive to get to his mom’s.
“And the reindeer?” Anna adds. “What is that all about?”
“What does your Saint Nicholas arrive on?” I ask with a smile, linking my arm with Fitz as he balances our chairs in his other hand.
“A horse!” Anna cries.
I can’t help but laugh in return, and she seems to understand the humor shortly after and joins in.
By the time we arrive at Fitz’s mom’s, it’s after three. She lives in a small, quaint house in a neighborhood that shows no reflection of the city that we just emerged from.
Thanksgiving at my house has always been a day packed with people, food, and noise, but when Fitz opens the door, the only sound is soft classical music drifting through the air, carried by the aroma of food.
A woman pokes her head around the corner from what must be the kitchen, and Fitz’s cheeks widen with a smile as he greets her.
She starts speaking in return, her words flowing faster than water from a hose, and my eyes widen with the realization that I have no idea what language she’s speaking. Fitz laughs and then replies just as fast, and I feel like the world’s worst friend because I had no idea Fitz spoke any other language, let alone that his mother seems to only speak whatever it is. She pats her hands on the white apron tied around her wide waist as she makes her way to where we’re both standing with the door still open, allowing the cold to seep into the warm house.
Fitz says something again and gestures with his hands from me to the woman and I smile, hearing my name in a flourish of words. I turn to look at her, keeping my smile on my face and she walks closer to me. She’s several inches shorter than I am, and her hair is the color of midnight, woven with some gray hairs that frame her face. Her eyes are wide and a dark brown, similar to my own, and they’re glossy with tears. I look to Fitz for some sort of interpretation or clarification and feel her tiny hand wrap around my chin with an impressive strength. My eyes widen as they move back to her. She either misses my confusion, or ignores it, as she moves my face in several directions, clucking her tongue and using her other hand to brush loose wisps of hair out of my face. She presses a kiss to each of my cheeks and then starts pulling up the sleeves of my sweatshirt before inspecting my hands and sliding her hand up and down each of my arms, squeezing a few times as she goes. I move my eyes to Fitz in alarm, and his brown eyes dance with laughter.
“Harper, this is my oma. My grandma, Alala.”
I turn my eyes back to her and try to smile again.
She releases me and throws her arms around my waist, hugging me and speaking at a much louder voice with her face raised to the ceiling. I look back to Fitz for direction, and he shakes his head a few times.
“Maxwell?” My eyes divert to the hallway and a woman approaches. She looks like Fitz. Her skin isn’t quite as dark, and her eyes aren’t quite as round, but there’s an undeniable resemblance. Her words come out in a much quieter and softer tone, but just as fast as his grandmother’s had, and I focus on her still gripping me too tight. Alala, I say her name several times in my head, letting the syllables roll off my tongue.
“You must be Harper.” My attention turns back to the beautiful woman, and she smiles affectionately at Alala, who’s still tied around my waist and then says something more in the foreign language before Alala’s arms fall unwillingly to her sides.
“Sorry, she still can’t accept that I’m gay. She thinks you’re my girlfriend,” Fitz explains, shaking his head again. “Harper this is my Mom, Hosanna. Mom, this is Harper.”
Her brown eyes gleam, similar to Fitz’s when he’s excited. Something I generally only see when it’s just the two of us together, since Fitz really isn’t much of a people person, though, today he has been exceptionally friendly with everyone and has even seemed to thoroughly enjoy himself while doing so.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Harper. I’ve heard so many wonderful things about you.”
“Thank you so much for having me. I really appreciate your hospitality.”
“Certainly, certainly.” She takes a few steps closer and then holds me just as tightly as Grandma Alala did. Hosanna pulls back and kisses both of my cheeks, her lips cold against my skin.
