I never thanked him for that. I mean, he must have known I was thankful, by the way I gaped at him while Mum went back inside, and kept gaping even while he explained, “You learned enough of a lesson today. If you ever pull something like this again, I’m leaving you in that cell to rot.”
But I never said thank you to him, for not making it worse. For not telling Mum, and blowing the whole story into a mess it would’ve taken months for me to shovel out from under. As far as I know, he never told another member of the family, not even his sisters.
Not even when he was throwing everything and the kitchen sink at me the last time I saw him, listing every reason I’m a failure. At least he had that much courtesy.
Harper squeezes my hand. I didn’t notice her move, didn’t notice her scoot her chair around beside me to gaze into my eyes, her soft hands encircling my calloused ones. She doesn’t ask what I’m thinking. She doesn’t need to. She just smiles at me, holds onto my hands, until I take a deep breath and nod.
“Let’s go.”
From there, we hike across town to the Green, where all the uni kids hang out. I used to come here underage too, trying to fit in, making friends in the weird majors like arts and textile designs. And other poets, of course. Lots and lots of other poets, most of whom were even more dramatically inclined than myself, and we all dressed very poorly.
After the Green, we meander through the Grainger Market, an indoor market that’s been around for centuries, and still sells some of the same stuff they probably sold when it opened in the 1800s—fresh fruit, meat, cheese and fish—along with some newer additions – Apple products, weird hats, clubwear. We pause at a stall selling furry neon leggings and joke about how if you wore them, you’d look like you cut off a yeti’s feet and dyed them yellow to make shoes.
After the market, we cross back into town, and I spend longer than Harper probably likes telling her about the history of the statue in the center of the city, Grey’s Monument, dedicated to Earl Grey (yes, the one the tea is named after).
But it’s as we wander down the block from Monument that my eyes light on the storefront I’ve been half looking for. The suit I brought for the funeral is back at the hotel, but it’s an old model, grungy, the sleeves tattered. I’ve been meaning to replace it for ages, though I never had a reason to. Now . . . Well . . .
The least I can do for the father I completely and utterly disappointed in life is to show up well dressed at his send-off.
“Do you mind?” I ask Harper, but she’s already tugging me inside.
“God, I was hoping you weren’t actually going to wear that hideous thing in the trunk,” she mutters as we slip through the doors.
“Gee, thanks,” I grumble.
She’s already picking suit sets off the shelf, though, forcing tailored product after tailored product into my arms. I have to admit, it’s a lot more pleasant shopping for this with her than it would be by myself, or with my sister, which was usually my default option for unbiased and straightforward female opinions.
“Come out and model your favorites for me,” Harper says when she sends me off toward the dressing room with a final jacket stacked on the pile.
“Oh no.” I cast a quick glance at the clerk, currently distracted by a portly older man asking about cufflinks, then grab Harper’s hand and drag her into the dressing room with me. “You’re not getting off that easy,” I tell her. “You want me to try all this on, you need to watch.”
Her eyebrows rise, a smirk on her lips. “Gladly.”
We only make it to one suit. The moment I finish pulling on the jacket, her eyes light up in a way that spells trouble. Exactly the kind of trouble I like. I lean over her in the changing room, pressing her back to the mirror.
“What do you think?” I grin at her, catching one of her wrists in my hand. I can feel her pulse quickening, and her eyes go wide with desire.
“I’ve got to say, I like this one.”
My hand trails from her wrist up her arm, then down her body, over her soft, supple curves. She’s wearing a black dress, simple and tasteful. Less tasteful, though, are the red panties I find underneath when I yank the dress up above her hips.
“Ms. Reed, were you hoping I’d find these?” I tug at the edges of the fabric.
Her cheeks flush a telltale red. “I, uh . . . Habit?” She shrugs one shoulder.
I bend to suck her ear into my mouth, letting my teeth dig into her lobe. “Good habit. I think you deserve a reward for your forethought.”
She arches against me, her fingernails digging into my neck. “If I tell you what else I’ve thought about, do I get an extra hard reward?” She grins, and I lift her against me until her feet leave the floor, and she wraps both legs around me for support.