Lark’s always been so damn smart, but her heart reads me so well. She’s not asking me, so I nod, knowing one day I will.

After she directs me to her neighborhood, I can’t say I’m impressed. It’s fine, but I’d prefer her somewhere with more security, like a lobby and a doorman, some barrier between her and the street. But that’s not my place, and I won’t make her feel bad or worry about something that she can’t help.

I stop at the curb, get out, and come around to help her. She’s steady already when she takes my hand. I’m not sure I am being this close to her.

She says, “How did you know where I was tonight?”

“I followed you from the hospital.” I watch her carefully, waiting for her reaction.

Her eyes glance at the car behind her. “How in the world did I miss a silver Maserati following me?” She doesn’t sound bothered in the least. She sighs dreamily as her hand touches my chest. “I’m glad you found me. It’s been a good night, even with the bumps in the road.” She pulls her hand back quickly as if it had gone rogue and was fraternizing with the enemy. Exhaling with a little coo, she moves around me and heads for the door to her building.

I close the door and turn around to watch her, to make sure she gets in safely. She punches in a code on the keypad and then opens the door. I don’t know where we stand or where we’re leaving this, but I have to try. Again. Not just for me, but because I don’t want her living the rest of her life trapped in pain from the past either.

This is it.

My last chance.

“Hey, Lark?”

Shouldering the door open, she turns back. “Yes, Harbor?” She can say all she wants to about not wanting to metaphorically open the door to me again, but I hear that threadbare hope hanging on for dear life in her voice.

“Are you free Saturday night?”

Her gaze goes sideways along with her hip. She can put on the show like she doesn’t want to go, but her heart does. I can feel it. She just needs to get out of her head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Really?” I ask, surprise rising inside. “I think it’s a fucking great idea.” I walk around my car and open the driver’s door. Leaning on top of the hood, I say, “Is five good for you?”

“Harbor?” She plants her hand on her hip. “What are you doing?”

“Giving us the redo we deserve.”

46

Lark

I deleted Harbor Westcott from my life a long time ago.

His number.

Our photos.

And as many memories as I could purge over the years, though the bin in the back of my mind is overflowing because I refuse to empty it.

The truth is that I didn’t want any hint of him seeping into the life I had after him. Then why did I beg Margaret to trade shifts with me on Saturday—me taking her morning—so I could be ready at five for him? Why did I try on the same red dress that had Harbor readjusting his pants at graduation last year? But more importantly, why am I texting his sister to get his phone number to ask if said red dress is appropriate?