Pretending this is a normal Thursday night isn’t working, though. Even though I don’t expect to get an email back, the week’s almost over. What if I don’t get the answers? What answer am I looking for?

My thoughts are jumbled, unsure of what to think. I keep refreshing my email account every few minutes, hoping to solve this mystery. I call it a night just after ten and go to bed.

I’m good at keeping the world outside my shifts. Being present can mean life or death. But I check my emails on my break and then at lunch. When I’m home and finally settling in with a bowl of tomato-basil soup and a grilled cheese, I start a movie, determined not to waste another night on this email business. Not even ten minutes later, my email pings, and I dive from my desk across the bed to where I left my laptop.

“Dammit.” Spam. “This is ridiculous. I got the scholarship and went to school. End of story. Harbor doesn’t get to steal the credit from—” I stop, remembering something he once said. “Those four years were laid out perfectly for you. It was the perfect plan, and it worked.”

It worked.

What worked?

What was the plan?

My laptop pings again. I roll my eyes and go to close it down for the night, annoyed that it owns my complete attention. But the word Yale in the sender’s name catches my eye. I bend down and click to open the email. I scan it so quickly that I need to reread it just to make sure I understand. “Blah, blah, blah . . . your scholarship was made in donation . . . by the Safe Haven Trust managed by Westcott Law Firm . . . Those are the only details we can share as part of the agreement. Blah, blah, blah . . .”

Westcott Law Firm.

Safe Haven Trust.

Safe Haven . . .

“Harbor.”

47

Lark

I’ve put this dress on and taken it off three times. Why am I going? What am I doing? Why do I want him to think I’m sexy? My appearance shouldn’t matter.

I take the dress off and slip on a pair of fitted jeans. And since the Yankees are playing today, I dig out my jersey from the dresser and slip it on over my head.

But what if we’re going to a nice restaurant?

Harbor said this is a do-over, which we also need to discuss. He did keep his promise. He came back to me just like he said he would.

As I angle in front of the bathroom mirror, the debate wages on. I bet he scored reservations at the hottest place in the city and plans to wine and dine me.

I’m not opposed to this scenario, especially since I now know what he did for me. Though I still don’t know why.

Screw it. Red dress it is, and I’ll wear the shoes he loved on me earlier in the week. I get dressed, grab my clutch, and then hurry to the street to wait, but as soon as I swing the door open, he’s already there. I don’t think he’s a sight I’ll ever get used to. “How long have you been here?”