Harley’s struggling, I can see that. It’s Robin’s birthday coming up and he has no idea how to cope with it. He promised he wouldn’t drink, but he’s said that before and I know better. This is the first birthday since Robin’s passing so it only makes sense Harley is having a hard time. 

Because he’s had such an easy time of it to begin with.

I asked what things Robin liked to do, but Harley refuses to do any of them. This is something I’ve picked up on since we started hanging out before Christmas. Harley will not go anywhere he and Robin have gone together, nor will he entertain any of Robin’s favorite things. I’ve asked why a few times, but the answer is always the same.

Silence.

Harley Cox can’t face or accept Robin’s death, nor will he. The pain is too real, too raw. Too many times I’ve had to pick him up from the bar drunk off his ass, too many times I’ve had to go over and feed him because he won’t eat, and only once did I ever attempt to clean up his place. That was on Chase’s request, too. His sister had gone over there around the new year to clean and Harley locked himself in his bedroom the entire time. 

Almost.

Jane opened the door to the second bedroom and Harley came racing out, slamming it shut before she could take one step inside. She said the look he gave her could have killed the entire US Army. She left and never went back. I went a few days after and got about halfway through the living room before I had to stop.

I found a razorblade.

I’m not good with sharp objects. 

Harley found me there, staring at it, and when he asked what was wrong, I couldn’t answer. I just shook my head and told him I’d see him later. The next time I went over, the place was clean. Not exactly spotless, but all the trash, and the razorblade, was gone. I gave him a high-five which surprised him.

“Little victories, my man,” I said with a laugh. He just smiled and shook his head.

“Whatever, Mothgirl.”

I roll my eyes at that nickname, but at least it’s better than Bug. 

We’re sitting at his kitchen table eating curry and rice, the first thing he’s made in that kitchen in months, apparently, when his phone goes off. He frowns at the message as he lights another cigarette. I wave the smoke away.

“What is it?”

“Chevy wants me to come over tomorrow,” he says, his thumb working the keyboard. He glances at me. “Coming with?”

“Duh,” I respond. “Oh, but I need to stop by the bank on the way.”

His eyebrow ticks. “What fer?” He pulls on his cigarette and digs into the food.

I push my meat around, hedging my response. “I need to move some money around,” I say vaguely.

He keeps his gaze on me, waiting for more but not surprised when none is forthcoming. He shrugs. “Same as last month,” he says. “And the month before that, and the month before that, and—”

I sigh loudly. “Okay, I get it. Geez.”

It bugs me that he can remember stuff like that but can’t remember to put gas in his tank on a regular basis. I change the subject. “What does he want?”

“Probably to talk about the puppy Heather wants for her birthday.”

“Bad gifts, puppies.”

“I told him that, too, but he won’t let it go. Neither will she for that matter, and the girl is relentless.”

I chuckle. I like Heather. She’s incredibly cute and has a great sense of humor. She also has a tight relationship with Harley I just can’t get past. It isn’t that he belongs to me, nor am I jealous, but the way they are with each other, that’s a level I could never reach. I’m glad she likes me, too, because otherwise my visits over there would be incredibly awkward and uncomfortable.

Ivan is adorable, too, but he’s still an infant, around ten months old. I like babies, but I’m nervous with them. Abigail understood immediately the first time she asked if I wanted to hold him and I hesitated. She squeezed my arm and said not to worry about it. Eventually, I did manage to hold him and even took a nap with him once. Harley still has the picture on his phone.

“Blackmail,” he grinned.

“Ass,” I responded. 

Now, as I set down my soda can, I ask, hesitantly, “Robin’s birthday is just a few days after, isn’t it?”

He says nothing, just pokes at his rice. He isn’t giving any indication of shutting this line of conversation down, thankfully, but I don’t push. I just wait. Something I’ve learned to do when it comes to Harley Cox. This is a man you don’t pressure into anything, especially when it comes to his late fiance.

“The twenty-sixth,” he finally says. 

“How old would he be now?”

Another pause. “Twenty-nine,” he responds hoarsely, and takes a long drag on his cigarette before leaning back and blowing the smoke up to the ceiling. “He wanted to go to Denver.”

“For what?”

“There’s a couple of museums he wanted to see, plus an art exhibit showing at the state park.” He swallows hard and reaches for his beer with a shaking hand. “He was going to submit some of his own photos.”

I wait until his hand is off the can. The last thing I need is for him to squeeze it and beer to fly into my food. “Is it too late to submit them on his behalf? Like, as a memorial or tribute to him or something?”

He says nothing, just stares blankly ahead. I wonder if he ever considered doing anything like that. Robin Scheffield’s work was incredible. He was a wildlife photographer, as well as doing photo shoots for rescue animals and their families. I’d seen several of them over the years and loved each one. It saddens me that I never got the opportunity to know him before he passed. From what I understand, even outside of Harley, he was well-loved.

“We don’t have to, I was just curious,” I say.

“I don’t…” he swallows and clears his throat, trying to get the thickness to clear. Harley doesn’t cry. He’s told me he can’t. He’s tried, he wants to, but it just doesn’t happen. “I can’t, Wind,” he finally says. “They’re mine…”

I reach for his hand and squeeze it, giving him a small smile. “It’s fine, Harley,” I say. “Maybe someday, though? I think it would be amazing to hold some sort of exhibit in his name.”

He gives a small shrug. “Maybe,” he responds softly. “Not now.”

Right then, my phone goes off. It’s my mom.

“Hey, Mom,” I answer brightly.

“Hey, honey, where are you? Still with Harley?”

“Yeah, we’re just finishing up lunch. He made curry.” I give him a thumbs up and an exaggerated wink and he snorts.

“Nice!” she laughs. “Did he make enough for all of us?”

“He did not.”

“Well, darn.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “What’s up?”

“So,” she sighs heavily. I lean back. This can’t be good. “You remember that job offer your dad got?”

“The one in Raleigh?”

“It fell through.”

I frown. “That sucks,” I say. “What happened?”

“He’s too expensive.”

“Ha ha.”

She chuckles. “Well, that was part of it. Mainly the company is having to downsize due to budget cuts.”

“Bummer.”

“Yup. Looks like we’re stickin’ around here a while longer, kiddo.”

“There are worse places we could be, Mama,” I smile. “It’s fine, I’m sure Daddy can find somewhere else. Besides, it’s not like he’s out of a job entirely.”

“Very true. He was just really looking forward to moving out that way.”

“Can’t say I blame him. Raleigh’s supposed to be really pretty. Expensive, though.”

Mom laughs. “Everywhere is expensive, love.”

“Eh, it’s not that bad,” I shrug. “It really could be worse.”

“Yeah, let’s hope it doesn’t. Anyway, I don’t want to take up any more of your time. When are you heading home?”

“Before six like always, Mother.”

“That’s my girl.”

I roll my eyes and Harley shakes his head with a grin, taking another bite of his curry.

“Tell Harley I said hi.”

“Mommy says hi.”

He waved.

“He said hi,” I chuckle.

“Okay, you have fun and I’ll see you later,” she laughs and we hang up.

“Why does she like me again?” he asks, reaching into the beer case. Finding it empty, he frowns and tosses it against the wall. He gets up and grabs for the rum in the liquor cabinet. He shakes it in invitation.

“No, thanks,” I say. He shrugs and grabs one glass for himself. “Because you’re nice to me and treat me like a human being and not an invalid like everyone else does.”

He fills his glass and sits back down, taking a large gulp. “They do,” he mutters around the rim before taking another gulp.

I want to argue. I want to get mad. Having it pointed out to me that my parents actually do still treat me like a child bothers me to no end. I can’t live on my own, not with the issues I have to deal with, which means I’m stuck living with my parents for the rest of my life. They have been pampering and coddling me since I got hurt, trying to keep me safe from the world, which I understand to a degree. But I am an adult and I deserve to be treated as such. 

Harley sees something cross my face and he lowers his glass. “Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s fine,” I wave away. “You’re not wrong. I’ll always be a fragile little girl to them no matter how old I get. Chronologically, I could be old and gray, but I’ll still need someone to take care of me. It fucking sucks.” I give up on finishing my meal and lean my chin on my hand. 

He watches me steadily. “I still think that’s a load of crap,” he says after a minute. “You can easily live on your own. There are people with far worse problems than you that are independent. They might have people come in to take care of certain things, but for the most part, they live their own lives. You can, too. Besides,” he grins and motions to his own house. “If I can live on my own, why can’t you?”

That I have to laugh at. Harley is a functioning alcoholic with a fully stocked liquor supply and very little food. He needs to be dragged out of bed most days and if someone doesn’t bring him food, he doesn’t eat. Literally all he does is drink and work. At least he doesn’t drink at work, which is a damn miracle in and of itself.

My smile is wan as I nod. “You have a point,” I say. He does, but so do I. He knows this and squeezes my shoulder.

“I get it, Mothgirl,” he says. “Adulting is hard enough for all the normal fuckers out there.” He waves his cigarette toward the door. “For people like you and me, it’s even more complicated.”

I cock my eyebrow and he grins. 

“We need babysitters.”