Letting Go (7 page)

“You only ate three slices, leaving five to me. You did that on purpose, didn’t you?”

He grinned. “The way you wolfed them down, I didn’t have a choice.”

His laughter made her blush. Did she just eat away his dinner after she so stubbornly protested that she wasn’t even hungry? Not just that she ate almost twice as much as a guy who outweighed her
by at least fifty pounds, but he was also the one paying for it. God, that was embarrassing.

“Look, can you order another one? For yourself? I’ll pay for it. Once we get home, that is. You must still be hungry. I’m so sorry,” she babbled.

“I’ve had enough. Relax.”

“But I mean it, I
’ll pay for it.”

“I don’t doubt it.
It’s fine, though. Unless you want another one?”

Embarrassed, s
he shook her head no and took the box to the trash.

“
Did you try the crepes they sell on the streets in Paris?” he changed the topic.

“
No.” She returned to the bed and sat down with her back supported by the pillows. Harper stretched his legs in front of him. His scuffed boots almost touched the bed.

He huffed dramatically. “What a shame. The culinary wonders of the world are lost on you.”

She thought he’d bring up her monstrous appetite from moments ago, but he didn’t. To lead him to safer ground, she said, “I didn’t know you were such a foodie.”

“Didn’t
Jamie ever tell you that I cooked for the family after Mom left?” She wished she knew more about their mother. Jamie didn’t like to talk about her, so she learned not to ask.

“It never came up. So you
can cook, too?”

“Oh,
I can do amazing things in the kitchen,” he announced pompously and for no explainable reason at all Isabelle had a flash of a kitchen table and nakedness. Where did
that
come from?

Some of her panic must’ve shown on her face because he asked what was wrong.

“Nothing. It’s just that ... I can only use the microwave,” she said, covering for her weird reaction.

“Tsk-tsk, modern girls are all so unimaginative when it comes to food. Barely anyone can cook these days. It’s a shame, because cooking is art. Especially in
France.”

She shrugged. “
If you would’ve told me before I left, I might have paid more attention to what I ate.”

“You didn’t tell me you were going.”

“It was a last minute thing.” A friend of Dad’s who knew she loved art and was thinking about studying it had told her about the opportunity. The trip was offered at half the price for high school students with art classes. It included boarding and entrance fees to all major galleries and museums. She couldn’t pass up the chance.

“
Jamie was hurt that you left him alone over the holidays,” Harper said, watching her.

“No, he wasn’t,” she countered.

“If you say so.”

Was he? He’d said he was fine with her going. He’d always
supported her artistic endeavors. He liked her paintings and drawings. But she also sensed that art bored him, that he didn’t understand painting or Isabelle’s passion for it.

Doubt nagged at her and she had to ask.
“Did he say something to you?”

“No. But I
could tell. Every time I called him, he was out with his buddies and he was trying to make up for your absence with booze.”

“He wouldn’t.” She was incredulous. Would he have kept it to himself if her trip had bothered him that much? Knowing
Jamie, he would, just to make her happy. But when did that ever make sense, if his unhappiness screwed up her happiness? Ah, boys.

“Ask him yourself. Doubtlessly, he will claim that he was
thrilled for you and that he was fine staying home alone.”

Harper
’s words sounded so much like Jamie that she was beginning to believe him.

“I’m sure his last minute trip to Florida has nothing to do with it, either,” he added, and Isabelle was sure he was trying to irritate her. She refused to play his game, though.

“Tell me about you two,” she said instead.

“What about us?” Despite his clueless face, she suspected he knew what she
meant.

“You fight all the time, you complain about each other, insult each other, but when it counts, you behave like true brothers. What happened to you two?”

“Nothing happened, it’s who we are.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“And I don’t care,” he said as he got up from the chair. He stepped to the bed and gestured for her to move over.

“The chair’s uncomfortable,
” he complained.

She hesitated. The bed
seemed awfully narrow all of a sudden.

“What’s y
our favorite dish?” he asked and maybe it was the innocence of the question that convinced her to move and give him some space.

Without
much thought, she had her answer ready. “My mom used to make this dish that she called ‘peas and cheese tart’. It was pastry filled with peas and blue cheese and cream. It was the most delicious thing I’d ever eaten. I don’t have her recipe and even if I did ...” Isabelle lifted her hands. “I can’t cook.”

For a moment,
Harper was silent, and then he asked, “You like peas?”

“Love them.”

“I love them, too. But Jamie doesn’t.”

“So? Is that supposed to mean
something? Are peas-people supposed to be like ... better, or something?”

“You don’t have to overanalyze everything, you know. It was just a piece of information
that I remembered from back when I cooked for him,” he said, sounding miffed.

Although his explanation sounded believable, she couldn’t keep quiet.
“With you, it’s never just a piece of information,” she said.

“What’s that
supposed to mean?” He frowned.

“T
here’s always something hiding behind your words. Double meanings and hints and … It’s tiring trying to always listen for the hidden meanings.” She didn’t intend to sound quite so truthful but the words rushed out. Unlike Harper, she had never been able to tell a lie or keep something hidden from others; at least not when it mattered. She had lied to Dad occasionally, little white lies that didn’t hurt anyone.

“
What you’re trying to say is that I consciously and constantly distort the truth?”

“I don’t know if it’s conscio
usly. I don’t think so, but yes, you use words to your benefit. You use them like weapons.”

“Don’t we all?”

“I don’t.”

“Hm.” He was silent for a moment before he s
aid, “But you use them as a defensive mechanism and that is as much a battle strategy as attack is. So you’re part of this war too.” He looked at her, eyebrows raised, a hint of a smirk hanging on his lips.

“There’s no war
going on here and you keep twisting my words, Harper. Which, by the way, proves my point.”

“Okay, okay, let’s kiss and make up.”

His wide grin made her want to slap his face. She’d never met anyone that could be annoying and charming at the same time. Until she’d met Harper, that is.

“I can’t believe we started with peas and ended up in war,” she said instead and then laughed at how silly that sounded. Surprised, she heard
Harper laugh too. A real, relaxed laugh. Her astonishment must’ve shown on her face because he looked at her weirdly.

“What?”

“I’ve never heard you laugh before,” she said still dumbfounded.

“Of course you have,” he snorted.

“No, not like this. You actually laughed. From the heart.” She sounded amazed and perhaps it was that that made Harper hesitate. She was certain he would have joked about it otherwise.

Instead he shrugged. “Nothing much to laugh about, I guess.”

“I once read somewhere that all great comedians, like Buster Keaton, Owen Wilson or ... or Hugh Laurie, they all suffer from depression. They can make millions of people laugh to tears, but they don’t know how to be happy themselves.”

“
Are you saying I’m a great comedian or depressed?” He looked at her, smiling.

“Neither
.” She lowered her eyes to her lap, embarrassed. He probably thought she was trying to analyze him, or that she was patronizing him even.

“Good. Because I
’m not. Depressed, that is.”

“But maybe you don’t know how to be happy?” she suggested, meeting his eyes again.

“I’m happy enough.”

“Are you?”

“And this matters why, exactly?” His expression went from amused to cautious to bored.

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because my happiness, or unhappiness, doesn’t affect anyone, Isabelle.”

“Of course it does.
Besides, even if you were right and it didn’t affect anyone, that wouldn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”

“Okay,
let me spell it out for you: I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

She was upset that he tried to get rid of her like that.

“Doesn’t my opinion matter to you?” she asked, insulted.

“It does, just not on this subject. Now, can we move on?” He was getting angry. His jaw was set,
his eyes were dark and he crossed his arms stubbornly.

“But ...”

He looked at her and she fell quiet. Jamie was much easier to talk to, Isabelle thought and realized—surprised—she hadn’t thought once about him the entire evening except when Harper had mentioned him earlier.

“Why aren’t you happy?” To hell with it, she thought. The worst he could do was walk out the door.
That was a startlingly unpleasant thought. What was going on here? The friendship that had developed between her and Harper during the past months was one thing, Isabelle thought, but feeling upset when she thought about him leaving her alone in her motel room? That was different. Something she felt vaguely uncomfortable and guilty about when she thought of Jamie. Maybe she should ask Harper to leave.

“
Isabelle, please ...”

“Are we friends?”

“Of course, but ...”

“There are no buts
between real friends,” she said, her chin stubbornly high. “Admit it, you think I’m just a kid and that I know nothing about life. But I do, believe me. I lost my mother when I was six and Dad’s always absent. I had to learn everything the hard way.”

“Look,
Isabelle, I know. I don’t think you’re a kid. Far from it, god knows. Don’t take it the wrong way, but we’re not that sort of friends. You’re my brother’s girl.”

She shook her head confused. “What do you mean? What sort of friends? What does
Jamie have to do with it?”

“Everything. Now let go.”

“Ugh, you’re insufferable, you know that, right?”

“I’m trying my best,” he grinned. “Going back to the begin
ning—I can try remaking your mom’s peas and cheese tart, though. If you want me to. It wouldn’t be the same, of course.”

Because of the generosity of the idea, she was willing to forgive him this change of topic.

“You’d do that?”

“Sure. Ask
Jamie. I’m a virtuoso in the kitchen.”

She believed him
, but the offer felt somehow intimate because it meant she would be revealing to Harper a part of her past that even Jamie knew little about. That scared her and made her think it would be best to find an excuse, say her exams were coming up and she didn’t have time for culinary experiments, some such thing.

“I’d love that. Thank you.”

“You’ll thank me once you try it.”

“I’m thanking you for offering to do it.”

He hesitated, a pensive look on his face. “You’re welcome, then.”

“Would you tell me about your m
om?” she asked.

“Isn’t
Jamie the one who’s supposed to do that?” Harper said with raised eyebrows.

“He doesn’t want to talk about it,”
Isabelle said, not even trying to hide that Jamie’s silence on the matter bothered her.

“And you think I will?”

She looked at him, not sure whether he was asking a question or just commenting.

“Why?”

“Because we’re friends and I told you about my favorite dish?” she said hopefully.

“Hm.”
Harper pretended to think about it. “If I’m going to tell you about my family’s shame, you’ll have to share a dark secret of your own. It’s only fair,” he added when she started protesting.

“And just so you know, there’s really nothing much to
tell,” he said and leaned his head back on the headboard. Because he was sitting so close, she couldn’t get a good look at him without him noticing her staring.

“
Jamie was four months old, and I was … five. It was spring, one of those miserable, rainy days. Like today. But back then I didn’t have your company to cheer me up.” He grinned and Isabelle rolled her eyes.