Sadness and I were well-acquainted. It was a thickening cloud in the soul dispelled only by deep, genuine tears. It was a drop of oil in a glass of water that could only be thinned into tiny bubbles and, if left unchecked, would coalesce again into a slick ball of contamination.

Sadness felt like me, but a little heavier, a little thicker, a swarm of gnats I could dispel with a wave of my hand, only to find them massing around me again.

After everyone went home, leaving the house spotless and the thorn bushes charred and wet, I went to the suite and sat on my bed, waiting to feel the weight on my heart.

I didn’t feel sad. Not in the same way I always had, diluting something that would concentrate again. The hopelessness was missing.

Chris had come, and I’d sent him away.

I wasn’t angry at myself or him. I wasn’t disappointed or let down.

Instead, I was confused. Seeing him had thrown me, not because it felt uplifting or high, but because I was suddenly grounded.

A knock at my bedroom door was followed by Harper’s voice.

“Cath? You in there?”

“Come in.”

She came in and landed next to me, arms around me, crying uncontrollably.

“Harper! What happened?”

“Nothing.”

“Where’s Taylor? What did he do?”

“Shut up, okay? Just shut up.”

She cried in my lap with her face buried in my thighs as I stroked her hair. I told her it would be all right, but I wasn’t sure if it would be anything close to all right. Were we both going to be stuck here? Were we just looking for men to rescue us from ourselves?

I missed him. Chris Carmichael. I’d missed him and I’d continue to miss him the same way I missed who I’d been. I was too familiar with loss.

“You know what?” I said. “I was thinking of going to Europe. London, Paris.”

“What happened to Chris?”

I sighed. “I chased him away.”

A snap of a laugh escaped her as if she had a lot to say on the matter but didn’t. “Why?” She sniffled. “Because you don’t even know the guy?”

“Oh, I know him.”

My sister didn’t respond from my lap. She just folded her bottom lip until it creased.

“The minute I saw him, I knew him. I can’t explain the connection, but my soul says he’s as much mine as my own body. It’s not sensible or practical, but in a way, it is. Gravity pulls down. Fire is hot. Chris and I are meant to be. It’s almost boring.”

She sat up. “Then why did you kick him out?”

Why had I? Because I had pride. I was a grown woman with my own heart’s desire and even if he was that heart’s desire, I was in control of my actions.

“Wrong question,” I said. “He left. He never picked up the phone. He never wrote me. The question is, why would I take him back?”

“Because you guys were meant to be?”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m my own woman now.”

She shook her head so hard her hair flew around her face. She looked as if she’d eaten a lemon and been attacked by a hornet at the same time. “What? You mean you weren’t before? All this wasn’t your choice? You didn’t de-furnish the house and drain the bank account because it was your choice?”

“It was but—”

“But nothing.” She stood, freeing me to get up as well.

“Harper—”

“You.” She poked my shoulder, backing me toward the door. It kind of hurt. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m confused, all right? I’m confused!” I choked back a sob. No. No more crying. “I don’t know where I fit in. I don’t know what I want. No one needs me anymore. The factory’s coming back. You’re leaving—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m not stupid. I know Taylor’s going to take you away.”

She deflated.

“What?” I said.

Her face collapsed like a window breaking. Her expression dropped and curled into an uncomfortable, red-skinned blubber. Tears came so hard they cleared her cheeks and landed on her chin.

“Harper? What?”

She tried to speak, but just made spit.

“Did he leave you?”

My confusion was replaced with purpose, and it felt good. My blood flowed with it. As if my sister could see the chemical change in me, she shook her head violently but was lost to sobs before she could get a word out. Her pain felt like a compressed version of the months I’d waited to hear from Chris.

I was angry. Very angry.

“I’m going to kill him. Nobody hurts Harper Barrington. Nobody. Do you hear? And not just me. Oh, no. You mark my words, every man in this town is going to make it their business to find Chris and—”

Her face knotted even tighter and I shook the bees out of my head.

“Taylor,” I corrected quickly. “Find Taylor. Whatever. They’re going to find him, and if I have to use every last dollar to send them to California, I swear to God—”

She grabbed me by the shoulders, still sobbing too hard to speak, and held me tight.

“I’m sorry, Catherine,” she choked out. “No one’s coming to buy the factory. It’s done. We lost.”

I stroked her hair. I didn’t ask her how she knew. Harper knew things. The end.

We lay on my bed together under the mural of roses as she cried herself to sleep.

I was still needed. I should have been both sad and worried.

Instead, knowing I was needed and nothing had to change, I felt an immediate, guilty wave of relief. I shoved it under anger, covered it with disappointment, and hid it under a mask of resolve.

But the desire to maintain the status quo was there. Always there.