by Kate Stewart
Dreams change, they evolve, because of the people in your life.
Mine are evidence of just how drastically it can happen. But any new dream I’ve conjured up has always involved Harper, dead center. I can’t imagine her out of any scenario that won’t complete me. And I can’t will myself to forget her. I don’t want to. My motivation for being here is selfish. She may be able to live without me, but I’m convinced her asking the same of me is too much to ask of my heart, which has been slowly suffocating without her. I don’t love her any less than I did two years ago, that was clear to me the minute I saw her on the other side of that door. If she’s changed, maybe I can change to suit her. I have to believe that life is a series of truths and that some are absolute while others get too muddled amongst youth, aspiration, and ambition.
Harper is a truth for me. What I feel for her is the truest of truths.
It’s love, the kind that changes people, pure and simple, because she changed me by just believing me, in me, to the point she possessed a part of me. Maybe I can’t move on because I’m not supposed to. Or maybe I’m too late. Either way, I have to know.
There’s been plenty of available women down the line, but I’ve rarely indulged and after, fucking hated myself for it. At one point, I damn near self-sabotaged and then blamed Harper for the guilt, for discarding me like I was disposable which made me a hypocrite. I used those women for solace, to try to ease the ache. Another old habit reemerged, and right now, I’m fighting against them all.
This is either a sick fascination with the past, or I’m finally running in the right direction. Time will tell. In the next few days, I’ll know.
If given the chance, I’ll love her better than I did, wholly and unconditionally, the way she loved me. I thought I had loved her right, but I must have missed something because she didn’t hesitate long enough, and she didn’t walk, she ran away.
I never wanted to be one thing, anyway. I don’t want to be a fast definition.
Ballplayer, rancher, fighter…I can switch hats to whatever she needs because I want her back in my life.
With every light tap of my sneaker to concrete, I try to convince myself this isn’t a manic attempt to escape my reality back home.
I need this.
I need this.
My phone rattles in my hoodie as I stop a few feet from my hotel. I assume it’s Tony wanting to get some training time in. He’s already managed to arrange a few hours at a gym later tonight.
Harper: Just woke up. Ready to see the city?
Lance: I’ve already run the whole thing, but I’m happy to browse more.
Harper: Show off.
Lance: Early bird gets the worm.
Harper: I couldn’t give a shit. The worm is all yours.
Lance: I see we’re still a pleasant morning person.
Harper: I just punched René in the throat for using the rest of my peppermint creamer. You might want to give me an hour and another cup. Don’t take any chances, save yourself the sore throat.
Lance: An hour. Got it.
Harper: Did you see the statue?
Lance: You mean that small ass action figure off the harbor? Seriously, a lot smaller than they make it out to be.
Harper: That’s what she said.
Lance: Aww, look, sweetheart, you made a joke even in your wretched state. I’m guessing you’re happy someone is in town.
Harper: Yeah, I heard Lucas Walker is staying at the Four Seasons for his press junket.
Lance: You’re an asshole.
Harper: Happy face and hands emoji
Lance: Eye roll emoji. See you in an hour.
Harper
I’m nervous in a stage fright way. Less than twenty-four hours in and I’ve already lied to Lance. I threw up in the shower due to nerves. I’m not in a bad mood, I’m terrified. What if René’s right? What if he’s here because he wants me back, or worse, what if he doesn’t?
I’ve barely slept. I can’t stop thinking about how amazing it felt to be on the receiving end of his attention, in his arms. I haven’t forgotten how thoroughly I got wrapped up in him when we were together, of how certain I was, of how much I trusted him, in us. And now? Now I’m a girl whose once sure steps are unsteady.
“Chill out,” I scold myself, brushing my teeth for the fifth time in an hour. I can’t sit still. I can’t stop fidgeting. Why is he in New York?
“Mami, door.”
“I’m coming.” I gloss my lips and do a final once-over in the mirror. Hair down, beanie, sweater, jeans, and short boots. It’s my go-to girls’ night outfit, and René approved. When I get to the living room, René is in a silent stare-off with Lance, who’s politely making small talk.
“…ju ever lost?”
“Oh, yeah, plenty when I first started. But none in the last six months.”
“How many fights is that?”
Lance grins. “A lot.” He catches sight of me. “Hey, Priss. You look beautiful.” I avoid direct eye contact as more nausea threatens.
Woman the hell up, Harper.
My stomach rolls and I smile so wide, René gives me an odd look. In an attempt to tone it down, I busy my hands wrapping my scarf around my neck before gathering my bag from the hall tree. “Thank you. Good Morning.”
“It’s noon,” Lance says, trailing after me to the door.
“Like I said, Good Morning.”
“Don’t dancers have to get up early?” He chuckles behind me.
“Life’s a bitch to me that way.”
“Should I wait up for ju?” René calls from behind us.
“You shouldn’t,” I say, blowing a kiss toward his questioning eyes before closing the door. “Sorry about that, he’s a bit of a menace in the man department.”
I make a beeline for the elevator, my nerves still getting the best of me as Lance speaks up behind me. “It’s fine. I like that he’s protective of you.”
“Do you?”
“Yep. But his instincts need work. I’m harmless.”
“Says you,” I hit the button for the lobby and turn to face him, and that’s when I’m struck stupid by the sight that greets me.
“So,” he asks as the elevator door closes, “what’s first?”
“It’s,” I fight the urge to gape at him, “…a surprise.”
“Yeah?” He looks over to me with his silvery gaze and amused smirk. It’s clear that last night I was drenched in too much shock to fully appreciate him. No longer the slim muscular baller I met, he’s all man now. He’s dressed in a thick black sweater outlining his mammoth physique. Wood toggle buttons run down the front, and the round collar lays flat, highlighting the corded muscles at his neck. Beneath clings a black T-shirt that shows a hint of his pecs. The rest of him, he poured into tight black jeans that accentuate his trim waist and muscular thighs, which he followed with black boots. He gelled his thick dark hair, which only draws me in further into the planes of his face, the sharp lines of his jaw. He looks like a mix of conservative and bad boy.
He’s breathtaking, devastating, a man to drink in, slowly.
The truth of this is further reiterated once we hit the busy sidewalk, and the eyes of most female passersby cover him in appreciation. It shouldn’t bother me, but it does. It’s one of the reasons it was hard for us to be together in college. Well, one of the reasons it was hard for me. But back then, we were never public like we are now and…did that lady just run into a door?
“Jesus,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
He’s clueless or playing it that way when a group of girls passes us breaking their necks to get a seconds’ long look at him.
I keep my head forward and let out a nervous laugh. “Nothing.”
A woman hovering over a German Shepard picks up his morning dump with the hand not holding the plastic bag as we walk past.
“Damn,” she says before realizing her error. “Oh, shit.”
“Literally,” I grumble at her over my shoulder.
&n
bsp; “What?” Lance looks over to me, drawing his brows.
“Are you serious right now?” The next onlooker, a woman somewhere in her mid-forties, stops midstep on the crowded sidewalk to gawk, her cell at her ear. “Don’t tell me you didn’t see that.”
“They probably know me from my fights.”
I snort unattractively. “Yeah, because all women are so into boxing.”
“They could be.”
The woman’s thirsty eyes roam from Lance to me, doing a long sweep, and I know her line of thought, I can read it clearly with her expression. ‘What’s he doing with you?’
The answer today is, I’m not sure. I hate this feeling. I hate that she has me questioning it myself. I hate that a complete stranger has this power over me. I hate that I let her have it. Sending up a prayer, I glance over at Lance, who seems completely unaffected by her and unaware of her reaction to me.
And I’m thankful.
Thankful he never knew just how hard it was to be loved by him. Thankful he doesn’t see me in the same pathetic light. Thankful I didn’t let my past insecurities break me entirely or the looks I got on campus at Grand, much like the one I just received, take their toll.
I want to believe that’s the truth, but my scars begin to burn in afterthought, a reminder of the casualty. The evidence walks next to me, telling me my previous convictions are unjustified, and I don’t have grounds enough to feel any type of pride.
The truth is searing. I didn’t win that fight, and I damn sure didn’t come out of it unscathed, or unbroken. I just came out of it, and I’m not sure what that makes me anymore.
“You have thousands of followers, and I’m willing to bet a good bit of them are women. Stop making excuses. You don’t have to downplay your looks.”
“That’s not me. You know I don’t give a damn about that,” he says, nudging me. “You jealous, Priss?”
I am. Briefly, I wonder how many beds he’s graced since our split. I had to force myself away from that line of thinking soon after our breakup, or I would’ve lost my mind. We make our way toward the subway, and the women’s stares follow like dominoes. He’s drawing the attention of a freaking movie star, and honestly, he looks the part.
“Seriously? You can’t see this?”
He smirks down at his boots as we wait for our train. “All I see is you. And your flaring nostrils.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Penn Station, this is us,” I say as Lance scours our surroundings on the subway. I hide my grin at his discomfort. Though his expression is stoic, I know this man, and I pride myself on recognizing he’s not so comfortable yet in this environment. It’s as if at any second he’s expecting to feel the rumble of Godzilla terrorizing the streets while picking off skyscrapers.
“I see you laughing at me.”
Well, damn, maybe he can still read me as well. I can’t help my giggle.
“Sorry, it’s just funny to see you looking around ill at ease, country boy. I know you’re used to more cows on the pasture than people.”
“I saw a man in a diaper in Times Square on my run.”
“Ah, I would have thought the Naked Cowboy would have brought you some comfort.”
“Still have a mouth on you,” he grumbles, poking his head out of the car, blocking my exit and looking both ways before allowing me off the subway. I laugh as he jerks me close to him by the elbow.
“It’s okay, Lance. We’re safe.”
“That’s subjective,” he mutters as we step out, and he follows my lead up the steps and onto the street until he sees our destination. Once we cross 8th Avenue, he stares up at the building, dumbstruck. “Madison Square Garden?”
“You said you already saw the city. Now it’s time for you to meet the bones, come on.” I take his hand, and he doesn’t hesitate. I can’t help but welcome the swarm of butterflies as he strokes the skin on the back of my hand with his thumb. Our eyes connect, and so do we, it’s effortless. Lips parting, pulse thrumming, I pull my phone from my jacket using my free hand to send off a text. A few moments later, an entrance door pops open, and we’re ushered inside by one of Nana’s oldest friends.
“Hey, sweetheart,” Charlie says before pulling me into a hug. “How’ve you been?”
“Great, Charlie. Thanks so much for this. We were hoping to take a look around if that’s okay?”
“It’s fine. I was happy when I got your call. How is Amelia?”
“Nana’s doing well. I wasn’t sure if you’d be here during the holiday.”
“Leaving New York at Christmas? Blasphemy, but I have no big plans. They’re about to start setting up for the show tonight, so I can only give you a few.”
“That’s all we need.”
Charlie turns to Lance. “She doesn’t call in many favors, but her Nana has been doing my taxes for thirty years and saved me a fortune, so you better be worth it.”
“Hope so. Lance Prescott.” Lance extends his hand, and they exchange a shake. Charlie leans in, Lance towering above him.
“Treat her right.”
“I intend to,” Lance says easily as Charlie walks us past a hall of concessions and into the arena.
Once inside, Charlie grins at Lance’s reaction and turns to me. “Doors will lock behind you at the entrance when you’re done.”
I pull Charlie to me and feel the frailty of his frame. When I met him, he had far more life left in his posture. “Thank you, Charlie. We won’t be long.”
“Anytime, sweetheart.”
Once alone, we take the steps to the center of the Garden.
“A lot of the greats fought here,” Lance says, mystified.
“I don’t know if you’re aware, but New York is quite the boxing mecca.”
One side of his mouth lifts as he scans the space, eyes glossed in wonder. “I’m aware.”
“On October twenty-sixth, nineteen fifty-one, Rocky Marciano beat Joe Louis here, knocked him—”
“Through the ropes. It was one of the biggest upsets in boxing history, Joe Louis was dethroned by the underdog.” He lowers his gaze to mine. “How did you know that?”
“I got into boxing back in college, my boyfriend was kind of a badass. He was into Marciano.”
“Yeah? What happened to him?”
“Marciano?” I shrug. “He became one of the greatest fighters that ever lived.”
Lance rolls his eyes.
“Oh, you meant the boyfriend. He became a bigger badass. He’s kind of the king of underdogs. He’s going to win the heavyweight title one day.”
“You think so, huh?” He follows me with his eyes as I begin to walk in a slow circle around him.
I shrug. “I know so. He’s come so far already. And his dreams were so small when I met him. He wanted the NFL. Now? He’s already advanced to professional fighting after two short years in the amateur circuit. He’s about to start fighting for the title.”
Lance shakes his head ironically.
“You think I’m crazy?”
“I think you’re talking crazy.”
“You thought so then too. But what if I’m right?” I’m still circling him as he takes in the whole of the legendary arena. “What if…you’re the next Marciano or even better, Lance Prescott. What if you’re the next great upset?”
“I love your faith in me, but—”
“But what? You think they weren’t just as intimidated? Do you think any of those fighters went into the ring without a trace of fear or self-doubt? I promise you they didn’t.”
“I’m sure they didn’t, but—”
“So why not you? Have a little faith, and picture it. Like you did last time. Picture yourself here or anywhere, fighting for that title. Visualize it. And don’t stop fighting until it becomes a reality. You did it to get this far, you can do it again.”
His hesitation is heartbreaking. “If you say so, Priss.”
“You’re going to win that title, Lance. Close your eyes.”
Our voices are anything but intim
ate. They’re more like echoes upsetting the vibe in this sacred place, but that does nothing to stop the goosebumps from erupting on my skin. I’m standing in front of a world-class sportsman. I just need to make him believe it. What I knew in my gut then about his fighting materialized into truth. I don’t believe this conviction any less. Lips upturned; his eyes close. I lift up on my toes, balancing myself on his shoulders with my palms and whisper both our hopes for his future. “Are you seeing it? Do you hear them? It’s going to be incredible.”
“I don’t care about all the noise.”
“No man destined for greatness ever does. But by the time you get to that point, you’ll deserve it.”
He opens his eyes, and in them, all I see is hope and longing. In the next second, he snatches me to him, so I’m flush with his chest.
“Look at that speed,” I manage through a laugh as he grips the sides of my face and leans down just an inch from my lips. I wet them in anticipation, but he backs away slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. I do my best to hide my disappointment. “All this faith in me. I hope I don’t let you down.”
“You never have. Don’t start now.”
“I’ll do my best. This is incredible, Priss. Thank you.”
“Ready to see more of New York City?”
He slowly nods, his eyes searching mine before his lips lift into a serene smile. “Let’s do it.”
Lance
After touring a good bit of Manhattan, we walk Central Park for hours just talking in the freezing cold. None of the conversation is forced but it’s mostly in circles when she asks about life in Texas. I’ve been tight-lipped about home for a reason, I’m here to escape. After dodging most of her questions, she fills me in on the last two years of her life. I haven’t asked about her relationships because I don’t want to know. A more mature man could handle it.
For the moment, that motherfucker ain’t me.