Chapter 8– Vermont Interlude
1198 Words
Harper Fields hadn’t felt the sharp air of Vermont in months, and the moment it hit her skin, it was like being cradled in old truths.
The train had arrived under a bruised sky, the trees burning in their annual explosion of reds, gold, and copper. The mountains loomed in quiet companionship, their ridges barely visible through the mist, but Harper didn’t mind. She hadn’t come for clarity. She’d come for stillness.
The confrontation with Julian replayed in her chest with every step — his distant apology, her vulnerable admission, Cassandra’s voice like poison in lace. The silence that followed had hurt worse than the words.
Now, back in her home studio nestled above her aunt’s old bookshop, Harper wrapped herself in flannel and memory. The walls still held whispers of her mother — designs tucked behind bookshelves, old fabric rolls tied in twine, vintage sketches pinned to cork boards like ghosts who refused to vanish.
She touched them softly. “I’m here,” she whispered to no one in particular.
And for now, she didn’t want to be anywhere else.
---
The small town didn’t ask questions.
Vermont was like that. It didn’t demand explanations. It handed you a cup of cider and trusted the trees to do their part.
Harper spent the first day sanding down antique chairs. By midday on the second, she'd begun repainting a collection of windowpanes she’d found in the shed. Her phone buzzed — three messages from Riley, two from a potential client, and one from Julian.
> _Let me know when it hurts less._
She stared at it.
Did it hurt less?
No. But she missed him.
And missing felt dangerous.
---
On the third morning, Harper opened the studio early. A client had asked for mood boards for a refurbished barn-turned-café, and Harper poured herself into the work. It was easier to drown in color theory than to admit she felt fractured.
She was sketching window treatments when the bell chimed downstairs. That bell hadn't chimed for visitors in weeks. Her aunt had gone south for winter. Harper hadn't advertised her return.
She wiped her hands and headed down.
And stopped.
Julian stood there — against the wood-paneled doorway, wearing a jacket that didn’t belong to him and boots that looked brand new but weren’t broken in. He was out of place. But he didn’t look uncomfortable.
“Hi,” he said.
Harper blinked. “You’re here.”
“I tracked down your aunt,” Julian said. “She gave me directions. Also told me to bring muffins and not say something stupid.”
Harper folded her arms. “Did you listen?”
“I brought muffins,” he said, lifting a small brown paper bag. “Not sure about the other part.”
She bit back a smile.
“I wanted to explain,” he added. “In person.”
Harper stepped aside.
“Come in.”
---
The studio wasn’t much.
Just warm wood, tall windows, layers of sketches and unfinished furniture. It smelled like cedar, coffee, and something tender. Julian sat gingerly on a stool that wobbled slightly, eyeing the fabrics draped nearby.
“This is your sanctuary,” he said.
Harper nodded. “Every piece here has a story.”
“Does mine?”
She paused. “Still writing it.”
Julian offered a sad smile. “You left. I didn’t know if you’d come back.”
“I didn’t know if I wanted to.”
Silence bloomed between them. He opened the bag and offered her a muffin. She took it without a word and nibbled on the edge.
Julian said, “I didn’t defend you because I didn’t know what to say. I froze.”
Harper looked up. “I needed you to choose me out loud.”
“I was scared choosing you would break something.”
“You mean your image.”
“I mean myself.”
She blinked.
He continued, “You walked into my life like an unscheduled sunrise. I didn’t plan for light. I planned for order. Structure. Distance. But suddenly warmth started rearranging my furniture.”
Harper chuckled softly. “Is that your poetic apology?”
“I’m trying,” he said.
She nodded.
“I didn’t trust myself,” Julian added. “Because loving you feels too real. And everything real I’ve loved has left me.”
Harper sat down across from him.
“I retreat when I think people stop choosing me,” she whispered. “Maybe that’s why I came here.”
He reached across the table and gently took her hand. “Then we’re both scared. But I don’t want to retreat anymore.”
She turned her palm upward, fingers closing around his.
“I never wanted you to be perfect,” Harper said. “I just wanted you to be present.”
Julian’s shoulders sank. “I want to stay. Not just here. With you.”
Harper squeezed his hand. “One condition.”
“Anything.”
She rose and walked to the window, pulling back the old curtain to reveal a half-restored bench with a heart carved into the armrest.
“Design something,” she said.
Julian frowned. “What?”
“Right now. For this room. It doesn’t have to be good. It just has to be you.”
Julian blinked. “I’m a CEO. I don’t sketch.”
“You sketch algorithms. Try lines.”
He stepped forward, grabbed a pencil, and stared at the worktable for a moment. Then slowly drew a rectangle. A long, narrow hallway. Inside it, he added staggered squares. Each one is closer to the last.
Harper watched silently.
“I used to design escape paths,” he whispered. “How to get out. How to disappear.”
He paused, then added a door at the end. Light pouring through.
“I think I’m ready to design a way in.”
Harper stepped close.
She took the pencil and added a small figure standing at the entrance.
“Then maybe we will go in together.”
Julian looked at her.
And kissed her.
No crowd. No confrontation. No hesitation.
Just lips that remembered softness. Hands that understood longing. A silence that promised not to run.
---
They sat on the bench later, sharing cider and stories.
Julian asked, “Were you always this brave?”
Harper smiled. “No. I just stopped pretending weakness made me safe.”
He leaned his head against hers. “Can I stay a few days?”
She nodded. “There’s an old guest room upstairs. Sheets still smell like pine.”
He grinned. “Perfect.”
---
Later, Harper pulled out an envelope she'd been too afraid to open.
Her mother’s handwriting scrawled across the flap: _For when the silence hurts more than the noise._
She hesitated, then opened it.
Inside, a single note.
> _Don’t disappear into someone else’s quiet. Build your own sound. And if someone listens long enough, let them stay._
Harper held the note with trembling fingers.
Then walked to Julian and handed it to him.
He read it slowly.
And didn’t speak.
But he didn’t leave.
And sometimes, that’s louder than words.
—
- Writer
