Not often. Not regularly. Just enough that I knew it wasn’t a one-time guilt gesture.
He found me through the clinic. He didn’t walk in—he waited outside, leaning awkwardly against the brick wall as if he was afraid someone would see him there.
He looked different without Oliver around. Less confident. Less protected. Like he’d spent his whole life under the Harrington shadow and suddenly didn’t know how to stand in direct light.
The first time I saw him outside my shift, I felt my stomach tighten. My body remembered the champagne cork popping while I loaded my Toyota. My body remembered Lydia’s phone pointed at my face.
I didn’t want to talk to any of them.
But Daniel had brought me the attic box. And in a family like theirs, that small act had cost him more than I understood.
So I walked outside.
Daniel swallowed hard when he saw me. “Hey,” he said.
“Daniel,” I replied.
He glanced down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the phrase worn thin. Then, as if forcing himself, he added, “I know it doesn’t fix anything.”
“No,” I said.
He nodded like he deserved that.
We walked to a coffee shop two blocks away. A normal place with mismatched chairs and chalkboard menus. The barista didn’t know who we were. No one stared. No one whispered.
Daniel sat across from me and didn’t know where to put his eyes.
Finally he said, “Mom thinks you stole.”
I didn’t react outwardly. I stirred my coffee slowly, watching the swirl of cream.
“Of course she does,” I said.
