Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
And walking beside Dylan through Manhattan this afternoon, that familiar swell of gratitude washes over me again that he’s here with me instead of tucked away in some tiny Appalachian mountain town pretending to be someone he isn’t.
New York makes you grow up differently. It teaches you how to navigate through unique worlds, how to encounter all kinds of people and cultures and lives without fear. You learn independence early here. Curiosity too. The city hardens you in a good way while somehow making you more open at the same time.
It did that for me, and now it’s doing it for him.
“Okay,” Dylan says as we climb the steps of the Met. He shoves his gloved hands deeper into his coat pockets. “I just want the record to show I’m only here because you bribed me with dumplings afterward.”
I laugh. “You liked the exhibit I showed you last night on the computer.”
“It had medieval armor.”
“And this has Monet.”
“Which is significantly less funny.”
I bump my shoulder lightly against his as we pass through the massive entrance doors. “Expand your horizons.”
“Fine.” He sighs. “But if I leave this place deeply passionate about water lilies, I’m blaming you.”
The museum is quieter than usual, and the new Monet exhibit occupies several gently lit galleries tucked toward the European wing. The second we step inside the first room, even Dylan goes quiet.
It’s breathtaking. Entire walls filled with gardens and water and sky, the brushstrokes dreamlike up close.
“Okay,” Dylan murmurs after a minute. “I get it now.”
I smile to myself as we move slowly through the gallery.
At one point I stop in front of a massive Water Lilies panel and stare at it, completely pulled in by the soft blur of color and light.
“It looks like a memory,” I whisper without realizing I’ve said it out loud.
Beside me, Dylan glances over. “That’s a really good description. This is pretty wild. It’s like this guy can paint what’s in someone’s imagination.”
As I stand there wondering if my little brother might be evolving, my phone vibrates in my coat pocket. At first I ignore it, assuming it’s Abby sending me another ridiculous TikTok trend, but it keeps vibrating insistently enough that I finally pull it out.
Unknown number.
Dylan notices my face as it turns confused. “What?”
“I don’t know,” I murmur. “Should I answer it?”
“Yes, it could be Mom.”
My pulse hammers as I answer the call and step slightly away from the center of the gallery.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Hawthorne?”
The voice is professional and suddenly my entire body goes still.
“Yes, speaking.”
“This is Stephanie Greene from Penny Aura. We wanted to reach out regarding your interview process.”
Dylan watches me from several feet away now, his expression alert and expectant.
“Yes,” I manage.
Stephanie continues, “First, I want to thank you again for taking the time to meet with the executive team. We interviewed over twenty-five candidates for this role.”
The number alone nearly makes me dizzy. I do the odds in my head: four percent chance for each person.
“We met with candidates from major beauty houses, luxury retail brands, and established corporate firms,” she continues. “But after reviewing everyone… honestly, Harper, it wasn’t even close.” I stop breathing for a second. “You have exactly the combination of instincts, consumer understanding, creativity and leadership we’re looking for.”
What is she saying right now? Me?
“The team was unanimous,” she says. “We would love to formally offer you the position of chief of staff to our Chief Marketing Officer for Penny Aura.”
Everything blurs. The Monets, Dylan, everything.
“I…” My throat tightens. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”
Stephanie laughs. “We’re offering you the job, Harper.”
Emotion hits me so fast and hard I press my free hand against my mouth.
Beside me, Dylan’s eyes widen.
“What?” he mouths.
I can’t answer him yet because suddenly I’m fighting tears in the middle of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Stephanie continues talking—salary figures and onboarding timelines and benefits packages—but most of it barely registers because my mind keeps flashing backward through every version of myself that led here.
The customer service cubicle. The late-night driving shifts. Endless piles of bills. Fear consuming my daily routine. The stress of constantly surviving instead of living.
“I would absolutely love to accept,” I say finally, my voice shaking despite my best efforts.
“Wonderful. We’re very excited to have you.”
She gives me a few instructions on my start date, which I try to commit to memory, and I thank her profusely before the call ends.
“Harper.”
I turn.
Dylan is already grinning.
“You got it,” he says. “You got the role! Holy, holy smokes! I can’t believe it! I mean, I can believe it, you deserved it but, wow!”
A laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it, hysterical and joyous all at once.
“Oh my God,” I breathe.
Dylan lunges forward and wraps his arms around me right there in the middle of the Monet exhibit.
“You got it!” he says again, laughing now too.