Too Late To Love Me Now Chapter 1

For our third wedding anniversary, Connor asked me what I wanted.

My friend Sarah had called me an idiot. "Other wives ask for diamond tennis bracelets or a week in Cabo," she’d said over the phone. "And you’re asking for a Bosch dishwasher."

I didn’t argue. I just sat on the edge of the bed, gently rubbing the cracked, peeling skin on my knuckles. I just wanted the raw, aching dermatitis—a souvenir from years of scrubbing pots in freezing water—to stop burning.

But a month passed, and the delivery never came.

When I finally asked him about it, Connor was standing at the kitchen island, meticulously tying a silk ribbon around a glossy gift box. He didn't even look up. "I’ve been so swamped getting Piper’s college send-off packages together. I canceled the dishwasher order for now. I’ll order it next month, I promise."

I froze. A memory from last month surfaced unbidden. My younger sister, Piper, lounging on our sofa, twirling her hair and declaring, "Connor, since you're practically the dad I never had, my NYU freshman survival kit needs to include that new Saint Laurent tote.

Connor had chuckled, calling her shameless, but he still let her snatch his phone to scroll through Nordstrom.

Looking at the gift box on the counter—which likely held a bag worth ten times the dishwasher—a sudden, bone-deep exhaustion washed over me.

Some things, I realized, you wait and wait for, until you finally understand they are never coming. So you stop waiting.

…

After tucking the final piece of tissue paper into the box, Connor finally noticed me. He tilted his head, looking mildly confused. "Harper? Why are you just standing there?"

Before I could answer, he added, "Did you wash the organic raspberries? Piper’s going to want a snack the second she gets back."

My fingers curled into the fabric of my apron, tightening, then releasing.

The front door slammed. Piper practically squealed as she dropped her keys and took in the mountain of gifts on the dining table.

But my eyes bypassed the presents. I was staring at the vintage band tee she was wearing. It was a limited-edition tour shirt I’d spent six hours queuing in the rain to buy for Connor’s birthday. Back when he first got it, he was so protective of it he wouldn't even let his college roommates touch it.

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "Piper, why are you wearing Connor's shirt?"

Connor’s posture stiffened. Piper just rolled her eyes, picking at her manicured nails. "I didn't have anything clean to wear. I just grabbed the first thing I saw in the laundry room this morning."

I pressed my lips together. "You could have borrowed something of mine."

She let out a theatrical scoff. "God, Harper, your style is basically 'depressed librarian.' Why would I wear your clothes?"

Connor stepped smoothly between us, the eternal peacekeeper. "Alright, let's dial it down. It’s just a shirt. Piper, be nice to your sister." He turned to her with an indulgent smile. "Out of clean clothes? Tell you what, we’ll clear out your Revolve shopping cart tonight."

A mountain of gifts on the table. And now, an entire online cart to be paid for.

The dishwasher I needed cost twelve hundred dollars. I was supposed to wait until next month.

"Okay, let's eat," Connor announced, pulling out a chair. "Piper, sit here. The short ribs are right in front of you."

I stared at the Dutch oven full of slow-braised beef short ribs. I hadn't said a word. It was my favorite dish, too.

At the dinner table, Piper held court, chatting animatedly about her upcoming dorm life, while Connor listened, an affectionate smile playing on his lips.

"A dishwasher? Why do you guys need one?" Piper suddenly pointed her fork at me, letting out a sharp laugh. "You already have one right there! As long as Harper’s here, why waste the money?"

She turned to me, her tone dipping into faux-concern. "Honestly, Harper, Connor works so hard at the firm. You should really try to be less high-maintenance with his money."

I set my fork down. The ceramic clinked sharply against the table. "That's enough."

Connor sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if I were giving him a migraine. He looked at me with pure, distilled disappointment. "Harper, she's eighteen. Are you really going to pick a fight over a joke?" He paused, his tone shifting into something patronizing. "Besides, she has a point. Even Piper knows the value of a dollar. Lately, you’ve been acting more immature than she is."

I looked at the pile of gifts. There had to be five grand worth of designer items sitting there.

My dishwasher was twelve hundred dollars. Cheaper than the Cartier love bracelet currently dangling from Piper's wrist.

I had stood over the stove for four hours making this meal. Now, I watched as Connor used the serving spoons to pile the most tender pieces of beef onto Piper’s plate, until it was a small mountain.

A sudden, violent wave of nausea hit me. I pushed my chair back, bolted to the downstairs half-bath, and threw up until my ribs ached.

When I finally emerged, wiping my mouth with a cold towel, the table was a mess of picked-over bones and empty plates. The short ribs—my favorite—were completely gone. They hadn't saved me a single bite.

Suddenly, a shriek echoed from the living room.

Connor practically knocked his chair over rushing in. "Piper? What is it?"

"My pants are ruined!" she wailed. "There's cat hair everywhere! These are cashmere!"

Connor frowned, shooting a harsh glare over his shoulder. "Harper, how did you vacuum today?"

I looked down at the orange tabby curling around my ankles. The cat Piper had begged for. The cat whose litter box I emptied, whose shedding I managed, while she did nothing.

"If my cleaning isn't up to your standards," I said, my voice eerily calm, "you can clean it yourself."

Seeing the icy resolve in my eyes, Piper clicked her tongue and rolled her eyes. "Fine, whatever, I'll go get the vacuum..."

Connor caught her arm, stopping her. "Piper, stop. You’re going to be a top-tier pre-law student, a real boss. Women like you don't do manual labor."

He turned to me, his voice dropping into that soft, manipulative cadence he used to get his way. "Harper, just go do it. Piper isn't like you. She doesn't know how to do these things."

She isn't like you.

As if I had been born with a vacuum in my hand.

I opened my mouth, but the words stacked in my throat, choking me into silence.

That night, unable to sleep, I wandered into the study.

The SD card from Connor’s camera lay on the desk. Drawn by some masochistic urge, I slotted it into the laptop and opened the files.

The older folders were full of me. Our honeymoon. Me laughing in the kitchen, flour on my nose. I let out a hollow, broken laugh at some of the candid, unflattering shots he’d refused to delete.

But as I scrolled forward in time, the timeline shifted. Piper’s face began to appear. First at family dinners, then on weekend trips.

By the time I reached the folder for the past twelve months, my face had completely disappeared. There was only her.

I carefully ejected the drive and placed it exactly where I’d found it.

I looked around the room. Piper’s vinyl records, her aesthetic coffee table books, her spare makeup bags—they had slowly, insidiously colonized the shelves. This house had belonged to her for a long time. I just hadn't noticed.

My hands trembled. A bitter, metallic taste coated my tongue.

A home that required me to swallow my dignity to maintain its illusion wasn't a home I wanted anymore.