Chapter 72 The Unexpected Call
Harper's POV,
The text came through while I was between clients, catching my breath before my three PM appointment.
Unknown number. I almost deleted it without reading, assuming it was spam.
But something made me open it.
Harper, it's Brianna. I know we're not friends and you have no reason to help me. But I need advice. About being a single mom. You're the only person I know who won't judge me. Can I call you?
I stared at the message for a long moment.
Brianna. Who'd slapped me at that party six months ago. Whose father had tried to send me to prison. Who'd married Joel in that disaster of a wedding two months ago.
The smart thing would be to delete the message. Block the number. Move on with my life and let Brianna figure out her own mess.
But I thought about being scared and isolated and not knowing who to turn to. I'd been there. Recently.
You can call, I typed back.
My phone rang thirty seconds later.
"Harper. Thank you for answering. I wasn't sure you would." Brianna's voice was shaky, tired. "I'm five months pregnant now. Joel and I are officially separated. The divorce will be final before the baby's born."
"I heard. I'm sorry it didn't work out."
"Don't be sorry. It was never going to work out. We both knew it at the altar." She took a breath. "I'm living with my mother now. She's trying to help but she keeps treating me like I'm sixteen and pregnant instead of twenty-six and getting divorced. And I don't know how to do this. Any of this. Be a single mom. Raise a baby alone. Function without someone fixing my problems."
"Why are you calling me? We're not exactly friends."
"Because you're the only person who told me the truth. Who didn't coddle me or enable me or pretend everything would magically work out." Her voice got smaller. "At the wedding, when you walked away from Joel on that dance floor, you said it's not too late to choose yourself. And I didn't listen. But I'm listening now. I need to know how you did it. How you rebuilt after everything fell apart."
I glanced at the clock. I had twenty minutes before my next client. Not enough time for this conversation, but apparently we were having it anyway.
"Brianna, are you asking me how to leave Joel? Because you already did that."
"No. I'm asking how you stopped being scared. How you stopped waiting for permission to live your life. How you went from broken to... whatever you are now." She paused. "You opened a clinic in Vancouver. You're with Crew. You moved countries. You just did it. I need to know how."
I sat down in my desk chair, processing. Brianna was asking me for help. Genuinely, actually asking.
"I didn't stop being scared," I said finally. "I'm still scared every day. Scared the clinic will fail. Scared I'll mess up this immigration paperwork. Scared I'm making terrible decisions that'll blow up in my face."
"Then how do you function? How do you make choices when you're terrified?"
"I make them anyway. That's the only difference between us, Brianna. I'm scared but I do the thing. You're scared so you don't do the thing. Or you let someone else do the thing for you."
She was quiet for a moment. "I don't know how to do things for myself. My whole life, my father handled everything. Money, problems, consequences. I never had to learn."
"Then you learn now. You're about to be a mother. You don't get to not know how to function anymore. Your daughter needs you to figure it out."
"It's a girl. We found out last week." Her voice got soft. "I'm having a daughter and I have no idea how to raise her. What if I screw her up the way my parents screwed me up? What if I teach her to be helpless and entitled and incapable?"
"Then you make different choices. You teach her to be strong instead of comfortable. You show her that women can handle their own problems instead of waiting for men to fix them." I leaned back in my chair. "Brianna, you want to know what I did when everything fell apart? I stopped making excuses. I stopped saying 'I can't' and started saying 'I don't know how but I'll figure it out.' That's it. That's the whole secret."
"That's it? Just decide to figure it out?"
"Just decide to figure it out. Then actually do the work of figuring it out instead of giving up when it gets hard."
She laughed, bitter and tired. "You make it sound simple."
"It's not simple. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. But it's possible. That's what I'm telling you. It's possible to rebuild. It's possible to become someone different. But you have to actually want it. Not just say you want it. Actually do the uncomfortable work of changing."
"How do I start?"
"You start by making one choice that's yours. Not your mother's. Not Joel's. Not anyone else's. Just yours. What do you want, Brianna? For yourself. For your life. For your daughter."
She was quiet for so long I thought she'd hung up.
Then: "I want to move out of my mother's house. Get my own apartment. Raise my daughter without everyone telling me I'm doing it wrong. I want to prove I can handle my own life."
"Then do that. Find an apartment. Sign a lease. Move out."
"I don't have money. My father's assets are frozen. I'm living off Joel's child support."
"Then get a job. You have a degree, right?"
"Communications. But I've never actually worked. I did Instagram sponsorships and influencer stuff but that's dried up since the scandal."
"Then figure out what you're good at and monetize it. Or take an entry-level job somewhere and work your way up. You're twenty-six, not sixty. You have time to build a career."
"Nobody's going to hire me. I'm a pregnant woman with no experience whose father's in prison for corruption."
"Then you find someone who will hire you anyway. Or you start your own thing. But you don't get to use 'nobody will hire me' as an excuse not to try." I checked the clock. Five minutes until my next client. "Brianna, I have to go. I have another appointment. But I'll say this: you can do this. Raise your daughter. Build a life. Figure out who you are without your father or Joel or anyone else defining you. But only if you actually want to. If you're calling me looking for permission or validation or someone to tell you it's okay to stay comfortable, I can't give you that."
"I'm not. I'm calling because I'm genuinely terrified and you're the only person who seems to have successfully figured out how to rebuild." She took a shaky breath. "Can I call you again? If I need advice or just someone to tell me I'm not completely screwing everything up?"
I thought about it. This woman who'd hurt me, whose father had tried to destroy me, who represented everything I'd fought to escape.
But also: a scared twenty-six-year-old about to become a single mother, trying to figure out how to be strong when she'd never been taught how.
"You can call," I said. "But Brianna, I'm not going to coddle you. I'm not going to tell you everything's fine when it's not. I'm going to tell you the truth. Even when it's uncomfortable."
"That's why I'm calling you. Everyone else just tells me what I want to hear."
After we hung up, I sat in my office processing. Brianna had called me for advice. Had admitted she didn't know how to function. Had asked for help instead of expecting someone to fix everything.
That was growth. Small growth, but growth nonetheless.
My three PM client arrived—Andrea, the runner with IT band issues. I pushed thoughts of Brianna aside and focused on the work in front of me.
That night, I told Crew about the call while we made dinner. He listened without interrupting, stirring pasta while I chopped vegetables.
"How do you feel about it?" he asked when I finished.
"Weird. Conflicted. She hurt me. Her father tried to destroy me. But she's also just a scared kid who doesn't know how to be an adult. I can't hate her for that."
"So you're helping her."
"I'm offering advice when she asks. That's different from helping." I dumped vegetables into the pan. "Am I crazy? For not just blocking her number and moving on?"
"No. You're being the person who helps because you remember what it felt like to need help." He turned off the stove, pulling me against him. "Harper, that's who you are. You see people struggling and you can't not help. It's one of the things I love about you."
"Even when the person struggling is someone who hurt me?"
"Especially then. Because it would be easier to tell her to figure it out herself. But you didn't. You chose compassion." He kissed my forehead. "That's strength, not weakness."
We ate dinner on the balcony, watching Vancouver's lights come alive as the sun set. Fall was approaching. The air had that crisp edge that meant summer was ending.
"Maya moves here in three weeks," I said. "Can you believe it? Three weeks and she'll be living ten minutes away."
"Are you excited?"
"Beyond excited. I love you. But I miss having my best friend nearby. Someone who gets all my references and knows my history and can just BE without me explaining everything."
"I get that. That's what Ryan was for me in Seattle. That friend who's seen all your worst moments and still shows up." He took a bite of pasta. "Speaking of which, Ryan texted today. He's coming to visit. Wants to see Vancouver, meet you properly, check that I'm actually doing okay."
"When?"
"Mid-October. After Maya's settled. Thought maybe we could all have dinner. You, me, Maya, Ryan. Show him around the city."
"I'd like that." I leaned against his shoulder. "We're building something here, Crew. Community. Friends. An actual life instead of just surviving."
"We really are." He pulled out his phone. "Also, I wanted to show you something. Immigration sent an email today. About our common-law sponsorship application."
My heart jumped. "Already? We just submitted it two weeks ago."
"They're fast-tracking it because we're also filing for marriage-based sponsorship. Apparently doing both simultaneously helps prove the relationship is genuine." He scrolled through the email. "They want to schedule an interview. Verify we're actually a couple and not committing immigration fraud."
"When?"
"Three weeks. Same week Maya arrives, conveniently." He looked at me. "Harper, are you ready for this? Immigration officers asking invasive questions about our relationship? Potentially doing a home visit to verify we actually live together?"
"I'm ready. This is real. We're real. They can ask whatever they want." I took his hand. "Besides, we're getting married in four weeks anyway. That kind of proves commitment."
"City hall wedding. Very romantic."
"Hey, you proposed on a balcony with zero planning. I think our romance is just practical." I grinned. "But yes. City hall wedding in four weeks. Maya as witness. Your teammate David as your witness. Quick ceremony, then back to real life."
"I can't wait to marry you. For immigration purposes."
"And for love purposes. Don't forget the love purposes."
"Seventy percent love, thirty percent paperwork. I remember the split."
We finished dinner and cleaned up together, moving around the kitchen in that comfortable way couples do when they've figured out each other's rhythms. Crew washed, I dried. He put away leftovers while I wiped counters.
My phone buzzed. Text from Brianna: Thank you for taking my call today. I found an apartment. I'm moving in next week. Just wanted you to know I'm actually doing it. Choosing myself.
I showed Crew the message. He smiled. "See? You helped."
"I gave advice. She's doing the actual work."
"That's still helping." He pulled me close. "Harper Sinclair, helper of lost causes and builder of clinics and future wife who's marrying me partly for love and partly for Canadian work authorization."
"That's a very long title."
"You're a very accomplished person. You need a long title."
We went to bed early, both exhausted from the week. Crew had another game tomorrow—his second pre-season game, this time at home against Edmonton. I had six clients scheduled. Maya was three weeks away from arriving. Our wedding was four weeks out.
Life was busy and chaotic and exactly what we'd been building toward.
And somewhere in Seattle, Brianna was moving into her own apartment. Choosing herself. Figuring out how to be strong.
I didn't know if we'd become friends. Probably not. Too much history, too much hurt.
But maybe we'd become something else. Two women who'd both loved the same man, both been hurt by him, both figured out how to rebuild anyway.
That felt like enough.
I fell asleep next to Crew, his arm around my waist, his breathing steady and even.
Sixty-five days clean for him. Ten weeks in Vancouver for us. Three weeks until Maya arrived. Four weeks until we got married.
Time was moving fast. But for once, I wasn't scared of what came next.
I was excited.
For the first time in years, I was genuinely, completely excited about my future.
And that felt like winning.