Chapter 78 The Morning After
Crew's POV,
I woke up to sunlight streaming through the bedroom window and Harper's face inches from mine, still wearing yesterday's mascara smudged under her eyes.
My wife.
The word felt foreign in my brain. Wife. I had a wife. I was someone's husband.
I expected panic. The usual spiral of "what if I mess this up, what if I'm not ready, what if—"
But it didn't come.
Instead, I just felt... settled. Like a puzzle piece clicking into place. Like this was exactly where I was supposed to be.
Harper's eyes opened. She smiled sleepily. "Morning, husband."
"Morning, wife." The word felt weird coming out of my mouth. Good weird. "We fell asleep in our wedding clothes."
"We were exhausted. It was either pass out immediately or pass out after changing. We chose efficiency." She sat up, looking down at her wrinkled white dress. "This is definitely going to need dry cleaning now."
"Worth it."
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. I grabbed it, expecting Maya or David checking in.
Instead, it was my mom.
Congratulations on your wedding. Your sister showed me the photos Maya posted. You look happy, Crew. Actually happy. I'm so proud of you. Call me when you can.
I showed Harper the message. She read it, then looked at me with those eyes that saw too much. "You told her about the wedding two days ago. She couldn't get time off work."
"Yeah. She wanted to come but the hospital wouldn't give her the days. She works in the ER. Can't just leave when there's a staffing shortage." I typed back a response. "She wants to visit in October. Meet you properly. See the apartment. The whole thing."
"I'd like that. I want to meet the woman who raised you."
"Fair warning: she's going to interrogate you about your intentions. Make sure you're not just using me for my hockey money."
"You don't have hockey money. You spent it all on pills and treatment."
"Technically you're right. But she doesn't need to know the details."
Harper got out of bed, stretched. Her dress had ridden up, hair was a disaster, makeup smeared. She looked beautiful. Not magazine beautiful. Real beautiful. The kind that matters.
"I'm taking a shower. Then I'm making breakfast. Then we're going to be married people who do married people things like grocery shopping and arguing about whose turn it is to take out the trash."
"We've been living together for four months. We already do those things."
"But now we do them as a married couple. It's different."
"How?"
"I don't know yet. But it is." She headed toward the bathroom, then stopped. "Crew? Thank you."
"For what?"
"For not spiraling. For showing up yesterday. For being present instead of panicking." She smiled. "I know it was hard. But you did it anyway."
After she disappeared into the bathroom, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. Eighty-one days clean today. One day married. First morning waking up as someone's husband.
I pulled out my phone and called my mom.
She answered on the second ring. "Crew! I was hoping you'd call. How does it feel?"
"Weird. Good. Like I'm waiting for something to go wrong but nothing is."
"That's called happiness, sweetheart. You're allowed to have it."
"I'm working on believing that." I sat up. "Mom, I'm sorry you couldn't be there. I know the timing was terrible."
"Don't apologize. You got married. That's what matters. And Maya sent me approximately sixty photos last night so I feel like I was there anyway." She paused. "She seems lovely, by the way. Maya. Very protective of you. Threatened to hurt me if I wasn't nice to Harper."
"That sounds like Maya."
"I like her. And Harper looks beautiful in the photos. Happy. You both look happy."
"We are happy. I think. I'm still figuring out what that feels like."
"You'll figure it out. You're doing so well, Crew. Eighty-one days clean. Married. Playing hockey. Living your life. I'm so proud of you."
My throat got tight. "Thanks, Mom."
"I'm booking a flight for mid-October. Two weeks. I want to see your life. Meet Harper properly. Take you both to dinner. Be an embarrassing mother-in-law."
"You're going to love Harper. She saved my life."
"She helped you save your own life. There's a difference." Mom's voice got firmer. "Crew, you did the work. You went to rehab. You stayed clean. You built this life. Harper supported you, but you did the actual work. Own that."
After we hung up, I found Harper in the kitchen making coffee. She'd changed into leggings and one of my old Titans hoodies that she'd stolen months ago and refused to give back.
"Your mom sounds nice," she said, handing me coffee.
"She's booking a flight. Coming to visit in two weeks. Fair warning: she's going to be extremely Canadian nice while simultaneously interrogating you about everything."
"I can handle interrogation. I survived an immigration interview. Your mom will be easy."
We spent the morning being lazy. Made breakfast together—scrambled eggs, toast, the bacon I'd finally learned how to cook without burning. Ate on the balcony even though it was cold, just because we could.
Around eleven, Maya texted: Brunch? I'm buying. It's the least I can do after watching you two get married yesterday.
We met her at a café in Gastown. She was wearing sunglasses inside despite it being overcast, looking like she'd had a rough night.
"Did you go out after the wedding dinner?" Harper asked.
"Simone and I may have celebrated your marriage a little enthusiastically. Poor decisions were made. Don't ask for details." Maya pushed a wrapped box across the table. "Wedding gift. Open it."
Inside was a gift certificate for a weekend at a bed and breakfast on Vancouver Island. Tofino. Ocean view. Couples massage included.
"Maya, this is too much—"
"It's not too much. You're my best friend. You got married. I'm obligated to give you something nice." She sipped her coffee carefully like her head hurt. "Also Simone helped me pick it out. She has good taste. You'll like her when you meet her."
"When do we meet her?" I asked.
"Soon. She wants to have dinner with you guys. Get to know the people I keep talking about." Maya pulled out her phone, showing us a photo. "That's her. Simone Chen. Social media genius. Also very pretty. Also very single. So if you have any single friends who need setting up..."
Harper laughed. "We don't know anyone. We've been in Vancouver four months."
"Well you need to make more friends so I can play matchmaker. It's my love language."
We ate brunch. Maya complained about her hangover. Harper told stories about the wedding I'd apparently missed because I was too busy being nervous. Maya showed us the Instagram post that now had 400 likes and approximately fifty comments, mostly from people we didn't know saying congratulations.
After brunch, Harper wanted to show me something. We drove to the clinic—closed on Saturdays but she had keys.
"What are we doing here?" I asked.
"I got a delivery yesterday. Didn't have time to install it because of the wedding." She unlocked the door, led me inside.
Leaning against the reception desk was a sign. Wood, professionally carved, beautiful craftsmanship.
"It's perfect," I said.
"I know. I ordered it six weeks ago. Custom made by this artist in Victoria." She ran her hand over the letters. "I was going to change it. To Lawson. Since we got married. But then I thought—I built this as Sinclair. It should stay Sinclair."
"You should absolutely keep it as Sinclair. This is yours. Your dream. Your name."
"But I'm Harper Lawson now too. Legally. On paperwork." She looked at me. "Is it weird? Keeping different names for different things?"
"It's not weird. It's smart. Sinclair professionally. Lawson personally. You get to be both." I helped her carry the sign outside. "Where does it go?"
"Above the door. I have mounting brackets already installed. We just need to lift it."
We spent thirty minutes getting the sign properly mounted. I held it while Harper checked levels, adjusted angles, stepped back multiple times to evaluate.
Finally she was satisfied. The sign hung above the door, clear and professional and permanent.
SINCLAIR SPORTS MEDICINE
Her clinic. Her name. Her dream made real.
"How does it feel?" I asked.
"Surreal. Four months ago this was just an idea. Now it's real. Operating. Successful. With my name on it." She took a photo with her phone. "My mom would be proud. She always wanted me to build something that was mine."
"She'd be very proud."
We went home. Spent the afternoon doing absolutely nothing productive. Watched a movie. Took a nap. Made dinner together—pasta again, but this time nothing burned.
Around eight PM, my phone buzzed. Text from David: How's married life?
I typed back: Good. Weird. Normal. All of the above.
That's exactly what it should be. Proud of you, man. 81 days. Keep doing the work.
Planning to.
I showed Harper the message. She smiled. "Your sponsor is very invested in your success."
"He's invested because he remembers being where I am. Early recovery. Trying to build a life. Terrified of failing." I set my phone down. "He told me once that the first year is the hardest. That if I can make it a year clean, everything gets easier."
"How long has it been?"
"Eighty-one days. So about three months." I pulled her close. "Only nine more months until it gets easier."
"You're doing great. You know that, right? Eighty-one days is huge."
"Some days it feels huge. Other days it feels like nothing. Like I'm one bad day away from throwing it all away."
"But you haven't. That's what matters. You keep choosing recovery. Even when it's hard."
We fell asleep early again. Both exhausted from the week—the wedding, the emotions, the big life changes.
Before falling asleep, Harper whispered: "I love you, Crew Lawson."
"I love you too, Harper Lawson. Even though you're keeping Sinclair professionally and making my last name secondary."
"Deal with it. You married a feminist."
"Best decision I ever made."