NOVEL NEXT Chapter 142: Denial
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Claire: I can't keep quoting you all the time! It's not dignified. At least tell me who you're quoting.
Harry: My grand-dad.
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December 1st, 2090, about 7:00 pm MST, Montana City
Claire didn't look up when Gordon entered her office. The door clicked shut behind him, but she kept her eyes on her tablet—just long enough to make her point.
She didn't want to be here, she was working late, this was already an imposition even before he came into the picture.
Then: "Gordon, if you're here for the reason I think you're here, let me stop you right now."
She stood, dropped the stylus, folded her arms.
"You're not going to Mars."
Gordon blinked. "Claire—"
"We've talked about this," she cut in. "Over and over. About the lifespan impact. About what happens when you live in partial gravity long-term. About the fact that I would be complicit if I let you do this."
"I—"
"No. Just—listen." Her voice cracked—not emotionally, but like something rigid under too much stress.
"If I were president and there was a law banning smoking, I wouldn't repeal it just because my brother wanted to die faster. I wouldn't do it."
Gordon stared at her, unsure what to say.
Claire wasn't done.
"And don't you dare stand there and make this about you and Marie. Or whatever you think this is. Karen has been here for you, Gordon. She's been good to you. She loves you. And you—" her voice faltered for the first time, "you're standing here behind her back asking me to help you betray her."
He flinched. It wasn't wrong.
Claire's gaze hardened.
"She doesn't even know you're here, does she?" Karen asked.
She didn't give him time to respond.
"I need you to leave the office," she said flatly.
". . .We talked," Gordon said quietly. "She told me I'd probably always wonder if I didn't ask."
Claire exhaled through her nose.
"I'd tell you the same thing in your position," he admitted. "If it were cigarettes."
"Oh, good," she snapped. "Moral clarity."
"But I take your point."
There was a long pause.
"I also wasn't sure you even had the power to say yes," he added. "I mean. . . you're new."
Claire gave a humorless laugh. "Yeah. There's that. I'm a provisional CEO with zero majority and no formal bloc. If I wanted to help you, I'd still have to wait for leverage."
Gordon nodded. "That's fair."
Claire's fire dimmed. She sat down again, slowly. Like she'd just run out of charge.
"I couldn't help you even if I wanted to," she repeated. "And you don't have all the information right now. And I need to cram years' worth of learning the role into the next forty-eight hours. I won't be leaving this room—give my love to Harry?"
He wasn't sure how to interpret that, but she looked serious. He nodded.
"Okay," he told her. He left for the door. He hadn't thought she'd be able to. Or that she'd do it if she could. But he'd wanted to hold out a little, have faith in his step-sister. Oh well.
"I'm sorry I put you in this position," he told her, honestly. The bitterness in his voice was fairly well masked, he thought.
Gordon was halfway to the door when he heard it:
"I was going to marry Harry," she blurted out.
Gordon turned to look to her, nodded. This wasn't news.
"And have . . ." she sniffed, her composure cracking further, ". . . three children."
The image was so absurd Gordon couldn't stop himself. "With Harry?" he asked incredulously.
Harry was terrified of children. Dirty hands. Jam fingers. People just learning to wipe their poopers and not necessarily good at washing their hands.
Claire's eyes narrowed, her sharpness snapping back into place like a blade unsheathing. "Oh, shut up," she hissed, her voice trembling with equal parts frustration and embarrassment. "Actually, you know what? Get out. I can't help you. Scoot."
Gordon held up his hands in surrender, backing toward the door. "Okay, okay, I'm going, but—"
"Now, Gordon," Claire barked, pointing toward the exit.
"—but," Gordon continued, undeterred, "you do know Harry's terrified of kids, right?"
"Gordon!"
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He was halfway home when his portable buzzed.
Harry: Gordon, why am I sleeping on the couch?
Harry: Gordon, it's you. You're the reason I'm sleeping on the couch.
If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
Harry: I hate you.
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Gordon strolled into his suite, the door clicking shut behind him. Harry was already there—sprawled across the couch like a man freshly defeated by life. His shoes were off. His tie was undone. His dignity, gone.
"She asked you about kids, didn't she?" Gordon asked.
Harry didn't lift his head. He glared at the ceiling like it had betrayed him.
"Yes," he said flatly. Finally left that interminable meeting with the shareholders and first thing that she does is ask me about kids.
Gordon leaned against the doorway, a grin twitching at his mouth. "And you said. . . what? That they're nasty little biohazards with jam hands and unformed morals?"
Harry groaned. "Do you have something helpful to add?"
"Technically, you're not wrong?"
Harry sat up and rubbed his temples like he could massage the memory out of his skull.
"She trapped me," he said.
Gordon raised an eyebrow. "Trapped you?"
"Yes! She asked this gentle, open-ended 'what do you really think about kids' thing, and I thought it was a trap, but I gave her the truth anyway. And then she just. . . looked at me. Like I'd kicked a puppy."
Gordon's grin widened. "And your truth was. . .?"
"That they're walking petri dishes with poor motor skills."
He sighed. "Which is true, by the way."
Gordon burst out laughing. Harry scowled harder.
"She hates me now," Harry muttered. "This is your fault."
"My fault?"
"Yes. Claire wouldn't even be thinking about kids if it weren't for you. You've put her in some kind of existential spiral—family, legacy, mortality, whatever. And now I'm supposed to have all the answers. Well, news flash: I don't."
Gordon gave a low whistle. "She wants to marry you," he said. "And have your babies."
Harry looked up sharply. "Plural?"
"Three," Gordon said.
Harry sank deeper into the couch, face first. "Three?"
Gordon leaned over the back of the armchair. "One for each hand. And one to supervise the other two."
Harry didn't move.
"When we first got together," he said, voice muffled in the cushions, "I agreed, after much debate, to a goldfish."
Gordon blinked. "That's. . . symbolic."
"You know what happened to it?"
"I'm guessing it didn't die of old age."
"It died, Gordon. Because I forgot to feed it. For one day. And now that man is supposed to raise children?"
Gordon winced. "Harsh."
"I am not a deadbeat." Harry sat up, eyes earnest now. "You know that, right?"
Gordon nodded. "You could do it."
Harry exhaled. "I was willing. I mean. . . if there'd been an accident. A surprise. I'd have stepped up. I was careful, though. Always thought we'd revisit it later. You know. Talk about it. Then she went off birth control, and told me, and it mattered so much to her."
He paused.
"And they are gross. The jam hands."
Gordon said nothing for a moment. Then, gently:
"That's not what's really worrying you."
Harry shook his head.
"No," he admitted. "I'm worried because this has never been theoretical for her. I'm worried because she's always wanted kids, and I didn't realize how much. If I'm kid-lite, and she's kid-centric, then. . . maybe we've been building different futures."
He swallowed hard.
"And if that's true, and I handle it wrong. . . maybe she sees it. That we're not a good fit."
A pause.
"I've never been insecure in this relationship. Not once. Until now."
Gordon was quiet for a moment. Then:
"Claire picked you on purpose."
Harry rolled his eyes. "Scrawny Jew-boy in loud Hawaiian shirts. Real catch."
"She ghosted every other guy on campus the minute you showed up," Gordon said. "That's not an accident. She knew what she wanted."
Harry nodded solemnly.
"It's the penis," he said.
Gordon spat Coke through his nose. It sprayed across his shirt in sticky brown rivulets, foam globbing down his chin. The acid stung his sinuses and his eyes watered uncontrollably.
"What the FUCK?" he choked once he could breathe.
Harry seemed marginally more cheerful—for having made someone laugh. But only just.
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It was after midnight.
The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the soft tick of Gordon's portable as he scrolled aimlessly through unread messages. He hadn't answered most of them.
Harry had fallen asleep on the couch, one arm over his face, the other still half-curled around the controller. Play had been competitive, intense, and a welcome lightening to the mood. Karen had laughed for the first time all day, shelling Harry mercilessly.
Now she was standing by the hallway door, arms folded across her chest, her voice quiet.
"I can sleep somewhere else," she offered. Not accusing. Just tired.
Gordon looked at her for a long second. Her hair was messy. Her eyes were shadowed. She hadn't put her earrings back in after her shower. He hated seeing her so sad.
"You don't have to," he said. "I'd rather not be alone—and I'd rather not make you be alone either. I don't know if that's fair of me."
She nodded once, slowly. "Probably not, but I'm right there with you."
He glanced back at the couch. Harry snored faintly, a sound like a deflating balloon.
"He's lonely," Karen said. "They're pretty much bonded at the hip these days—it must be tough."
"What, the other hip than the one you're fixed to?" asked Gordon. She gave him a serious look.
"Yeah—" he admitted. "I'm lonely too. Sort of lonely. Like, when you and Harry are here I'm not really, but the instant you leave it crashes down. I guess you'd know what that feels like."
She didn't argue.
They stood there for a moment longer, then turned off the living room lights and made their way down the hall. No words. Just the soft patter of bare feet on tile, side by side.
In the bedroom, she didn't strip. Just climbed under the covers in an oversized hoodie and shorts, curling onto her side.
Gordon turned off the light, hesitated, then got in beside her. He didn't reach for her.
After a while, she shifted closer, her back to his.
He didn't pull away.
She didn't push for more.
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The screen was too bright.
Gordon squinted as he tapped out the message with stiff thumbs, the blanket half-slipped off his shoulder.
[2:17] Gordon: hey. You've got a stressed-out fiancé here on the couch. He's in a bit of a spiral. I think he just needs to know you guys are in an okay place. no pressure to answer tonight. just. . . if you're up.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering over send, then tapped it anyway.
The timestamp blinked back at him. 2:17 AM.
The room was still. Karen was asleep beside him, her breathing slow, almost meditative. Out in the hallway, the portable charger hummed like a whisper.
He didn't expect a reply.
But a few minutes later, it came.
[2:20] Claire: tell him I love him.
and I'm going to spend the rest of my life with him.
which will afford us plenty of time to talk about this later.
I'm sorry I really can't talk right now. Company business
Gordon exhaled, shoulders loosening just a little. He read it twice. Then a third time.
And finally, he typed one last message.
[2:22] Gordon: got it. I'll make sure he knows.
He forwarded the message. Then he put the portable face-down on the nightstand and tried to sleep.
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She slept, after a while. Not deeply. Restless.
For hours she turned, shifted, rolled over. Eventually latched onto him again—like last night. Like a pillow.
He squeezed her hand.
He hadn't slept at all.