Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Poppy

"Tell me you're feeling better, actually don't. I know you are." Harper steps back as the man in front of us pulls down his carry-on luggage. His arms swing so wide you'd think he had a ten-foot girth, not the ten inches the plane gives you.

"Iced oat milk expresso is the best-kept secret to a hangover. It's something with the ice that soothes the head pressure." She grins as we wait in the narrow aisle of the plane to disembark.

"I kind of do," I admit with a weary grin. The espresso helped, but I think my hangover is being suppressed by the thrill of living my life for me again. Once I step off this plane, it'll be the start of a new chapter. I wish my brother were included, but I must respect Henry's determination not to notice me. I tried, I did my best, I failed; it's time to start living again.

I glance back at the plane seat I sat in and mentally think, "Bye, old self. It's time to live again. Time to feel other emotions besides grief." I turn my head and place one brave foot in front of the other as I walk down the aisle.

When we finally get off the plane, I breathe a sigh of relief. Harper insists we each get one more iced espresso, and then we head to baggage claim.

A sharp elbow comes to my side; I'm ready to snap someone's head off. I've been crammed in a seat, partially hungover and over-caffeinated. I need some space. Don't mess with me; I'm American, we like our personal space.

Another elbow poke. My eyes seek out the perpetrator until I see it's attached to Harper. Her blonde brows inch up to her hairline as she jerks her head for me to look at two men waiting for their bags. They are both tall and good-looking but also wearing cowboy hats. I didn't think that was a thing. So, it's not just a stereotype made up by Hollywood. Interesting.

My eyes drift down to see each wearing worn brown leather cowboy boots.

"Grab me a lasso so I can giddy up on those cowboys." Harper murmurs. "Those are callus-hand men who know how to tie a knot. Can you imagine the things they can do with those hands?" Her tongue swipes over her lips as her eyes zero in on the zipper of their jeans.

I've never met a woman more sexually charged than Harper.

"Harper lesson 101,"

I roll my eyes, "When will I get a 102? You always say 101."

"That's because each new lesson trumps the last. Pay attention." She playfully juts out her hip. "Two pussy cats are no bueno, but two cocks make for a fun cock fight." She adds.

"No one speaks like that, Harper," I scold.

My bestie has the worst unfiltered comments, but she's also blessed with an ability to make even the most cringe-worthy remarks funny. Something can indeed be so bad it's good.

Her eyes finally leave the Cowboys. "You're right, I'm not 'no one.' So, therefore, I can speak as I wish," she winks.

I snort a laugh. "Touché." My eyes drift up and down my best friend. She's ethereal, tall, and blonde, a blend of beauty and brains. "How are you so confident?" I mutter.

I used to be similar to her. I had confidence, but my trust was broken, as was my mental state. I want that again. I want to joke and laugh and not look over my shoulder and see the demons and ghosts from my past chasing me.

How do I outrun them?

She steps in front of me, grabs my shoulders, and bends lower so we are at eye level. "You and I both have the unfortunate experience of having life ripped away from us." I see Peter's memory flash in her blue eyes. "That gives us a unique perspective and a hall pass to simply not give a fuck what others think. Live your life for those who can't live again, make new memories, have no regrets," her fingers tighten on my shoulders, her face softens, "live."

I blink away tears.

Harper sees my emotions. She registers them, then does what she does best when the air gets too thick—she cracks a joke. "Have sex, safe sex, of course, be responsible, don't mix three different liquors. Not even an oat milk espresso can cure that hangover." She chuckles as she swings her arm over my shoulder. And just like that, she managed to make me smile again.

***

The car veers off the highway. A horn honks as the Uber driver almost collides with another car. I grab my seatbelt like a life vest. Get me out of this car!

I glance at my map. We should reach my new apartment in just five minutes. Glancing up, I meet the creepy eyes of our driver again. Watch the road, you sleazebag!

Five minutes feels way too long.

I hug myself, wishing my arms could open up into a parachute because, with his driving skills, I'm going to need it. Finally, I spot the guard gate to my new complex. I feel one percent safer now.

"You ladies here for work or pleasure?" The creepy-as-hell driver asks us. It's the way he stresses pleasure that makes me want to vomit.

Having that second coffee feels like a mistake.

I sink further into the cracked leather seat. This is why I don't get into cars with drivers I don't know. I've read one too many horror stories.

Sensing my discomfort, Harper inches closer and places her hand on my thigh. My shield. God, how I miss her since she moved.

After catching wind of Andrew's engagement, I decided to venture back into the dating scene with a rather unconventional goal that might make some mothers cringe. I was on a mission for a one-night stand. The plan was to wipe away all traces of Andrew from my memories. Look, I know sex isn't a checkbox item, but desperate times call for, well, unconventional measures.

So, I braved the world of dating apps and ended up on a date with a guy named Kenny. Harper did her hacker magic, vetted him, and gave him the Harper seal of approval. If only I had enlisted her skills when dealing with Andrew, maybe Peter would still be alive if I had.

One date turned into two, then three. I kept prolonging it, thinking I would be ready to sleep with him on the next date. Before I knew it, we found ourselves at Kenny's place. The pivotal moment arrived, and there we were, on the verge of having sex. But nope, I panicked. I jerked away and said my stomach hurt. It was the only thing I could think of. He probably thought I had a sudden bout of diarrhea. And then, in a move that could rival an Olympic sprinter, I fled through the door and never called him back.

It turns out I just wasn't ready. I was angry at myself, frustrated, and, honestly, a little embarrassed. I can't blame poor Kenny; he was just caught in the crossfire of my Andrew-induced emotional chaos.

Mentally, I wanted to have sex. I wasn't scared of all men, just cautious. I still hungered for an orgasm, something Andrew never gave me. I wanted to find my unicorn, a man who could make me come but also respect me and make me feel safe. There was no way I was going to shut myself off and never have sex again because my first time was traumatic. I needed to move on with my life. It was my stupid body that froze up with the terrors of what Andrew did.

Therefore, I'm trying a different approach. It turns out a one-night stand wasn't the magical eraser I thought it would be for my emotional past. So, I've shifted gears to the tried-and-true method of normal dating—getting to know a guy on a deeper level. I want to date, fall in love, and trust a man with my heart and body; I want a family again.

However, with how the driver navigates these highways, I'm just worried we won't reach my new apartment in one piece.

"Watch how it's done," Harper whispers to me. Her eyes see the now three minutes to our destination on my phone.

My eyes bulge because Harper has been known to pull out her can of mace and spray it as well. Something tells me driving the roller coasters known as the ‘Dallas highway' is not the place to blind our driver.

"We are here for treatment," Harper replies with a heavy exhale.

My forehead wrinkles.What is she up to?

"My poor sister here has just returned from a backpacking trip across Europe, but unfortunately, she brought back a companion, or should I say multiple."

The driver's beady eyes clash with mine in the mirror. Harper clears her throat, "She's just riddled with Pthirus pubis."

With what? Wait, did she say pubis?

"What's that?" The driver grunts.

"Crabs, otherwise known as Pubic lice. I told her to keep up with her waxing, but she said they like a bush in Europe. However, so do animals and STDs. Note to the wise: shave it bare so the STDs don't go there."

Oh. My. God. Oh my god!!!

It's not the worst joke she has played on me. But seriously! Right here, right now!

She leans closer to him, "You might want to disinfect your seats if I were you. Those little bitches spread like wildfire."

The car jerks. Again.

"Harper!" I screech.

"She's touchy about the subject. It is an embarrassment, after all." She adds. "But, I told her these types of things are common nowadays. No shame, right? Having an STD is like getting verified on Instagram. A badge of honor for some."

"Get out," he begins to pull the car over.

Harper changes her tone. It's scary how cold and forceful she can make it. "Listen here, buddy. We had put up with the eye-fucks; the creepy comments. You licked your lips so much that no chap-stick can heal it. It's one hundred and ten degrees outside. At that temp, the crabs will multiply. Floor the gas, keep your eyes on the road, and get us to our destination."

I bury my head in my hands. Mortified.

Jumping from the car might be less painful.

"She's joking," I shout.

"She's sensitive. Oh, look," She points, "We're almost there. Drive."

To my amazement, he does. Tires screech as he guns it all the way up to my new apartment.

Get me the hell out of here! I move at a pace never thought possible of my body as I exit and grab my luggage in one fell swoop. Somehow, I land on my feet thanks to the online yoga classes I take from time to time.

"Thanks for not being an axe murderer," Harper chastises the driver as she slams the door shut. Then she mouths to me, "Run like a bitch that sees a sale. You know he has bodies buried somewhere."

"Maybe you should have waited to taunt him until after he drove away. Crabs! Really!"

She waves a hand, "It was funny, wasn't it? One of my best. He'll never look at a woman the same again. I just saved our species."

"He could have killed us in the back seat." I try to act serious.

"But then he'd have the crabs to clean out, too."

"I don't have crabs!"

She doubles over. "More like cobwebs. When's the last time you got laid."

I ignore that, "Harper, he seriously could have attacked us." I jerk my luggage up over the curb.

"I know how to defend myself." Still clutching her stomach. Her flawless face is now red, and her eyes running with tears.

A loud screech rips through the air as our driver pulls out of the complex. She continues, "I'd pick you up since you're pint-sized and all, toss you on him, and then high tail it as far away as possible."

I roll my eyes.

"I'd run for help, of course." She adds with a grin.

Harper would do the opposite; I've seen it before. She's the big sister I never had and the older brother I used to have. That's why I kept details about what happened to me years ago to myself. She would throw herself in the line of fire to protect me.

It's what I thought Henry would have done, also.

Harper and Henry think with their fists first, well, in Harper's case, a keyboard. Peter was the rational one. He was insanely protective, but he thought before he acted. That was why I called him that night.

Don't go there, Poppy. This is a new chapter.

"I'm five foot five. Hardly pint-sized." I snap. My throat feels dry from the memory.

She throws her arm over my shoulder, "You're pocket-sized, Poppy. Hey, that kind of rhymes, Pocket Poppy. Why haven't I ever used that before." She slaps her hand to her forehead and giggles.

I grab her luggage, hauling it over the curb and onto the sidewalk next to mine. "Don't you dare start." I deadpan.

The Texas sun already feels hot against my skin, but it's not the heat getting to me so suddenly. It's the dryness. When I inhale, it feels like I opened an oven door and got a face full of parched, scolding air. This is going to be an adjustment.

"Shit on a stick, this place is fancy," Harper tips her head back and looks up at the complex. "But you are a rich bitch now." She jokes.

Harper is right; I'm a two-sided coin. One side is incredibly lucky. I've got a trust fund, and if I never wanted to work again, I wouldn't have to. The other side has been riddled with bad luck, ending in death.

"Why Texas again?" She asks as her eyes quickly glance at the sun.

"You remember Helena from HR, right?" Helena knew my parents. She cooked meals for my brothers and me for two months straight after they passed.

Harper nods, but I can tell she doesn't remember.

"She baked the double fudge chocolate cake you love."

"Ooooh! Mama Fudge," she corrects me.

"Sure, Mama Fudge." That's what Harper called her after she tasted the chocolate cake and licked her fingers clean.

"I told her I needed a change and would be looking for a new job. She put her feelers out, and by the end of the week, she came back with a list of options."

"As sweet as that is, I'm highly offended."

"I hate the snow, Harper." Not this again. I've heard all of Harper's pros and none of the cons about that far north. Some of those pros include a hot man and a warm fire.

"Fine, let the sun bake your ass for a year. Then you'll be on the next flight to me."

"You never know." I shrug.

I may be moving out of my childhood home, but I'm not selling it. A house Henry had never stepped foot in again. He didn't even come back for his clothes or keepsakes. He erased us all. My neighbor, Carol, will look after the house and check in from time to time. I refuse to lose that connection to my past. I'll never sell it, and one day, I might return to it.

I'm not just a receptionist anymore either, thanks to Helena. She recognized that I was overqualified for the reception job and pulled some strings to get me a position that was a better fit. I'll now be working as a personal assistant to a CEO. The truth is, I enjoy organizing and making everything perfect, finding a rhythm in schedules. I'll bury myself in my boss's schedule and pretend like his problems are more important than mine.

It's a sad excuse of a coping mechanism, but it's the only way I can escape from the pain and loneliness that haunts me every day. My life is a mess, and work is the only place where I can pretend to have some control.

"I did splurge," I admit, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. This is my new chapter. My sea will not always be rough. I just have to keep my boat, my life, afloat for Harper, my parents, Peter, and yes, even Henry.

"No shit, Sherlock, and I support it one hundred percent. It's about time," Harper responds, her excitement palpable. Opening her purse, she grabs her lipgloss and coats her lips.

I lick my dry lips. I've never felt heat like this. It's as if my skin is already starting to blister. Not one cloud is in the sky. I look around at the place I will call home. Peter would have loved it here.

I'll be safe here. Safe from the past.

The grass is so green. Impossibly perfect. Manicured to within an inch of its life. "It looks fake. Like a movie set." I murmur. "I guess money can buy you perfection."

"Don't become a Botox bitch. Duck lips are never sexy," Harper replies, smacking her now glossy lips.

The curving sidewalks, lined with contrasting river rocks and plants, are neatly groomed as if straight out of a landscaping catalog. Birds chirp. I even spot a nest in a tree.

The organizing freak inside of me loves it. Not one rock is out of place.

Harper walks to the grass, bends down, and touches it. Her hand snaps away as if it's boiling. "It's fake," her brows raise.

I copy her. Touching the grass that is indeed artificial. "It is fake."

"Money can buy you perfection or the plastic surgery of grass," she comments, and then we both can't stop giggling like schoolgirls.

"This is some Wisteria Lane shit, Poppy," Harper stands. "But I still like it. Does that make me a psycho?"

"I like it too, so I guess that means we are both loony tunes." I feel an ache in my cheeks from smiling and laughing so much this past week with Harper.

"That should be my building there. The keys are at the front desk," I point to the south-facing building. The complex only has two high-rises, the north and south. Each is only ten stories tall, and the top floor is split into two penthouses, north and south.

It's a brand-new development, and I consider myself lucky to have snagged the last available apartment. It sits on a sprawling twenty-acre property, surrounded by a gated entrance guarded by a security man. The exclusivity and privacy make me feel like I'm entering my own little oasis.

"It's amaze-balls, but it's so quiet. I need energy. The hustle and bustle. I need piss-filled sidewalks, not this perfect fake grass. I like disorder. I can't live in your color-coded labeled life, Poppy, but if I could, I would. I'd move here in a heartbeat." She begins to swing our hands as if we were kids again, "You know I am one phone call and a first-class ticket away, right?"

I smile, "Yes, I know. And I love you for that."

Harper's right. It is quiet here, peaceful, organized, and orderly. There is no chaos. I need plans and safety nets, and this place is just that.

And yes, I have my label maker in my carry-on bag, which I can't wait to use.

"There's my moving truck," I say, pointing with relief. I'm glad they're here and didn't drive away with my things. It's that fear that led me to leave my most cherished items back at the house.

"Looks like you're not the only person moving in," Harper says as another moving truck pulls up.

Unlike mine, this one is three times the size and freshly painted in canary yellow. Music is blasting, and I can see the silhouette of the driver and passenger singing and laughing.

They pull up right next to my movers and park. A horn honks to our right, then continues to honk. Two huge Ford trucks filled with men shouting pull up next to the new truck.

"What do you think is going on?" I question. Feeling like this is college all over again.

Harper and I watch as all the newcomers get out of their trucks.

"Holy. Shit." Harper exhales.

Holy shit is right.

Men. Six of them, to be exact, all gather in a circle as they welcome each other. They stand tall, wearing workout clothes. Shorts that show off muscular thighs and sleeveless shirts with sculpted arms.

For the first time in years, I have butterflies in my stomach.

"Are they movers?" I ask in shock. I've never seen professional movers look or dress like that.

The men continue to laugh, joke, and slap each other's backs. One of them even has a cowboy hat on. Then, like something out of a movie, a few of them start to remove their shirts.

"This is some Magic Mike shit. Where the hell did you say you moved again? Is this Texas or Hollywood? Fake grass, strippers as movers…." Harper murmurs. Drool drips from her glossy lips.

"Men in Hollywood don't look like that," I reply. These men are ripped. Not like bodybuilders, more like they worked on a farm. Tan skin, hair cut short, and… a few of them have guns around their hips. Another has one tucked in the back of his workout shorts.

"Why the hell do they have guns?" I gasp. I spin my luggage around as a barrier as if it would stop a bullet.

"You're in Texas, baby girl; wake up and smell the masculine male roses." Harper sniffs loudly, "Yummy, it smells good. Hard and thick, locked and loaded."

"Stop!" I hiss, worried they will hear her.

We watch with our tongues wagging as they begin to unlock their truck and start to grab boxes. One of the men, the first guy everyone greets, has his right arm in a sling, but it doesn't stop him from trying to help the others.That's sweet.

His back is broad; his brown hair is cut very short. When he tries to lift a box, he gets punched in his other shoulder by his friend, who points to his arm in the sling. Then, the friend slaps the back of his head.

Peter and Henry used to goof around like that.

Harper and I watch in awe as they effortlessly lift big boxes. Just thinking about being lifted by them has my insides clenching.

Oh my god…did that just happen again? Did I just look at a male and not think of Andrew?

Shit, I did. That's a good sign, right?

Maybe this new chapter bullshit is working. Maybe it's because I'm so far away from my past. Or maybe I'm frustrated enough to create new memories.

I'm tired of being erased. I want to be cherished and respected.

"Please, for the love of all things, Poppy, please, please, please," Harper starts to jump and makes praying hands. Her wide blue eyes stretch to begging puppy-level cute, "Tell me those are our movers."

I snort a laugh, "You saw my movers."

"No!" Harper whines. "I want them." She elbows me, "Go ask them to help us."

"I'm not asking them that." I rasp.

She smiles.

Oh no! That dangerous grin has gotten us into way too many bars when we were underage.

"Fine, I will." She turns and begins to walk toward them.

I grasp her arm. "No, you won't. I have to live here, Harper. Don't embarrass me."

She pouts, "I never embarrass you."

"Oh wait, let me just scratch that itch from the last crab bite."

She rolls her lips and laughs like a circus clown. Relenting, she waves her hand, "Fine, I won't ask them, but you can't stop me from admiring those fine, fine asses."

I follow her eyes and see an ass so sculpted it would make Michelangelo's David look pudgy.

Dear god, help me!

"I'm soaking wet," Harper comments.

I wipe the beads of sweat off my forehead, "It is one hundred and ten degrees outside. Let's get going."

"No," She raises a brow, "I mean, I'm. Soaking. Wet." She winks and looks back at the men.

"Harps!" I shriek, "Seriously, you are worse than a teenage boy. Get your hormones in check; let's get going. Don't make me regret asking you to help me move."

We start to walk towards my truck. I see my movers who pale, literally, in comparison to the meat market next to them. Heck, even my movers, two middle-aged men with beer bellies, one with a cigarette hanging from his mouth, watch the newcomers in awe.

Right when I think Harper is going to behave, she sidelines towards the sausage feast. Targeting the last man who is getting a box from the truck. Tall, tan, and too handsome for anyone's good. The rest have made their first trip inside, leaving him as her perfect prey.

Poor guy will never survive her. Nobody has.

If it weren't for her NSA job, which scares the shit out of them, I'm sure she'd have a list of stalkers a mile long.

"Howdy," She waves, adding a sway of her hips to her walk. She lets go of the luggage and hurries over to him.

Closing my eyes, I'm half tempted to run away.Howdy! Did she really just say that?

I watch in horror as she extends her hand, her eyes remaining on the man's bare abs in front of her. He grins, knowing exactly where her eyes are.

"I'm Harper."

Did her voice sound more Texan, or is she adding a fake Southern Belle accent to her tone?

He sets down the box, and kid you not, he takes her hand, raises it to his lips, and presses a kiss to it.

She glances over her shoulder and mouths, Oh, my god.

"Such a gentleman," She giggles. The sounds would make schoolgirls proud.

"I'm Kent." His eyes drink her in. She's a tall glass to drink, all five foot ten inches of her. Her legs make a mile look short. Long blonde hair and sky-blue eyes. She's the American dream.

"I'm helping my brother move in." He adds with a lopsided grin.

She playfully touches his biceps, "That's so funny; I'm helping my bestie move in," she giggles. Turning, she points to me. "That's Poppy." She waves me over, looking like a PTA mother, plastering on a smile; well, she's trying to drag her sacrificial lamb, I mean child, from the car.

Kent looks my way; a wide white smile that's whiter than a South Sea pearl reflects back at me. "Hey, Poppy. I'm Kent."

Of course, you are. Got a Superman cape hidden in one of those boxes because you sure fit the bill as a superhero.

I don't want to walk over, but that would be rude. I'm not nearly as cute as Harper. I've got on old yoga pants and a baggy white shirt. My hair is in a messy bun and in need of a good wash or an entire bottle of dry shampoo. I didn't dress for a Lululemon ad like Harper did in her brand-new teal green spandex and matching crop top.

I used to dress like that. It was fun to dress like that.

I hope I will feel comfortable enough to do so again. I want to. I want to be proud of myself.

Baby steps. Just keep crawling until I can run.

"Nice to meet you, Kent." I extend my hand to shake his. He flashes me a movie star grin that makes me feel giddy. I'm way out of my league. I need to go on a few dates and get these jitters out of my systems. I need a normal guy named John, not movie star Kent.

I pull my hand away, step back, and keep some distance. Maybe I should tell Kent about the nonexistent crabs? That would ensure I'm never on his radar.

"Which apartment did you get?" Kent asks. His eyes glue back to Harper.

I tilt my head; they'd make a cute couple. He's taller, and his appearance contrasts hers. She's blonde; he's got black hair. Her blue eyes make his hazel eyes look more honeyed. If only Harper wanted to settle down. As embarrassing as she is, she will make a great mother.

"Poppy here got Penthouse 12B."

He crosses his arms, "Well, isn't that something? My brother is in 12A." Lust grows in his hazel eyes as he looks Harper up and down. "Are you moving in with her?"

She shakes her head. "No, but I can come," She emphasizes the last word.

My cheeks light aflame. I didn't even get a five-minute reprieve. This is going to be mortifying. I just know it. Harper has no shame.

Then she continues, "I can come a lot if it's good. It'd be great if you and I could come together…to visit your brother and Poppy, of course."

Jesus, have mercy on me. A deaf man could understand her hidden message. Only Harper, with her Barbie good looks, can get away with saying it—not just speaking the blasphemy but making it sound natural and funny. She does it so easily that it's like taking candy from a baby.

Kent tips his head back and laughs.

"Oh, look, my movers need me," I express. Quickly, I turn and leave Harper to her shameless flirting.

I quicken my pace when I hear Kent reply to Harper. She is like that crazy aunt everyone loves but also is disconcerted by.

Pushing open the doors, I stride toward the front desk. I just want to get my keys and hide inside until Harper is finished. Not that type of finished…

I exhale deeply when my eyes focus on the interior lobby of my building. It's tastefully designed, with a touch of sophistication and coziness. A few carefully placed armchairs, a fireplace, and a TV adorn the far wall, while coffee tables invite relaxation and conversation. Spotting the friendly front desk clerk, she welcomes me with a warm smile, ready to provide me with all the information I need.

Over the next twenty minutes, she attentively fills me in on everything, leaving no stone unturned. She guides me through the intricacies of the complex, explaining where to collect mail, acquainting me with the community rules, and handing over the keys to the gym and swimming pool.

Then comes the highlight of the tour—the rooftop deck. My excitement bubbles as she leads me up there, where the lap pool glistens invitingly. A part of me wants to run and jump in. I'm so freaking hot. It's almost unbearable.

If Harper were here, she would jump in. No questions asked.

Two adorable cabanas beckon for lazy afternoons, and a hot tub promises relaxation and tranquility. I can already imagine myself perched on a lounge chair, engrossed in a captivating book, and embraced by the starry night sky.

At that moment, the weight of the world feels a little lighter, and a flicker of excitement ignites within me.

"Pops!" Harper comes squealing through the door, "I've got news!"

That's never a good thing.

"Thanks for the tour. I'll find my way back down." I tell the front desk clerk. She nods and exits right as Harper joins me.

"How does dinner with a retired army hero sound?"

Here we go. "Terrible." I snort.

I've been on double dates with Harper. She had no idea how I felt about the male population at that time. I didn't want her to know. So I had to agree. It was painful watching Harper's hopeful eyes bounce between me and the poor man she was trying to set me up with. It seems like it's her mission to get me laid and datable again.

"I knew you'd say that. So I told them no dinner, drinks only. That way, we can escape if they turn out to be psychos. Tonight at ten, we meet them in the lobby." She jumps and then hugs me.

"Harps… I'm moving in today. It's already eleven, and we haven't unpacked one box. I'm going to be exhausted by tonight."Not to mention, my usual bedtime is nine sharp.

She waves her hand, "I know that's why I'll be your wingwoman. It's going to be great. Hey, don't give me that look. I know you. If I don't push you, then once I leave, you will just repeat everything you have done for the past three years. You wanted change. I'm helping. As a matter of fact, I have another surprise for you."

My hand lands on my hip as I study her. The sun is beating down on us, beads of sweat forming on both our brows. "Come on, let's get inside," I exhale as we begin to walk around the long lap pool.

"It's going to be fine, Pops."

"Yeah, sure it is."

She wipes the sweat off the back of her hand. The sun here really is next level.

"Jesus, please don't forsake us," Harper presses her hands together in prayer. "Send us a cool draft of wind because my boob sweat is next level."

I literally trip as I stumble in laughter, narrowly escaping the pool. "Lord, help me," I reply, wondering what she's up to because that last comment was meant to make me laugh and forget about tonight.

As soon as we open the door, a cold blast of air-conditioning cools us off.

"Thank god," I murmur. I fan my shirt in and out, hoping to cool some of the sweat dripping down my back.

"Yes, thank him," Harper repeats. Her tone is off.

"What are you not telling me?" I deadpan.

"Well, some of your stuff doesn't need to be unpacked."

My eyes widen, "They lost my boxes!"

Harper shakes her hands, "No, not that. It's just some of it that has arrived already." Color me confused. How did my stuff arrive before the moving truck?

"I used the money you gave me to buy you something, and it happened to arrive two days ago. The receptionist put the boxes in your apartment already." She blurts out.

I jab the elevator button repeatedly. "I didn't want you to buy me anything. That money was meant for you," I protest.

"It made me feel like you were paying me off for being your bestie and soul sister."

"You make it sound like you're a whore. Sisters buy each other gifts."

Her expression shifts to shock, prompting a giggle from me. "If the shoe fits," she retorts, wiggling her running shoes.

"But seriously, I wanted you to buy something for yourself. I'll never use all that money. I can't even go through living off the interest alone."

"Calm your tits. I bought a little something for myself. I used a small part of it as a thank you," she insists, her eyes gleaming with excitement. She looks as adorable as a puppy, begging for me to pick it up.

"Harps, that money was my thank you for helping me move. I told you to get a massage with it or something that would help you relax after this."

"Does this massage include a happy ending?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that," I exhale. "You can't regift a thank you," I argue.

"Sure you can, silly. Plus, I had alternative motives," she teases, her words hinting at hidden surprises.

"You always do," I say, a smile breaking through my defenses. The elevator doors close, and I press the P button. Penthouse. It feels surreal.

Harper was a wild child during high school, and Henry and I were her willing accomplices. We'd sneak out, attend parties, and live life to the fullest. Peter played the role of the responsible adult.

After my parents passed away, Peter and Henry were seventeen years old, and with the assistance of Poppy's father, who was a lawyer, they managed to get a judge to grant them full custody of me. We continued living in our parents' house, and slowly but surely, it felt like a home again. Harper's parents were always in the shadows, watching over us and providing support when needed. It seemed like the four of us were an unbreakable fixture...until we did, in fact, break. We went from four to three, then to just Harper and me.

Before Peter died, I started to laugh again until I didn't—until the word "trust" was shattered.

Chapter 8

Poppy

The elevator begins to descend. It's hard to accept that something good is happening and even harder not to stress that it will all be taken away from me.

They say bad things come in threes. I've checked three boxes, so good has to come my way.

"Do you smell that?" Harper asks with a playful grin, taking another sniff of the air. Her nostrils flare wide. "That's scented air, Poppy. That is some rich bitch shit." She snaps her fingers.

"It's called being polite," I say with a wry smile, my eyebrows raising slightly to emphasize the point.

I bring my hand to my forehead and fan myself for dramatic effect as if trying to cool down from the scorching heat. "It's hotter than hell's waiting room outside. I'm sure most places scent the air to ward off the BO smell."

"Polite as in hand towels instead of paper towels in the restroom. Yeah, this place is just being polite," she adds, her tone light and teasing.

The elevator lowers to another level. Keys in hand, we're about to step into my new apartment. I feel like I'm about to go skydiving. I just hope the parachute opens and I glide into a new horizon.

"Do you think the air will smell this nice in France?" Harper ponders.

Instead of returning to work right away, she is backpacking in France for two weeks. With her American charm, she's about to conquer the hearts of all the Frenchmen. She will create such a ruckus that it will make The Great Plague of Marseille look favorable.

Leave it to Harper to introduce the French to American sin and sass. They won't know what hit them, and they'll probably be begging her to leave by the time she's done.

I'd bet my inheritance, down to the last penny, that this is going to be her first and last time in France. I mean, let's be real; she's probably going to get herself blacklisted from entering the country after this trip. Then, knowing Harper, she will hack into their system and remove herself from the list.

Naturally, she tried to drag me along for the ride, threatening to kidnap me if I didn't come. Lucky for me, I used the excuse of moving and starting a new job to get out of it.

"No, it's going to smell like sugar, carbs, and cigarettes," I joke. "But seriously, spill the beans, Harper. What's this surprise you've been taunting me about? What did you order?" As the elevator descends, my worry starts to creep up. I can't help but wonder what mischief she's cooked up this time.

"Well, you know how you left me with the movers while you went to the notary to sign for the apartment?" She begins.

Reaching for a lock of her hair, she begins to twirl it around her fingers. Classic Harper. Her go-to move. Acting all innocent and naive. Wolf in sheep's clothing. She once told me she thought the Virgin Mary made the same move when she broke the news to Joseph that she was knocked up by the Big Man upstairs.

"Yes," I reply, inhaling deeply and taking in the pleasant scent of the "rich bitch air."

"I had to call an intervention," Harper continues, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

Oh, great! Another surge of cortisol just surged into my blood. My brows furrow like they're about to start a protest.

"What?" I ask, trying to hide my annoyance but failing spectacularly.

Let's address Harper's so-called interventions. Her idea of help would make a therapist run for the hills. Seriously, I nicknamed her Harp because she can harp on people like there's no tomorrow. It's her superpower, and boy, does she love to flaunt it.

But hey, what are friends for, right? Somewhere in her outlandish mind, it is out of love.

Oh, her last Harp-a-thon was a real cavity-inducing treat! She went on and on about my drastic anti-dating shift; I was on the fast track to becoming the deranged cat lady that no one liked and who probably smelled like cat piss.

To make matters worse, she was dating a doctor at the time and had the audacity to tell me she was convinced she could get him to enact a 72-hold on me.

What's scary is she probably could.

Harper thinks her Harp-a-thon is the reason I moved and decided to break free from my cocoon.

"I had to purge you from your fashion sickness," she declares, hands-on as if she's some kind of fashion doctor.

"What?" I exclaim, my worry turning into genuine concern.

My fashion isn't bad. I've just been embracing loungewear. It is a billion-dollar business, after all. People want comfort. Yoga pants are the best and worst things ever invented. They are unbelievably comfortable, and you never want to wear anything else. So comfortable you can't put anything else on because you never want to accept your size changed.

"I got rid of your clothes," Harper says matter-of-factly.

"You what!"

Her eyes looked me up and down. "You've had that same pair of yoga pants since high school, Pops."

The first stage of a Harp-a-thon is her calling me by my nickname, Pops. She thinks it makes her sound more caring.

Shrugging, I reply, "So. They still fit."As I said, Yoga pants are loyal bitches. Jeans are not.

She grabs my shoulders, "Yoga pants always fit. That's the point."

Gosh, can she read my mind?

"I left you one chore to do, Harper. One chore." I hold up my finger.

She mocks me by holding up her middle finger.

Sometimes, it's like arguing with a child.

My clothes were the last thing Harper and I had to pack. I had taken care of everything else.

She holds up her hands in a plea, "I know, and I did an amazing job cleaning it all up. Thank you, that is all you have to say," she replies simply.

"Harper!"

"Just say thank you," she insists and bats her eyelashes.

"No!" I stomp my foot.

She looks at my shirt. "You can't wear clothes five sizes too big, Pops. It's a sin. That shirt has a stain on it from when you dropped a burger on it four months ago. Four months. Gross. I basically saved you from a lifetime of fashion hell." She stresses.

The Harp-a-thon continues. This is the longest elevator ride of my life. Seriously, we are going down two floors! Open up already.

"God consented. It's a sin to sin, Poppy. I've led you into fashion heaven. Saved you from hell." She draws a halo over her head and flaps her hands.

"What are you doing?" I ask, watching her continue to flap like a duck.

"These are my wings. I'm your angel. Don't you see? Halo and wings." She flaps harder.

I slap my hand to my forehead in disbelief. "Oh my god!" I exclaim. "I start work in just one week, Harper. I don't have time to order new clothes. And for God's sake, stop flapping your hands. It's bad enough I can't walk outside without your cringe-worthy pick-up lines. Don't make the elevator a bad PTSD for me, too."

"Oh please, you'll thank me later. After an orgasm or two... or three."

"Harper!"

"OK, but listen. I know you start work. That's why I got all your clothes for you. Planning ahead, baby. Take notes. You're about to be the personal assistant to some big CEO. It's smart to plan ahead and kiss ass. I just taught you a valuable lesson," Harper reveals, then blows me an air kiss.

I tug on my shirt. It is way too big, and yes, it has a stain, but hey, I'm moving, and I'll be dirty today anyway. I planned to unpack boxes, not walk the runways of Vogue and flirting with hot Texans.

I want to change, but I want baby steps. Harper has no idea about the panic attacks.

Inhale, now, exhale.

I trust her style. I can find something safe to wear. I pray.

The elevator dings, and the doors open, revealing the hallway to my new apartment. "This discussion isn't over, Harps," I warn her, still in shock. Thank God I packed the rest myself. I'm sure there is a backup outfit somewhere.

"It will be when you see the clothes," she teases, playfully slapping my ass. "You'll thank me. No more hiding, right? You said this move was about change. Well, push comes to shove, and I helped you literally change into new clothes. I also stocked you with some sexy bras and panties. Seriously, who wears light pink cotton panties in their twenties?" Harper giggles. "You're so lucky to have me. Cotton isn't sexy bring-me-home-panty material. Leather and lace are."

My eyes widen in horror. "You did not buy me leather panties!" I shriek.

"Chill-lax," she paints a serious face. "It's not black leather; it's pink, so it's less intimidating."

"Oh. My. God."

"Joking! Joking. It's all lace. Crotch-less but lace."

"Harper!" I screech.

She holds her hands up, "Kidding. But if you want some, I can order it for you." She bends over, laughing. "Oh my God, you should have seen your face. Cherry red, Pops,"

She pokes my cheek gently. "So adorable. I love it when you blush. Your dimples and freckles make you look like a kitten in a window. I can't resist."

The elevator begins to close, and we hurry out. I'm tempted to shove her back inside. "There better be loungewear in that closet."

"Period weeks only. Otherwise, I want skin-tight, shining bright." Harper sings, then slaps her own ass.

"If my ass looked like yours, then I would wear fitted clothes."

"Your ass does look like mine. You just don't see it. I don't know what changed. I don't understand what you see when you look in the mirror. You're stunning, but if you don't believe it, why should others?" she replies, her tone shifting from playful to serious. Her blue eyes dig into me like a scalpel, sharp and probing.

I know it hurts her that I'm keeping secrets, but I don't want my confessions to change her. I love her jokes and embarrassing side, and if I tell her the truth, she will change. I know it. She will filter her comments and view me as a victim. She will put her future at risk to seek revenge for me.

I can't lose our carefree banter. If I told her what had happened at that party, she would never look at me the same way again. I won't be the friend/sister she jokes with.

"Peter wouldn't want you to live like this. He'd want you to live, not be tucked away." She adds.

Her grief is palpable. It clogs my throat. I feel dirtier than a gutter for not being honest with her. I didn't just lose a brother; she did, too.

"What about Henry," I whisper.

"Don't mention his name. Don't let his hate touch you a moment longer. What he is doing is wrong. It's wrong!" Her anger toward Henry simmers just beneath the surface, a volatile mix of frustration hurt, and disappointment. "One day, he will realize that." Rapid blinks shove her tears back into her eyes. She hides her real emotions away from the world now. Just like me, but we hide for different reasons.

"I am living. I moved away from the past. I want to change, Harper. I just…I don't think I can be the girl I used to be."

"I don't want you to turn back chapters and be the girl you used to be. I want you to move forward and write new ones. Write a book that would make your parents and brother proud. Bad shit happened to you, but that doesn't have to define your narrative."