8. Teddy

CHAPTER 8

TEDDY

A fter visiting a few more shops, Harlow and I return to Cagle’s Heart Haven Cabin to change for the romantic weekend getaway dinner for two.

This brings to mind how my father once told me that the only constant in life is change. Harlow might think that I’ll be the first to get married, but whatever happens, it’ll mean change for us.

I’ve never held on tightly to anyone because I know it won’t last. She’s an exception. Our friendship has weathered every storm.

I want her best friend forever to be me. Not someone like Chad-Phoenix or any of the other guys she’s dated. She’s never been with someone long-term, which proves my point that relationships don’t last, but there’s someone out there for her.

If only we were a couple.

If only it could be me.

When I pop out of the bathroom, wearing dress pants and a button-down shirt, Harlow finishes up in the bedroom where there is a little more space to change along with a full-length mirror. She peeks out the door. “Don’t laugh.”

“Why would I?—?”

She steps over the threshold, wearing a long-sleeve maxi dress that’s fitted on the top, tied at her waist, and with a flowy skirt featuring a slit up the front that showcases her long legs. She wears ankle-strap high heels. The gown is a V-neck in autumn orange with a Swiss dot pattern, and I am stunned . . . and I only know this because I was there when she bought it and had to weigh in. It was a yes. One hundred percent yes to the dress.

My face goes slack. Typically, Harlow is wearing a uniform of dark denim, any number of dark neutral shirts, sweaters, or sweatshirts, and her on-brand black lace-up combat-style boots. To work, her look is office-edgy, wearing suits with sharp angles and sleek slacks. Though, of course, I left my XO mark on her house pants only so she couldn’t deny they were hers because they were so out of character. Looking back though, they may have belonged to her dad.

“Is it too much?” She smooths her hands along the fitted waist of the dress.

Swallowing thickly, I say, “No, not at all.”

“Are you sure? I don’t usually get dressed up. I feel kind of silly, but?—”

“But you look beautiful, exquisite, enchanting . . .” My voice is gravelly as I trail off.

“Enchantra?” Harlow asks.

“Enchant-what? ”

“The masseuse.”

Giving my head a little shake, I vaguely recall the woman at the spa through the fog clouding my mind that takes the shape of my best friend. “Oh, her. Um, her hands were cold and somehow clammy at the same time. Undead vibes. Just saying.”

“Like a zombie?”

I chuckle because I was browsing zombie fiction at Falling for Books earlier. “Yeah.”

As we step outside, Harlow seems to relax as if a whoosh of relief rushes through her rather than an Arctic blast. “It’s not that I assumed she’d be your type, but the truth is, I don’t know what your type is.”

I grunt because it would be too obvious if I described a plant lover and chai drinker by morning, a lawyer by day, a combat boot-wearing roller derby danger by night who settles in with a book and a cup of tea—the very woman by my side.

“Should we drive or walk?” I gesture to the SUV rental.

“It’s not far.”

“You’re in those shoes.” I point to Harlow’s feet.

“I’ve got you to lean on.”

She sure does.

It’s well past sunset, and it’s hard to tell whether the little flickers in the sky are sparkling stars or light flurries. By the time we reach the corner, I have my answer. The snow barely covers the ground, but it’s early in the season for this kind of weather. I hold out my arm for Harlow to take as we make our way down the hill and into town.

When we get to the Glass Olive, the window is dark and an employee locks up .

“Are you closing? We had reservations,” I say.

“We’re so sorry. We have to close early because of the incoming storm.” She’s apologetic, but there go my plans to see what it would be like to go on a date with Harlow.

“No fancy dinner. Now what?” She frowns as if genuinely disappointed.

Turning slowly in a circle, I survey our options. The open sign at The Rustic Slice Pizzeria glows invitingly. “We always did sit in the cheap seats at hockey games. Remember pizza nights afterward? The days when I didn’t have to track micros and macros.”

“All the -os sound so bland.”

“The blandest. Not at all like fresh, soft dough topped with melty cheese . . .” My mouth waters as our gazes meet.

Harlow laughs as the snow drifts softly, kissing her shoulders. “Are you suggesting we go rogue and get pizza?”

“Have I ever told you that you’re the girl of my dreams?” I realize how that sounds moments after the words come out.

“No, you haven’t, Dream Boat.” Harlow elbows me, but she sounds uncharacteristically shy, almost reserved instead of the opinionated, cynic she is usually.

I wonder if Chad-Phoenix— or the handful of other loser boyfriends she’s had—ever spoke sweet truths to her. Yeah. I said that. Stand by it too. A dark thought enters my mind. Has she kissed other guys? I’m being dumb. Of course, she has. But none of them are anywhere near being good enough for her.

That nagging question returns. Am I?

By the time we get back to the Heart Haven Cabin and change clothes, it’s nearly whiteout conditions. Harlow is shivering, and I stoke up a fire while she sets out our pizza feast on the coffee table where we’ll be warmest.

We chow down on our half pepperoni and half pineapple pizza as the snow falls fast and heavy outside.

“So much for our couple’s massage and romantic dinner for two,” Harlow says.

“We could take a dip in the outdoor jacuzzi later.” It would be romantic if the blizzard conditions let up.

She shrinks a little and says, “I’m not so sure?—”

I hold up my hands, respecting her boundaries when it comes to water. “No worries. I get it.” I was there the day of the accident, in fact. We thought the pond was totally frozen. I wish I could say I instantly jumped in and saved her. First, I ordered George Jones to grab something like a rope or an object that would float. Next, I took off my skates. Then I laid on my belly, flat on the ice. When I couldn’t find her, I said a prayer and slid halfway into the water before finding her.

I cannot imagine a world in which I could’ve lost Harlow.

I put another couple of logs on the fire and she shifts closer to it, which means me.

“Still chilly from our walk in winter wonderland?” I ask.

“You mean our carry? I don’t know how you gave me a piggyback and managed with the pizza.”

“I’m a pro. Plus, I couldn’t let you get cold feet with us being on our romantic weekend getaway,” I joke. Sort of.

Harlow laughs lightly and fidgets with the edge of the knit blanket draped over her shoulders .

I poke the XO I drew in permanent marker on her house pants—the sweats she’s had since college.

“Yes, I still have these things. Don’t judge. They’re comfortable.”

I am too, with her so close. “I wasn’t judging. Not at all. I was just remembering our game of tic-tac-toe.”

“You were a sore loser and wrote on my pants when you couldn’t put your X in the box and win.”

It was also the first time I wanted to kiss her. We were in the common room in her dorm. It was late, or early, depending on how you want to think about it. Everyone else was at a party or asleep. The room was dim. Our heads bent together over our study materials. Okay, I’ll be real. Harlow was studying for an exam and I was wondering what made her tick—how she could be so focused. So beautiful. It seemed impossible.

“You still have this, too.” I rub my thumb over the mood ring on her finger. I got it for her when we were in a beach town during spring break our junior year of college.

The omnipresent zing inside when I’m with Harlow gets stronger, louder, warmer.

She twists the ring, revealing the purple stone.

“Let’s see, what did purple mean?” I ask.

“I can’t remember,” Harlow says vaguely.

I use her phone to look it up. I still haven’t turned on mine, mostly because I don’t want to deal with my brother, especially not right now.

“You don’t have to. I’ve had it so long, I don’t think it works anymore.”

I swipe to the search results. “Purple means excited.”

“Who doesn’t get excited about pizza?” She takes a nibble. Where is Harlow’s appetite? She can’t be nervous. The mood ring says she’s happy.

Reading the mood ring decoder for purple, I add, “Happy.”

“It’s been a nice night.” Her voice is floaty.

“Also, passion, love, and romance,” I add in one breath.

“It’s silly—probably just reacting to my body temperature.”

Taking Harlow’s hand in mine, I slide the ring off her finger. “Let’s test it out.”

She clears her throat. “It won’t fit you.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think she doesn’t want me to find out my mood. I slip it onto the top of my pinkie, which is as far as it’ll go. While I watch to see if the stone turns color, Harlow cleans up our paper pizza plates.

“It’s yellow. No, it changed to blue. Wait. It’s yellow again,” I report.

Harlow puts the leftovers in the fridge.

“Hold up. It’s still changing.” I watch mesmerized as the stone slowly morphs.

She sits down in front of the fire. I shimmy closer, eager to prove the ring still works. Then it turns purple, the same as when she had it on.

Clapping my hand on her knee, I say, “I guess we’re both purple.”

She goes still. Time hangs suspended between us. Our gazes meet. The fire stops crackling. Her eyes shine. Words retreat from my lips because there’s something I want that doesn’t require talking.

Then, remembering we’re just friends, I realize the placement of my hand and shift it to her shoulder, giving an awkward squeeze. That’s not much better because the zings are in full swing, racing through me.

When I give Harlow her ring back, our fingers brush. Her cheeks are pink, but it’s probably because she’s now warm from the fire.

As if trying to rescue me and salvage the USS Awkward, Harlow asks, “So, are you growing a beard this season?”

I run my hand over my cheek because each year I do something a little different. “What do you think? Fresh-faced? Muzzy? Or go full bear?”

“By muzzy, do you mean mustache?” Harlow catalogs the various mustaches I’ve had over the years from the horseshoe to the walrus.

With laughter, we look at an online directory of mustaches with funny names. She leans against my shoulder, pointing out different options and evaluating whether I could pull them off.

Turning my head to the side, I say, “You’ve always been so easy to talk to.”

“Except that time when I had my wisdom teeth out.” She imitates her garbled, drugged speech.

Biting my lip, I say, “There was something you said during that ride back from the oral surgeon that I never told you.”

“When I confessed my love for pineapple pizza?” She laughs it off, but this is one thing we’ve never talked about. Interesting that she brought it up.

“There was that, but also?—”

She’s quick to say, “Remember, I was woozy on pain meds. ”

My heart skips and then races ahead as I debate whether to take this risk.

Then something sparks in her eyes. She nudges me with her shoulder. “You can’t leave me hanging like this. The suspense is killing me. What did I say?”

“You said, ‘You wooze me. Being around you makes me woozy in the best of ways.’”

As if she didn’t hear me or the words didn’t compute, she giggles and asks, “I said that?”

An undercurrent rushes between us, warm from the fire. A voice inside echoes the words just friends and urges me to slow this down otherwise I might do something that’ll ruin our friendship. Another voice, slightly louder, reminds me what I want. Harlow.

“You also asked me why a toothbrush isn’t called a teeth brush.” This is true, but it’s not the entire story. She also texted after I brought her home and got her settled, making sure she was comfortably resting. I couldn’t stay because I had practice. Coach made me skate extra laps because I was late. I’d sat in the parking lot for a full ten minutes, unable to believe what I’d read in our text thread.

The corner of Harlow’s lip lifts, denting her dimples, but her eyes tighten as if she’s nervous. “Did I say anything else?”

My gaze darts to hers. “Yeah. You did.”

The fire crackles, filling the silence.

Harlow tucks her legs to her chest as if the memory comes into focus. “I should probably get ready for bed.”

Not wanting tonight to end, I follow her into the bathroom. She applies a stripe of toothpaste to her hot pink toothbrush. For some reason, the color surprises me.

In the small space, I reach over Harlow’s shoulder for my Dopp kit. She turns her face toward me. Her breath quickens. I envision my hand resting gently on her jaw, drawing her mouth to mine.

Her eyes glaze over. We’re so close. But I snap myself out of this delusion because I never want to be something Harlow regrets.

“Dab me up,” I say, my voice rough.

Her gaze travels from my lips to my hand where I hold out my toothbrush. Giving her head the tiniest shake, she says, “I thought—never mind. We haven’t brushed our teeth together since freshman year when the dorm was evacuated to the basement because of a tornado warning.”

A smile shoots to my lips at the memory. “We stayed up half the night playing board games and masterminding a plan to get stranded in the basement more often.”

After we finish getting ready, I put a few more logs on the fire so it’s toasty warm in here tonight. Standing by the picture window, I see the snow collect in the corners.

The light low, Harlow appears beside me. Her proximity is all the warmth I need.

“It’s like we’re in a snow globe,” she whispers as if afraid that if she speaks too loud, the winter wonderland bubble will pop.

Standing side by side, I glance down. Her profile is smooth, soft. Her long, dark eyelashes graze her cheeks. Her dimple is a sweet little hollow in her cheek. That tells me she’s smiling. I turn slightly for a better view of her lips.

My chest swells at how beautiful she looks backed by the glow of the fire and facing the curtain of snowflakes. It’s then I have a head-on collision with the truth. It can no longer be avoided .

I love Harlow. I think I love her in a way that she’s never been loved. Never allowed herself to be, for that matter.

But maybe instead of all my covert pining and hinting, I just have to show her.

Her chin tips in my direction as if she senses I have something to say . . . something to do.

“Harlow, I’ve always appreciated that you’re the only girl that doesn’t fall all over me . . .”

“I don’t believe that’s true.”

Has she truly been clueless?

Turning to fully face her, I say, “Except I am falling . . .”

She looks up at me through heavy lids, lips parted slightly. Whoa. She really, truly is my dream girl. Dimples teasing a smile. Jade green eyes sparking with mischief. I’ve never seen this side of her before, all sultry instead of salty. I’ve been missing out.

My heart sprints as I lean in. She lifts slightly onto her toes. Our mouths come together with a tentative tenderness. My hands trail her jawline, slide into her curls, and then slip down her back.

She smells like cinnamon and is warmer and much less angular than I imagined—like the scaffolding she’d erected around herself drops away.

This. Is. Surreal.

The kiss and the way we touch each other at first is soft and sweet like milk and honey in tea. We’ve crossed the invisible lines we created in our friendship, and I don’t mind. The lines can get tangled up and form knots for all I care.

Harlow’s lips on mine are passionate like the purple stone as the volume of the kiss turns up, intensifying with each passing breath. The beat of my pulse is now thunder in my ears.

But it soon drowns out my questions, thoughts, and all sensations except for one as our mouths mash together and the kiss deepens.

Harlow is everything I’ve ever wanted and so much more.