Forty-Nine: Harlow

FORTY-NINE

HARLOW

N ew York’s bleak and wintry weather was conspiring with Pierce Dawson to make my heartache ten times worse.

After the first week of my “breakup/firing,” I took the subway to Manhattan, suffering freezing toes with every ride, until I realized I didn’t need to travel that far for a coffee.

My world needed to rotate around its former axis in Brooklyn, but the grey skies and heavy snowfall never invited me further than two blocks. I had no choice but to commandeer my couch and surrender to YouTube, only leaving the cushions to grab delivery food.

So far this week, I’d learned that the sharpest knives were handcrafted in Japan, that over eighty percent of the ocean was still uncharted, and that Orca whales (not asshole billionaires) were at the top of the food chain.

If I sustained this pace for the rest of the year, I might be ready to compete on Jeopardy.

While I toggled between “How Hot Dog Buns are Really Made,” and “Siberian Husky Dog Sings During His Bath,” my phone sounded.

Sasha...

I’d ignored her calls and half-answered her texts since she’d been away, but it was beyond time to give in.

“Yeah?” I answered.

“Yeah?” She scoffed. “That’s how you answer after dodging me for weeks?”

“It’s only been one week, Sasha.”

“Tomorrow will make a month.”

“I…” I looked at my calendar in disbelief. “Sorry. I guess I’ve lost track of time since I’ve been so busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Research.” I grabbed my potato chips. “Did you ever hear that story about the lady who lived on the couch so long that her body started to fuse with the fabric?”

“Vaguely. Why?”

“Because I’ve decided to break her record, starting today.”

“Okay, that’s it.” She clucked her teeth. “I’m coming over there right after my flight lands this Sunday.”

“I’m not getting up to let you inside,” I said. “I have a mission.”

“I have a key.” She hung up.

I settled on “How Hot Dog Buns are Really Made,” but someone rang my doorbell in the middle of the yeast rising.

“Ugh, Sasha!” I yelled. “You should’ve just said you were outside!”

I tossed off the covers and rushed to open it, but it wasn’t Sasha.

It was Eric.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked him. “Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t care.”

“Well, hello to you, too, Harlow.” He smiled. “Can I come in for a second?”

“ No .”

“It’s important. As one of your oldest friends?—”

“We haven’t been friends since we broke up,” I said. “I opened the door because I made the mistake of not checking the peephole first.”

“Okay, I deserve that.” He nodded. “Well, look. I’ve been doing some soul-searching, and I wanted to let you know how wrong I was for not paying you your rate for all those custom cupcakes.”

I blinked, waiting for him to say more, but he just stood there.

“Okay, then…When you’re off to hell, I will mention this late apology to Satan, and maybe he’ll consider burning your body on medium heat.”

He laughed. “I’ve always loved your sarcasm.”

“Thanks.” I wasn’t in the mood for small talk. “Have a good day, Eric.”

“Don’t.” He stuck his hand between the frame before I could shut the door. “I severely underestimated how much work you put into everything. I mean it. Me and my fiancée can’t get a baker to look our way for less than six thousand for a single cake, and when we mention matching cupcakes, they double the price. It’s been quite an experience, to say the least.”

“Okay, I’ll suggest ‘simmering heat’ to Satan for you, but that’s as low as I’m willing to go.”

“I wrote you a heartfelt apology letter.” He ignored my comment. “Then I figured you’d prefer payment with a late fee.” He pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I am so sorry, and I hope there won’t be any hard feelings.”

I took the check from him, unsure of what to say.

“If you ever start taking orders between now and my wedding, though, me and my fiancée would love to hire you.”

“ Hell no .”

“It was worth a try.” He smiled. “See you around, Harlow.”

“See you.” I shut the door.

Tossing the envelope onto the coffee table, I returned to the sofa.

The doorbell rang again.

No. I refuse to get up.

I turned up the volume and focused on the bread pans.

Whoever was standing outside would eventually get the point.

Crick. Crick. Crick!

The lock turned, and Lauren stepped inside.

“You’re looking at a ghost,” I said. “Harlow isn’t home.”

“That makes sense.” She shrugged. “You haven’t answered my calls in over a week.”

“Because I already know what you’re going to say.”

“Enlighten me, then.” She shut the door. “What am I about to say?”

“Millions of things I don’t want to hear.”

“I can’t argue with that.” She nodded. “Before I address them, are you taking care of yourself?”

No. “Of course, I am. I’m not a child, Lauren.”

“You revert to one whenever you’re going through a personal crisis.” She eyed my leaning tower of pizza boxes.

Without saying a word, she pulled a trash bag from her purse and stuffed the boxes inside. Then she wandered down the hall.

The sound of running water echoed off my walls, and the next thing I knew, she was pulling me to my feet and helping me slide under fluffy white suds.

“Take a good, long soak while I straighten this place,” she said. “I’ll make your bed first, in case you want to take a nap when you’re finished.”

“I’m fine, Lauren,” I said. “I don’t need any help, I promise.”

“Then why are you crying?” She wiped stray tears from my cheeks.

“Seasonal allergies. I get those a lot now.”

“I see.” She propped a plastic pillow behind my neck. “So, if I were to leave now, you’d be your normal happy self by tomorrow?”

“No. Not at all…”

“I thought so.” She kissed my forehead. “Soak for as long as you need to.”

She left me alone, and I leaned back in the tub and tried not to sniffle too loudly.

Three crying spells later

I lay in bed while Lauren brushed my hair.

“Do you plan to tell my dad about this?” I asked.

“About what?”

“Me and Pierce breaking up.”

“No.” She tilted my chin to face her. “I didn’t even tell him that you’ve been moonlighting as a nanny and thinking we’re dumb as hell about your nonexistent pastry job.”

“What? How’d you find out?”

She gave me a blank stare.

“Was it that obvious?”

“Well, I thought something was suspicious when we ran into you two at Central Park that day, but I didn’t tie it together until I talked to Sasha later. She seemed to be quite confused when I called her with ideas for her new billionaire-seeking-nanny book.”

“She threw me under the bus?”

“She rolled over you like roadkill and left you splattered in the street.”

“Such a traitor…” I laughed for the first time in weeks.

“I’m glad she exposed your lies. She called me crying this morning because she was extremely concerned about you.” She looked into my eyes. “I’ve told you time and time again that it’s better to tell the truth, Harlow.”

“I know.”

“Did the bath help you feel any better?”

“Only physically.”

“Well, that’s a start. I bought you something from home that might help you mentally.”

“If it’s not a time machine, I doubt it.”

“It’s better than a Time Machine.” She brushed a few stray hairs off my forehead. “Be right back.”

I rolled onto my back and waited for her to return.

“You have a choice between the afternoon or early evening session. Which one do you want?” She held up two tickets to Scared Straight Prison Tours.

“Please tell me those are expired.”

“I bought them before I drove here.” She smiled. “We’re heading there first thing in the morning.”