Six: Harlow

SIX

HARLOW

Six Days Later

“ Y ou have to stop checking your phone every five seconds, Harlow.” Sasha snatched it from my hand and plopped onto a bean bag.

“I’m still holding out on hope for a callback from Mr. Nameless,” I said. “I promise I’ll search for a cooking job next.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Okay, but you promised.” She tossed it back to me. “If it makes you feel any better, rich people think everyone else is on their time,” she said. “A man like that probably has a hundred other potential applicants to get through. People with real nanny experience.”

“Thank you for letting me live in fantasyland for a while,” I said. “Please tell me your week is going better than mine.”

“It’s far worse.” She shook her head.

“How so?”

“Two huge book bloggers gave me a three-point-five star review ahead of my next release.” She looked like she was about to cry. “And guess what they both did to add salt to the wound?”

“They didn’t round up?”

“ Exactly !” She shrieked. “Shade that goddamn fourth star in! Round up, not down, and protect an author’s mental health! It’s the least that they can do!”

I glanced at the oven’s timer, so she wouldn’t see me roll my eyes.

I’d long given up telling her that a 'three and a half star' rating wasn’t “bad.” That most of my comfort reads fell into that category, and it wasn’t personal.

My words of advice never landed, though.

Sasha, better known as S J Ash, was a best-selling indie romance author. To everyone on the outside, it meant that she was a ‘creatively sane’ individual who penned spicy stories in her pajamas.

But I witnessed the truth behind the curtain—the daily unraveling and re-raveling of someone who cycled through ten different emotions in an hour. Someone who talked to herself aloud in public, insisting that it was the “characters” sharing their stories in her head.

It was only a matter of time before the psychology world placed “authoring” on its ‘Careers that are Hazardous for Mental Health’ list.

Beeeeeep !

The oven’s timer sounded, and we jumped off the bean bags.

With our arms covered in mitts, I took out the cupcakes, and Sasha tended to the brownies.

“I want you to know that I’m only keeping my mouth shut about what you’re doing because I love you,” she said. “But weeks from now, long after you’ve cashed the check for tonight’s date, I’m going to have a shit ton to say.”

“Thank you for holding it in for now.”

“You’re more than welcome.”

My “date” was with my ex-boyfriend across town, and for the first time since we broke up, I was grateful that he existed.

Instead of going with one of the premier bakeries for his engagement party, he’d commissioned me to fulfill a huge order.

Was that tacky and sad? Yes.

But I honestly couldn’t afford to turn down his request.

I couldn’t turn down anyone .

He wanted eight hundred cupcakes, two hundred triple-layer brownies, and a three-tier vanilla cake. The profit from his order was enough to cover two months' rent and a chair.

Making sure everything was perfectly wrapped, I placed the boxes into Sasha’s car and rode with her to Tribeca.

Sasha

I'm glad we got everything inside okay.

I’m parked down the street in front of Luna’s. I still hate his ass 3

I laughed and set down the last cupcake on the stand. Then I searched around the party for Eric.

“Hey, here’s the invoice for everything,” I said to him. “This party looks amazing.”

“Thank you!” He smiled. “I spent like ten thousand on the lights alone. I’m hoping this will impress her parents.”

“I’m sure it will.” I watched three men carry an ice sculpture. “I can come pick up the check after the party or in the morning, if that would be easier.”

“No, I’d rather handle it now.” He took the invoice. “It’s not like it’s—four thousand dollars? Are you fucking kidding me, Harlow?”

“I gave you a twenty percent discount and baked a dozen extra of everything.”

He looked over the sheet, shaking his head. “I reached out to you about this gig because I thought I was doing you a favor.”

“What?”

“I thought the exposure to some of my Wall Street friends would be good for you,” he said. “I still kind of feel bad for the way we ended, you know?”

“No.” I shook my head. “I don’t know, Eric. Why don’t you explain how asking me to pour my blood, sweat, and tears into hundreds of cupcakes is some type of favor after finding you in bed with my neighbor.”

“In all fairness, she’s my fiancée now.”

“I should’ve known…” I was seconds away from losing it.

“I wasn’t expecting you to draft up an actual invoice like a professional with a little logo and shit.” He laughed, pointing at the art I’d paid someone five hundred dollars to create. “Harlow’s Hearts? That’s a cute name and all, but it’s not like you’re a professional pastry chef.”

“Eric,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. “I can’t afford to do stuff like this for free, and my landlord doesn’t accept exposure for rent payments. So, can you at least pay me half, and we’ll discuss this later?”

“So, you want two thousand dollars?” He scoffed. “For some desserts?”

“For some custom desserts. Yes.”

“Take them out of here and see how much you can sell them for on the street.” He scoffed. “If I had known how greedy and unappreciative you were, I would’ve bought them from the grocery store.”

“You’re not going to pay me anything ?”

“I’ll cover the gas for your car ride home." He opened his wallet and pulled out a few twenty-dollar bills. “You’re more than welcome to stay at my event, but only if you let this go and stop acting like it’s the end of the world.”

Before I could process what was happening, he strolled toward the ice sculptures.

“Be super careful with those!” He yelled. “They cost five thousand each!”

I walked over to my dessert display and noticed how everyone who walked by did a slow double-take. How they took pictures and moaned in delight as they tasted my work.

Fuck him.

And fuck this.

I picked up a box and started tossing some of the cupcakes back inside.

“Excuse me, sir.” I grabbed a half-eaten cupcake from a guest. “That hasn’t been paid for, so you can’t eat anymore. Thank you.”

“Miss?” I snatched one from the woman wearing a ‘Mother of the Bride’ sash. “Sorry, that’s not free.”

“You, over there with the brownies?” I called out to one of Eric’s terrible friends. “Can you bring that over here, please? It hasn’t been paid for.”

“Ma’am, you’re causing a disturbance.” Someone grabbed my elbow. “I’ve been asked to escort you out of the party.”

“Not without my desserts.”

The DJ turned up the music, and guests crowded the sweets table as the security guard pulled me away.

He let go of me outside, then he handed me the bag of extras I’d brought.

I’d kept my tears back all week, but I couldn’t fight these.

“Please walk all the way off the property, Miss,” the guard said. “Or else I’ll be forced to call the police.”

I headed down the sidewalk, and the levees broke.

Everything in my life was officially falling apart, and I needed to stop lying to myself once and for all.

I can’t afford to live in New York.

I don’t have enough savings to start a bakery of my own.

I never finished cooking school, despite my dad and stepmom giving me the money for tuition.

That last lie hit me so hard I stopped walking.

Sasha’s taillights beckoned me in the distance, and I wiped my face on my sleeve.

“He’ll get his karma eventually, Harlow,” I whispered to myself. “Let it go, let him go.”

I took out my phone to delete my “Dream Board” on Pinterest and noticed a missed call from an unknown number.

Grateful for a minor distraction, I called it back.

“This is Barbara Hildreth speaking, how may I help you this evening?”

“I was just calling this number back. If this is about a debt, you’ll have to call me back in ten years.”

“Is this Harlow Hawthorne?”

“Maybe…”

“Miss Hawthorne, I’m with the Hearst Placement Agency,” she said. “Are you still seeking full time employment?”

“Yes.”

“Great! Well, the client you interviewed with is interested in considering you for the position.”

“Really?” I asked. “Does that mean I’m getting a second interview?”

“Something like that,” she said, tapping away on a keyboard. “Can you come in this week?”

“To fill out some forms?”

“To work, Miss Hawthorne,” she said. “The job is yours, but I need to give Mr. Dawson an answer within two hours. Can you do it or not?”

So, his name is Mr. Dawson. “Yes. Yes, I can do that.”

“Great. Call me back when you have access to a laptop, notebook, and a ton of coffee, so I can go over everything you’ll need before you start. Clear?”

She ended the call before I could answer, and suddenly my tears were irrelevant.

Sweet little lies win again.