6. Maybe Accomplices
6
MAYBE ACCOMPLICES
Harlow
On a Tuesday morning in April, I’m stretching in bed, alternating between texting my cousin Rachel about my upcoming trip to visit her and my aunt in San Francisco, and texting Layla and Ethan about my twenty-first birthday plans, when my phone pings with an email from my father requesting that I go shopping this afternoon— to help him —which can only mean one thing.
I’m both shocked and not.
I tell my friends I have to go, then I get out of bed and call my brother in London. He’s the only one I can talk to right now.
Hunter answers right away on FaceTime, walking down a busy street in Bloomsbury, where he lives. Still dazed, still reeling, I wander to my apartment kitchen to start a pot of tea. “You won’t believe what Dad asked me to do,” I say.
He snorts. “Bet I will.”
“Go shopping for jewelry,” I hiss, incredulous.
Hunter cringes. “Are you bloody serious?”
“I’m deathly serious.” I turn on the kettle, like all these routine actions will shake the surprise of the request away.
“Did you say yes?”
“Yes,” I say heavily and then lean against the counter. “I feel like I should help,” I admit, a little ashamed.
There’s no shade from my brother. “I get it,” he says with sympathy.
“How long do you think this one will last?” I ask as I spoon loose-leaf tea into a pot.
“It’ll be what? His fifth?” Hunter asks, though he knows. Of course he knows.
Hunter’s mom was his first wife. My mom was his second. Since she died nine years ago, he’s been married twice and almost married—to Joan—once. But it’s not the trips to the altar that matter so much; it’s the mileage on the side. I’ve lost track of those affairs.
I sigh. “And I doubt this one will last. But I’ll be the good daughter.”
“You always are.”
“I mean, what choice is there?” I ask, waving a hand around to my apartment. “He pays my rent. He pays my tuition. He pays for my life.”
“You should go,” Hunter says, resigned.
“I should,” I say, remembering one of the letters my mom wrote to me when I was younger. It’s in the wooden box I keep with me here in Chelsea.
Sometimes, after Mom and I had a fun or interesting or unusual day together, she’d write me a letter and leave it on my pillow at night. So much better than anything from the tooth fairy ever was. Mom’s pillow letters were unexpected little gifts, chronicling the day. I recall one in particular.
Dear Harlow,
Can I tell you a secret?
We were walking home from the store today, and we neared an older woman, hunched over, pushing a grocery trolley—one of those stand-up silver trolleys you only see in New York. Her oranges spilled out. Plunk, plunk, plunk. They rolled straight into the gutter. It was raining too. You ran ahead and handed her our oranges. “Here you go.”
She thanked you and took the oranges. We continued on our way, and you were happy to have helped at that moment.
Here’s a secret—you’ll usually want to help. That’s a natural reaction. But so often we don’t know the kind of help someone requires. Other times, we offer the wrong kind, or the person refuses it.
But every now and then, the help we give is the help someone needs.
She’s right. I just never thought that advice would apply to my father, asking me to help pick out jewelry for his fifth wife.
Later that day, I head into Katherine’s on Fifth Avenue. The store is sparkling with jewels and metal on every one of its five floors.
My dad waits for me by the engagement rings. He’s bouncing with excitement by a display of Canadian diamonds, the placards proudly touting in scripted font that these stones are conflict-free.
He points to a pear-shaped solitaire. “Ethical diamonds. Do you think Vivian will like it?”
I have no idea what she’ll like. No idea whether she cares about how diamonds are mined or if he’s buying an ethical one to impress me, since he knows that I care. “Yes. It’s lovely.”
That’s not a lie. Truly, it’s a stunning ring.
“I’ll propose this weekend. I want everyone who matters at a party after. Will you come?” he asks, so earnest, so real.
I matter to him.
And really, when I add up all he’s done for me — the bruised knees he tended to, the essays he read, the dinners he supplied, the tuition bills he’s paid — I swallow my discomfort, and I say yes.
So does the object of my father’s matchmaking. The woman he wanted to set up with his business partner accepts the ring when Dad proposes to her later that week, in Central Park, by the Conservatory Gardens, with a string quartet playing and a photographer capturing it all.
On Saturday night, I give myself a pep talk as I walk up Park Avenue, a box of fine chocolate in hand.
In another month, I’ll graduate from college. I’ll be on my own. Maybe my dad’s affairs won’t bother me then. Maybe it’ll be easier to look the other way, like I’ve done for so long.
Like I’ll do tonight, when I smile and say congratulations .
When I pretend he’s not addicted to women.
One more night. Pretending.
I take a deep, fortifying breath, then it’s showtime when I walk into Ava’s Bistro, heading to the private room for the Granger party.
There, I see Bridger, his evening stubble lining his chiseled jaw, his forest-green shirt hugging his biceps. He’s giving a bouquet of purple gerbera daisies to the happy couple. Vivian takes them, hugs them to her chest, then smiles magnificently at her fiancé’s business partner.
My father claps Bridger on the back affectionately, then shifts his focus to another set of guests as Vivian sets down the flowers on a table.
Bridger spins around, searching, and — I hope — finding what he wants when his gaze lands on me.
For a few breath-held seconds, there’s delight in his dark blue eyes. Like he’s glad I’m here. Like I’m that person you glom onto when you don’t want to talk to anyone else.
He’s that person for me.
I take a step closer, caught up in him. He nods toward the flowers. His eyes darken. “Your favorite,” he says, a tease of a smile on his lips.
My heart slams against my ribs.
He got them for them . But really, they’re for me.
Could this be what I’ve been looking for? The sign I’ve been hoping to find on this flirtation road?
The man remembered my favorite flowers from months ago. “They are,” I whisper, my voice feathery as I corroborate his observation. “Maybe I’ll take them home tonight.”
“Maybe you should.”
Maybe we are accomplices. Maybe we both need this complicit escape from the madhouse of my father’s engagement. Maybe it’s not just me.
I don’t look elsewhere. I don’t care if I’m giving away what’s happening inside me when I look at him, when I’m near him.
I tingle all over, then one more time when he makes the next move, asking, “How was your day?”
“It was good,” I say. “How was yours?”
“Not bad. I went for a run,” he says, with a wink in his tone.
I light up. “I went for a ride,” I say.
I don’t say the next thing— I didn’t see you .
But I know what he’s not saying.
I didn’t see you either, Harlow. I looked for you. My days are better when I run into you .
My vague daydreams about him don’t feel so vague any longer. They feel possible. And I know, in this second, it’s time to make a plan.