35. Pedestals and Princesses
35
PEDESTALS AND PRINCESSES
Harlow
Ten blocks and an elevator ride to my floor later, my dress is clinging to me. My cheeks are wet too, but not from the rain.
Once I’m inside my apartment, I strip out of my damp clothes, toss them listlessly in the hamper, and trudge to the shower.
I didn’t bring an umbrella today. Didn’t think I’d need one. That was a rookie mistake. New York loves to surprise anyone who gets too complacent by dumping a truckload of water from the sky.
Rain in New York is a shadow, lurking around the corner. You can’t escape it. You just have to let it hunt you down.
I turn on the shower and wash away the last few hours of lies and hurt. I scrub off my own deception, along with my heartache. There was pleasure too, but that’s long gone. And for a while in his office, when he was kissing me like I was the only thing that mattered in the universe, I felt…hope and possibility.
Maybe that’s foolish of me, to feel so much from sex.
Maybe it was only ever sex to him.
An image of the Zara Clementine on my wall flashes before my eyes. I was never just sex to him. I know that.
What was I then?
I may never know.
When I get out of the shower, I run a towel over my hair and pull on a pair of black sleep shorts and a white tank top.
Freshly scrubbed, I head to the living room, sink down on the couch, and grab my tablet. I should read some news in French. Study up on the new trends in art galleries. Do something productive as an antidote to all my dangerous choices. Find something enriching so I don’t wallow in this… breakup .
Can you even break up with someone you were never truly with?
Yet another question I have no answer to. Instead, I go to Webflix and I tune into The Ultimate F Boys , a mindless reality show. Before I can get too lost in the world of beefy, bleached blond boys and bling-wearing, bosomy, bratty girls, my phone trills.
And my ridiculous heart scampers. Maybe Bridger’s calling to say he can’t stand being away from me. That he meant to say he’s wild for me. That he’s not scared—he’s bold and brave.
But when I grab the device, my shoulders fall. Hope is having a field day, smacking me tonight.
I pick up. “Hi Dad,” I say.
“Poppet, why didn’t you tell me you quit?”
I knew this was coming, and I should have gotten ahead of this one. Add that to my list of mistakes. “I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t want to bother you when you were away with Vivian or take away from your celebration tonight.”
“What happened? Was someone mean to you?”
My heart squeezes. I can’t believe that’s where he went first—to defend me from schoolyard bullies that don’t exist.
Times like this, it’s hard to hate him.
I’m not even sure I do hate him. Hate is too strong a word. I’m frustrated. Conflicted, disgusted.
But right now, I’m none of those things. I’m just his little girl. He’s only ever put me on a pedestal. If he knew that Bridger put me on a desk this afternoon, he’d be so disappointed in me.
A fresh, sharp pain corkscrews up my body.
If my father knew what I’d done, he’d cut me off. And I don’t mean financially. He’d excise me from his life.
I’d be an orphan, for all intents and purposes. I’ve already lost one parent and even though my relationship with my living parent is more complicated than a ten thousand-piece puzzle, do I want to lose him too?
Maybe Bridger saved me from a future I’m not ready to handle.
With my stomach roiling, I say, “I’m really sorry. I just realized that I want to work in the art world after all.”
I feel better than I’d thought I would for saying something to him that’s wholly true. Maybe, after all the lying by omission tonight, I need to just tell the truth, so I unspool more of it. “I learned so much while I was there at Lucky 21. I’m so grateful for the opportunity you made possible. But I realized how much art calls to me, and I want to work in a gallery. I truly didn’t want to bother you while you were prepping for your wedding. I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Harlow, you could never disappoint me,” he says, warmth in his tone, like a hug. “I just wish you had told me. I would have helped you.”
There was nothing he could have helped with. There’s no point in saying that though. “Thank you,” I say. “How did you find out?”
He chuckles. “Isla told me on the phone a few minutes ago.”
My radar beeps. “On a Saturday night?”
“She was calling about something in the script. She’s also working on a show of her own, and she wants me to look at it. It better be brilliant. I don’t want to waste my time on drivel,” he says.
He goes on for ten minutes about writing skills, and talent today, and storytelling.
Clearly, he’s not bothered at all that I quit. Part of me wishes he were. It would be easier to let righteous rage fuel me.
Instead, I’m twisted up in knots.
When he says goodbye, I feel lonely once again, with only The Ultimate F Boys for company.
I wallow on the couch. Wishing I knew what to do next. Wishing I didn’t feel so foolish. As Brayden says brazenly to the camera that no woman can ever pin him down, a knock on the door startles me.
I turn off the show, then pop up and peer through the peephole.
My breath catches. Bridger’s on the other side. And he’s drenched.