50. Unfinished Business
50
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Harlow
I finish the article I’ve been reading on the train—on trends in art buying—then close my tablet and stare out the window, content to watch the seaside towns rush by for now.
Soon, the train slows as we near our destination. And my contentment slinks away. I hope it’s not a mistake to bring all my found family together. I hope my friends and my guy have a good time.
Bridger closes his tablet. He’s been reading scripts the whole train ride.
“Anything good?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, the first episode of Fontaine’s show is fantastic,” he says, then he lowers his voice and brings his finger to his lips. “But don’t tell a soul.”
“I’ll keep all your secrets,” I whisper.
It’s a Saturday morning in September and after a long work week, we’re going to spend one night in the Hamptons. Once the train stops, we grab our bags and make our way through the station. Outside in the late summer sun, Layla’s looking thoroughly New York with her black tank top, big black shades, and her hair looped in a messy bun. She’s behind the wheel of her little red ride, while Ethan’s shotgun.
As we head down the steps, butterflies race through me.
I hope it’s not weird.
I hope he doesn’t think we’re too young for him.
I hope they all like each other.
But then I talk back to my worries. It’s just one night. Plus, his friend Axel is in the Hamptons for the weekend, researching his next book. They’ll slip off to do guy stuff—play golf, grill on the deck, hoist sails on boats, I guess. Stuff like that.
Bridger and I hop in the backseat of the car.
After quick hellos, Bridger hits Ethan and Layla up with a critical question. “So, how’s the scene this weekend?”
As she pulls onto the road, Layla answers authoritatively. “We already spotted William Halifax and his boyfriend down by the beach playing volleyball.”
“I wish William was playing a concert here this weekend,” Ethan says, wistful.
“You’re a big fan of his music?” Bridger asks.
“Absolutely,” Ethan says over the breeze. “He’s my inspiration.”
Bridger strokes his chin thoughtfully. “Yeah, he definitely rocks, but I’ve been kind of interested in hearing this new band, The Outrageous Record?”
Ethan whips his head around, gawks at Bridger, then at me. “Your dude’s a keeper.”
“I know,” I say, then Ethan hits play on the single his band recorded just last week.
I close my eyes, the sun warming my face as we listen to a tune about longing as we drive to Layla’s home. I know the weekend’s going to be great.
And it is.
The next weekend, when I’m back in New York and Bridger’s working late to wrap up Ellie Snow’s new deal, I have lunch with my father. We catch up at Neon Diner—my choice. He wanted something fancy, but I said diner food is better.
Over sandwiches and fries, he tells me about the new season of Sweet Nothings —it’s great—then how Vivian is doing—she’s great—and then how he’s doing—also great.
“I’m glad to hear that,” I say. I still wish he’d make new choices, and I’m determined to help him see his struggles. “And I hope you’ll keep considering what I said at your house.”
He smiles, but it’s rueful. “And I hope you’ll keep having lunch with me.”
“I will.” Maybe someday, somehow, these lunches, these talks, these reminders will be enough.
I’ll keep going. I’ll keep trying in case he ever wants the help I can give.
Later that night, my friends and I head out again to meet up with my brother. Hunter’s in town for work, so the four of us grab tapas then cab it to our favorite dance club in Tribeca.
Inside Rapture, we beeline for the middle of the floor, grooving and grinding under the purple lights, dancing our asses off till we’re sweaty and breathless.
“Refuel,” Layla shouts above the noise.
At the bar, I grab a water while Layla and Ethan replenish their dancing electrolytes with mojitos. Hunter asks for a bourbon. “Bourbon makes me dance better,” he explains, and I hug him again because I’ve missed him.
When we’re done at the oasis, Layla tips her blonde head to the dance floor to suggest we all return but my vision snags on a familiar silhouette.
Someone I did not expect to see.
Someone I just realized I have unfinished business with.
“I’ll be right there,” I say.
They rush back into the crowd while I make my way to the woman who thought I was a brat.
At least, I think that’s how Jules saw me back when I worked at Lucky 21 at the start of the summer. Leaning against the bar, she’s nursing a drink and watching the crowd. She sure doesn’t look like office Jules, though. Here, in downtown Manhattan, she’s After Dark Jules. She has smoky black eyes, cherry-red lipstick, skinny jeans, and a tight black corset, along with a choker necklace.
Wowzers.
“Jules?” I ask loudly when I reach her.
She turns, and the second she registers it’s me, her professional face comes on. Her poker face. It’s understandable. I’m involved with her boss. She’s surely going to be cautious with me.
“Hi, Harlow,” she says.
“Good to see you, Jules,” I say, and it’s a little awkward, maybe because she works for Bridger, or maybe because of what went down earlier in the summer.
That’s my unfinished business.
Except…did anything really go down? Or was it all my perception? Was I just assuming that she had it out for me when really, she might have just been looking out for herself?
I move closer and cup the side of my mouth, trying to talk above the thump of the bass. “Hey, I’m sorry that we didn’t always get along when we worked together,” I offer.
Her eyes widen in surprise. “Oh. Well. I’m sorry too. I was just trying to be super businesslike,” she says, then shrugs a little sheepishly. “It’s just easier for me that way in the workplace.”
“I get that. And I’m sorry if I ever made you feel uncertain about your job.”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry if I wasn’t always friendly.”
With that, we put the past behind us.
I lean in once again. “Bridger really values you. He thinks you’re smart.”
“Thank you. I appreciate hearing that. All I’ve ever wanted is to work in TV,” she says above the thunder of the music.
“It sounds like a perfect fit,” I say as a busty redhead with big hips slides up next to her.
Jules pats the woman’s shoulder. “This is my friend Camden,” she practically shouts. “We’re going to head out to the dance floor.” Then, in a stage whisper, she adds, “My dirty little secret is I absolutely love to dance.”
It comes out salaciously. Like there’s a whole other side of Jules at night. “Want to dance with us?” she asks.
“I’d love to,” I say, and I’m swept up in the crowd in the middle of a club, dancing with my brother, my two best friends, and perhaps some new ones too.