Chapter 3 Harlowe
“Harlowe,” Hasheem called behind me as we pushed through the crowd at the Addis Ababa airport on our layover to Zanzibar.
“They could start boarding any second!” I kept walking, looking between my boarding ticket and the signs plastered around the airport.
To say I was frantic was an understatement.
Our first flight had taken off late, which meant our layover time had been cut in half.
I didn’t care how fast I had to zip through this airport.
I wasn’t missing that flight. How unprofessional would that make me look?
“We already cleared security, so chill,” Hasheem said as he grabbed my arm and forced my stride to slow down.
I glanced back at him with a side eye, ready to go off, but the words died in my throat.
He was right beside me now, gazing down at me with his broad shoulders, gray sweats, and perfectly lined up beard and fresh fade.
The gold chain he always wore around his neck had the nerve to be glistening effortlessly as he juggled both our carry-on suitcases and my ring light bag like it was nothing.
“You know they don’t wait for anybody. We can’t miss this flight,” I reminded him.
“They ain’t leavin’ without us. Shit, if we miss this flight, I’ll charter us a private jet out of this bitch.
” He put his palm on the small of my back and steered me closer to his side.
“Chill. You’re walking through this motherfucker looking like you’re trying to find somebody’s manager or something. I’ma start calling yo’ ass Karen.”
I snorted. “Fuck you. You know that?”
“I’m aware… Look, we got plenty of time,” he said, chin jerking toward the screens. “See? Gate 17. Departs at 11:55 a.m.”
I sucked my teeth but followed his gaze anyway. There we were, Gate 17 to Zanzibar, boarding at 11:55 a.m. I looked down at my phone. It was currently 11:10 a.m. We had about forty minutes.
“It’s not going to take us forty minutes to get to Gate 17,” he said. “You running through this motherfucker like TSA on your ass.”
I smirked, and a breath I didn’t even know I was holding slipped from my lips. Maybe I was being ridiculous.
“I’m sorry. I’m just—” My voice lowered. “I don’t want to fumble this. There’s so much riding on it.”
“I get it, and you’re not going to fumble it. You got this. So chill out before you pass out, and I have to carry you to the hospital ER.”
“Let me chill then. ’Cause you’re not even strong enough for all that. Gon’ have us both on the floor.”
“Girl, please,” he muttered. “I carry water hoses heavier than you.”
“I doubt it.”
“Fuck around and find out. Come on.”
Hasheem grabbed my hand and led me through the airport.
Suddenly, I felt like a child who had just gotten in trouble for running off in the grocery store.
My feet were moving at a calmer pace, but my head was still spinning.
I was really doing this—flying across the world with Hasheem as my fake boyfriend.
There were so many things that could go wrong and so much at stake.
I legit didn’t know if I could pull this off.
“You still in yo’ head,” Hasheem said without even looking in my direction.
“Mind yo’ business.”
“You’ve been my business since freshman year.
” He squeezed my hand, and my heart did that little flutter thing it always did when Hasheem was around.
I would usually say something slick that helped me push that flutter to the side, but before I could respond, we turned the corner, and our gate came into view.
The monitor over the gate said Boarding at 11:55 a.m. Nobody was lined up yet, just a few couples scattered in their seats, most either scrolling or asleep.
“Well, we’re not late.”
“No shit.” He glanced around. “Let’s go grab you something to eat.” He nudged me toward a little bar-and-grill across from our gate. “You ain’t ate since we left Azalea. I’m not dealing with you hangry and panicking.”
“I’m not panicking,” I lied, tripping a little over my own suitcase wheel.
“You sweating yo’ edges through your bonnet. That’s panic, book girl.” He huffed out a laugh.
“What if they start boarding early?”
“I’m sure we can hear them from over there, Harlowe. Plus, I got the app, and I’m watching it.” He held up his phone. “Now, you want fries or mac with yo’ tenders?”
“Fries.”
“There she goes,” he said under his breath. “Never no stress that a chicken tender and fry can’t solve.”
I rolled my eyes as we made our way over to the restaurant and took a seat.
I didn’t know how he’d done it, but my shoulders were beginning to relax.
Hasheem always knew what to do to get me to calm down.
It was our thing. He was always the calm to my crazy, always putting out my fires.
He’d been my fireman long before he’d ever become one.
“Aye, my man.” Hasheem got the host’s attention.
Five minutes later, we were at a table near the windows where we could watch the planes take off.
I dropped into my chair and exhaled so hard my soul left my body for a second.
My phone buzzed on the table, lighting up with a banner from the group message I had with my parents.
I was sure they were just checking in. I glanced at the message.
Mom:
You make it to your layover?
Send me a picture of your gate. I wanna see where my baby at.
My mom had been worrying herself to death ever since I told her I was traveling to Africa. Only child problems. When I told her last night that Hasheem was coming with me, it calmed her a little.
Me:
I’m good. We made it. About to grab food with Hashy. I’ll text when we board.
Dad:
Text us the name of the airline again.
And the time you land so your mom knows what time to worry.
Me:
I’ve already texted y’all all the information last night.
Mom:
Well, send check point photos.
Me:
Mom!
Mom:
What?
Me:
My food is here. Text y’all when I land in Zanzibar.
Love y’all. Bye.
I locked my phone before they could send anything else and set it face down. Hasheem ordered for both of us, tenders and fries for me and a burger for him. I dug into my tote bag while he talked to the server and pulled out a manila folder.
“What is that?”
“Since you volunteered as tribute, it’s your packet.” It was a ten-page, full-color, fake boyfriend briefing packet I’d made for Kylil back when I thought he was coming with me. I slid it across the table.
He looked down at it, then up at me. “My what?”
“Your script. Your handbook. Your orientation materials. Pick whichever word fits for you. Either way, you need to read it before we get there.”
He flipped the cover open.
“Duality Experience: Couples Escape Zanzibar—Brand Brief for Kylil—” He stopped and cut his eyes at me. “Damn. You didn’t even change the name.”
“Give it,” I said, reaching, but he angled it away, smirking.
“Nah. I wanna see what dude was signing up for.” He licked his thumb and turned the first page just to be annoying.
“Facts about Harlowe.” He read it in a fake announcer’s voice. “Favorite foods… tacos, fries, chicken tenders, anything smothered in cheese. Love languages… quality time, physical touch, and feeding me on schedule. It’s accurate.” He smirked and kept going.
“Biggest icks: men who don’t really read, men who don’t wash their legs, men who lie, men who only own two pairs of pants, and anybody who thinks Black romance is stupid.” He lowered the packet and raised one eyebrow. “So basically, every nigga you’ve ever dated.”
“I hate you.” I flipped him off, but I was already laughing.
He tapped the paper. “This is really cute. I don’t need it though.” He attempted to slide it back across the table, but I blocked him.
“What do you mean, you don’t need it?”
“I know you, Harlowe. I’m pretty sure it ain’t shit in here I don’t know about you.”
“Well, there’s some stuff in there I fabricated for the brand.” I turned to page four.
“Like what?” He cut his eyes low and scanned the page.
“Our origin story.” He read the first line and frowned. “We met at a poetry night in a little hole in the wall café downtown, when he slid me a note instead of shooting his shot out loud.” He looked up, his face twisted. “Poetry night, Lowe? Nah.”
“What?” I said. “It sounds romantic. Like something out of a book.”
“You don’t even like poetry.”
“That’s beside the point,” I admitted. “This story eats.”
He leaned back in his chair, giving me that look that said he was about to say something I wasn’t gonna like.
“So, we can’t just tell them we met freshman year of high school?”
“Absolutely not.” I shot that down immediately. “I’m not trying to tell Duality that I used to date your brother.”
“We ain’t gotta tell them all that.” His mouth twitched. “Our origin story is solid though. High school best friends. We can omit the other shit.”
I rolled my eyes at him, but I remembered that summer like it was yesterday. If I thought really hard, I could still feel the fabric on that Aeropostale shirt I had owned.
“Your big brother stopping me by the buses and telling me I was ‘too pretty to be walking alone’ before asking for my number to give to you is anything but solid,” I said.
“You gave it to him.”
“I thought it was kind of cute. I was thirteen.” I defended my decision the same way I’d always had. At thirteen, any attention felt like a blessing. It had taken me years to figure out that the loudest ones in the room were often the worst choice.
“It was a good decision that little brother turned out to be me.”
“Uh huh. You were so sweet and quiet.”
“And breathing too hard. I didn’t know what to say to a girl on the phone back then.” Hasheem shook his head just as the waiter set our food down on the table. The conversation between us that day was so bad. Neither of us knew what to say.