3. Harlow
Chapter 3
Harlow
T he date has been set; it might only seem like a dinner, but it won’t end there. The idea of my parents being satisfied with just one dinner is ridiculous. If they have the notion that this match is a good one, then they will do everything they can to make sure Heath and I spend enough time together to make the damn thing happen.
I’m waiting outside a wine and art pop-up that my best friend, Meg, invited me to. She always finds the best things for us to do. I like these intimate, artsy events. It’s where I find little pieces for my home. Supporting local artists is one of my favorite things to do.
A few years back, Meg found this underground Alcohol and Oddities show. That’s where I started my moth taxidermy collection. Such unusual, beautiful creatures. Ethically harvested, they say.
Although Meg finds all these great ventures for us, she isn’t into the oddities like I am. We like to think of ourselves as the typical opposites-attract-bestie duo. Where I am black, she is pink. Where I lack glimmer, she has it tenfold. I have black hair, she’s blonde. I love gory movies, and she loves romance. I keep her real, and she keeps me optimistic.
Today is rather gloomy with overcast skies. I’m sporting long black leggings with a mauve, slanted, sleeveless tunic-style top. It hangs loosely around my body, and a black corduroy tote hangs over my left shoulder, only holding my phone and wallet. The rest of the space in the bag is left open for possible purchases. On my feet are my classic black leather English riding boots. I haven’t ridden a horse in a long time, but these boots are broken in and stylish.
I see Meg walking up the sidewalk, and it’s like the sun peeks through the clouds just for her. Her blonde hair is pulled up into an artful bun with a handful of curly tendrils around her face. Her lashes are painted, making her blue eyes pop, and the red lipstick on her lips looks absolutely divine. She is walking art. Her dress is a navy piece with a tiny floral pattern in white, and her shapely legs peek through the bottom.
When she comes up to my side, she looks up.
“Why do you insist on wearing heels when we’re together?” She pouts.
Meg stands at five foot two without her shoes, and with her flats today, she’s maybe five-three. So, with me being eight inches taller than her, I’m almost a foot today. Her height doesn’t mean she falls short; what I lack in curves she has an abundance. Full breasts, wide hips, and a soft, yet appealing, abdomen. She carries herself with a grace that anyone would fawn over.
“These are barely heels,” I remark. “I’m not going to stop wearing the shoes I like for anyone, even if you are my favorite.”
She smiles at my comment and loops her arm through mine .
“You didn’t have to wait outside for me.”
“I didn’t mind, it’s lovely out.”
“So, when is doomsday?” she asks as we walk through the doors.
The space is small and dim but has great lighting on each piece of art along the walls. It’s an open gallery, save for a few partitions with clip-on art lamps and pieces displayed. In the corner is a table with an array of lamps around it, drawing attention. Wine bottles are artfully displayed, and a small crowd gathers there.
“About two weeks.” I gesture to the wine table.
We walk in unison as if in a three-legged race to grab our glasses—mine red, hers white.
We walk slowly around the room, and nothing catches our eyes, but we have a lot to say about each piece. Since we were young, we liked to add our commentary on life. We’d even mute the TV to add our own dialogue.
“Have you cyberstalked him?” I ask as we sit on a bench in the middle of the space.
“What kind of best friend would I be if I didn’t?”
“And?”
“Have you?” She raises a brow.
“I googled once, and then I felt guilty and stopped.” I had typed his name in the bar and there was a wealth of information at my fingertips. I could have so easily dug into the life they represented for him. That wouldn’t be fair, though; I don’t have a Google page. I’m not one of the city’s most eligible bachelorettes.
“Guilty? For wanting to know a little something about your proposed fiancé?”
“He’s not my fiancé.”
“We’ll see how this dinner goes.” She states it so officially.
“So, you think I’ll actually like this guy?” I am suddenly so thankful for Meg and her ability to lack a conscience when it comes to digging into people’s lives.
“I think your parents are good at getting what they want.”
I purse my lips in response. She knows I want details on this guy, but she’s making me wait.
“He’s handsome as far as men go, nothing to write home about. A typical city businessman, but I know there is something that will bother you when it comes to his physical appearance.” She’s goading me.
“What?”
“You’re taller than him,” she offers.
“That’s hardly an issue, I don’t care too much about height. What are we talking, four to six inches?”
“No no, only one, but he seems the type that wouldn’t want you to wear heels when you make appearances.”
I blanch and repeat. “I won’t change the way I dress for anyone.”
“He’s also rather preppy. Lots of polos on his days off, tucked into slacks with a belt.”
I throw my head back and groan. Preppy is not my style. I don’t mind a styled man; button-ups over polos any day. I don’t even care if it’s hot out, a short-sleeved button-up over a polo.
“Color palette?” I dare ask.
“I would call it muted Easter.”
I fake a sob. “Why me? Hobbies?”
I’m not even making conversation anymore, just taking any information I can get.
“The only one listed was golf. Otherwise, nothing came up.”
It’s my parents’ dream come true. My father dreams of golf outings with a son, and my mother wishes for more color in my life.
“Shoe size?” I raise a brow to her in question.
“Not a bulge in sight on IG,” Meg replies. I swear to God, if this man is preppy, all business, and has a small dick, I’m moving out of the state. I’ll find another firm to work for. “He could be a grower and not a shower. Don’t be so shallow.”
“History of girlfriends?”
“One wife, married for four years, no children, seems amicable. They are still in the same circle since she married his cousin.” I drop my chin and look her dead in the eyes before taking a long drink of my wine.
“You’re awfully theatrical this evening. Keep it up, you might gather a crowd.”
“Let’s talk about what we think I should do. I’m not getting any younger, but the idea of a contractual marriage sounds so . . . so sad.”
“How do you think Heidi would feel hearing you say that?” She stands to leave and waits for me to join her.
“Heidi is different, and you know it. She’s a romantic; she’ll find romance in anything, probably even death.” We climb into our Lyft and head to dinner, which I am suddenly dying to have. I often don’t realize how hungry I am until food is on the horizon.
“Okay, so the options are you go through with it, or you don’t, and your family . . .” She lets me fill in the gap.
“Makes me feel horrible until I do.” I sigh. “My sisters want this for me, too.”
“Even Helen?”
“Yes and no. I know she wants me to have someone too, but she used the dinner as leverage to get Lydia into the house. ”
“Damn, your dad really wants this to happen.”
My father, who has been too prideful to back down on the whole Helen/Lydia thing, quickly shifted gears and let it all slide for me to meet and consider the man of his choice.
I haven’t had terrible taste in men. Most of them were older and in the arts—writers, musicians, fine artists, professors. I’ve never dated a businessman before; I’ve always been worried they’d think I’m too eccentric or odd.
I struggled with self-worth for most of my early twenties due to growing up so fast, but that ship has sailed, and I am comfortable in my own skin now. The last thing I want is a husband who says things like, “Black again? A moth on the wall? This film is gross.” These are all things my family has said. I don’t need any additional input to aid them.
“So, I’m obviously going to this dinner, but the idea of future dates has me feeling sick. I can’t even work.” Which is hard to believe. I love being an editor, so much so that when I was offered the editor-in-chief position in the department, I declined because I wanted to keep editing, not manage others doing it.
“How about a trip? You could tell your dad you want to have a girls’ trip before you devote yourself to this huge family commitment. We could go to Bali or something.”
A trip?
The car stops in front of the restaurant, and we amble out and into the building. It smells like heaven. The chatter is constant, and the music is low. A hostess greets us with a smile and asks for our reservation name. We only wait for a moment before she brings us to our table. Meg and I don’t share any further pleasantries as we focus on our meal choices. It’s been our system since high school. Food first, chat later.
Our server takes our orders before grabbing our menus and taking her leave. The table setting has an oil lamp between us and a single pink carnation in a small jar. Oil, salt, pepper, red pepper flakes, and parmesan sit next to the trinkets.
Fiddling with the carnation, I look up at Meg as she pours oil and parmesan onto the small dish in front of her.
“What if I went on a girls’ trip alone?” I ask, waiting to see if she’s hurt.
She doesn’t flinch. Instead, a smile plays on her lips. “If you need me to take Cleo, I will.” This girl is my lifeline. No guilt, no shame, just support.
“Where will you go?” she asks just as the server brings us our drinks and a bowl of warm bread. Meg wastes no time before taking out a piece and dipping it in the oil on her plate.
“I will tell my parents we’re doing something like Bali, or an island, but I’m considering something like Salem, Portland, or somewhere in Colorado.”
She nods excitedly with her hand over her mouth as she swallows. “Great fall vibes.”
“Exactly. I want to sit and get through all the manuscripts I have and lay out my next quarter. Doing that somewhere with overcast skies, tall trees, and a fat cup of coffee or tea sounds great.”
“It sounds like you.”
We sit and talk through our meal, and I continue to ponder if I should go where I know I’ll be comfortable or if I should step outside my comfort zone. Is there a halfway point? Secluded yet not so dreary? I know once I get home, I’ll start researching right away.
Me: I’m thinking of taking a girls’ trip. Don’t worry, I’m not backing out of dinner. I’ll still see you guys then but after that.
Father: Where to?
Me: Possibly St. Thomas. Meg and I think it would be good for me to wrap up all my editing and relax if things with Heath really do take off. Not that I’m promising anything.
Father: How long?
Me: I don’t know, but I’ll be back before the holidays.
Father: That seems like an awfully long time to be in St. Thomas.
Me: It won’t be. I’ll even exchange information with Heath before I leave.
I know I’m leading my dad to believe I’m going to give this thing a real go, but maybe I am. I can imagine how disappointed they would all be if I didn’t go through with it. It’s not the end of the world; it’s not like I was waiting for a big love story, just that right person at the right time.
Father: I’ll tell your mother. She’ll be delighted.
And just like that, I’ll be on my way to a secluded somewhere to let myself be me one last time before my parents sell me off like a prize pig.