Three – Harrison
THREE
HARRISON
Three weeks later
“ A re you freakin’ serious?”
The latest girlfriend I’m breaking up with practically screams it across the café. “He’s too much of a coward to end this relationship himself?”
I stay quiet as the room goes still.
There’s no use telling her that her boyfriend has been trying to break up with her for months—but he didn’t want to risk a public meltdown like this one.
“Oh, so now you’ve got nothing to say?” She stands up, knocking her chair back. “Now you’re a mute?”
People start pulling out their phones and recording.
“I just need you to sign this contract,” I say calmly, sliding my typical paper forward. “Your boyfriend wants you to find someone who deserves you.”
“I deserve him !”
“Well, he doesn’t want you anymore.” I don’t flinch. “Don’t waste your time trying to keep a bird captive while he’s trying to fly free.”
“Thank you, Shakespeare.” She scoffs. “I bet you have an entire catalog of bullshit quotes to roll out when you’re doing things like this. Don’t you?”
“I wouldn’t call it a catalog ,” I say. “It’s more like a carefully curated PDF file. Would you like me to send you a copy?”
She stares at me like she’s deciding whether to murder me, then snatches the contract and looks over the terms.
Inhaling and exhaling deeply, she grabs my pen and signs the paper. Then she shakes her head in frustration.
“You literally have the most despicable and disgusting job on the planet,” she hisses. “Who is your manager?”
“I work for myself.”
“Even worse. In that case, how the hell do you sleep at night?”
“Sometimes I have to use a white noise app, but most times, I go to sleep just fine.”
She blinks.
“Are you waiting for me to give you the name of the app?”
“I hope you get pushed off a roof one day. Soon .” She hurls the contract at my face and storms out of the café.
Thank God she was the last one this week.
I flag the waiter and lean back, ignoring the judgmental stares. At this point in my career, whispers and side-eyes don’t faze me.
This is an upgrade from my old stock-in-trade days on Wall Street, and I wouldn’t return to that for the world.
As I snap a picture of the signed contract, my phone buzzes with a call.
“This is Harrison Jones,” I say. “Why are you calling, and what do you need?”
“Hey, Harrison.” A deep Southern drawl fills my ear. “How are you these days?”
“Jackson? Jackson Hart?” I double-check the screen. “Where the hell have you been?”
“Doing real work. Something you still probably know nothing about.”
“I’d say I missed talking to you, but my life was better before this phone call.”
“I don’t miss you either.”
We both laugh.
“Please tell me you’re finally coming to New York,” I say, “so I can show you everything you’ve been missing.”
“Actually... the opposite. I need you to come here. To Eads River, Tennessee.”
Tennessee? “What the hell for?”
“It’s about that favor you owe me. From way back, remember?”
I could never forget…
That favor is the reason I have a career at all. The reason I’m not still flipping through job listings on LinkedIn.
“We can’t do this over the phone?” I ask. “Just spit it out and I’ll help in any way.”
“I could do that, but I don’t want to give you a chance to say no.”
I arch a brow. “How serious is this?”
“My family’s entire livelihood is on the line.”
“Say less.” I glance at my watch. “In that case, I’ll fly out tonight.”
“You will?”
“I’m taking my first summer vacation in years, so I’m free for six weeks.” I pause. “If it’s that urgent, give me the details now.”
“Well, alright then… Closest airports are Memphis and Nashville. I can cover the ticket.”
“I’ve got it.” I hold back from telling him I’d rather charter a jet. “I’ll text you my arrival info once it’s confirmed.”
“Thanks, Harrison.”
“Always.”
I pull up my preferred charter app, type in Eads River, Tennessee … and blink.
The town doesn’t allow air travel, and there’s an actual note about it:
We are never, EVER building an airstrip in our beautiful small town.
If your lazy ass can’t drive from another airport to get here, you don’t belong here.
If you try to start a petition about building a place for planes here, the sheriff will shoot you down.
Figuratively and LITERALLY.
We like our skies like we like our town: peaceful, quiet, simple.
Don’t like it? Don’t come.
I consider taking that last line as a sign to tell Jackson to fly to me instead.
But I owe him too much.
Nashville it is.