Four #2
“Ouch.” London looked away.
“Well—you do.”
“I just want to get this done so I can sell the inn.”
“Okay, but—”
“I’m done, Laurie. This is only about moving on.”
# # #
In the darkness of the hotel room, an inadequate wall heater sputtered, and Laurie’s voice wouldn’t quiet. As London rolled onto her back and stared at the ‘70s era popcorn ceiling, she heard the words again.
You still love her.
And then, it came. Fast and unrelenting, flashes of light. Of heat. The beginning, with its hope and hunger.
It had been sweltering on the soundstage.
Not the kind of heat Seattleites yearn for during The Big Dark.
The kind that clung. The kind that made you sweat through your shirt standing still.
Harper had a carpenter’s pencil tucked into the Lakers’ ballcap covering her ponytail and a tape measure in hand, one boot braced against a half-built wall that wasn’t meant to support anything at all.
It was the tank top London noticed. Or rather, the muscular arms of the wearer of the tank top.
“Hey,” Harper said, a slight nod following.
“Hey.” London tried not to stare and turned to hand a latte to the D-list celebrity she worked for. She tripped over a cord and spilled the latte all over the show’s lead actor instead. Harper smirked in the background.
Flash.
Nighttime. Months later. They were sitting on pavement in front of a fake house made to look like it backed to a bay. A long golfcart with a tour guide drove by. “And this is where they film Juniper’s Harbor,” the guide announced. Cameras flashed. “Ohs,” and “Ahs,” emanated.
“I envy their joy,” London said. “They think this is magic.”
“It’s so not.” Harper stood, dusting her hands on the back of her work pants.
London pushed herself up. “You’re ruining it for them.”
“I’m not.” Harper stepped closer. “You are.”
The golf cart disappeared around the corner, its fabricated magic disappearing onto the next fake streetscape on the lot.
Harper held her gaze, the streetlamp overhead casting little moons into her dark eyes.
London felt it in her chest first. The thumping. The speed.
“Lon—”
That was it. The space between them thinned until it didn’t exist.
Harper's fingers—warm, calloused—slid along her forearm and found the small of her back. A jolt of electricity hit. They were close enough to feel each other’s breath. Close enough for Harper to trace the scar above London’s eyebrow. Close enough to be dangerous.
When their lips met, bliss. Soft met soft. Harper tasted like wintergreen gum and smelled like sawdust. The current that raced through London’s body was immediate and merciless.
Not a spark.
A live wire.
The terrifying part wasn’t the heat.
It was the recognition.
She’d been seen.
Flash.
Santa Monica beach. Sunset. Waves lapping against the shore, gulls squawking overhead. Harper’s arm around her shoulders, a chill in the air.
Kissing a little. Mostly just being together, the serenity of the ocean enveloping them.
Harper tugged on London’s shoulders. “I love you.”
The first time she’d said it. Her voice quivered, but her arms were strong.
“I love you,” London had echoed. And after a beat, tested the waters. “Hey. I’ve been thinking a lot about going home. L.A. is so fake. Let’s leave this fake place and go build something real.”
“You know I’m a California girl,” Harper said, tracing a line in the sand with her big toe. “But I’m tired of building fake houses for fake people to act out fake stories. I’ll consider it—if—you promise we can always come back. I need an emergency exit seat.”
London had agreed. They’d give it a year. If it didn’t work—if Harper hated Leavenworth—they’d go back to California.
Flash.
The moving van. Driving past the Hollywood sign on the way out of town.
Harper in the shotgun seat trying to figure out how to connect an iPod to a clunky old-school radio.
The musty smell they tried to mask with too much Febreze.
I-5, the flood of traffic and horns and stop and go.
Singing Brandi Carlile songs at the top of their lungs as they crossed the Oregon state line into Washington, the Columbia River signaling she was going home.
Harper smiled through it all, though London knew she was scared. She never showed it.
Flash.
Hiking to Colchuck Lake and pointing out all the things she knew about the Enchantments.
Desperately wanting Harper to see what she saw—the alpine lake, its aquamarine blue impossible to understand.
The mountains so jagged and impressive, they could be in Switzerland.
The deepest green of the trees and the incomprehensibility of how all this beauty was created.
Throwing a blanket down when they’d reached the summit and pulling two cold beers out of her backpack, wrapped in extra icepacks.
Pulling a modest silver band from her pocket.
Finding a knee. Almost falling from that knee.
Laughing like maniacs because they both knew what was happening.
The question. The answer.
The kiss.
Flash.
The heater sputtered and then cut off. Around her, the sheets were already getting colder.
London opened her eyes and remembered where she was.
The storm. The hotel. Alone. She glanced at her phone and flipped it face down on the worn nightstand.
London closed her eyes and let the dark come again, its weight pressing on her just enough to feel like company.