Chapter 1
HARLOW
“Roe, if you don’t get your cute butt out of bed, I’m going to have to do it for you,” I yell down the narrow hall, knowing my six-year-old daughter has heard every single one of my pleas repeatedly, but chooses to ignore them.
For Monroe, sleep is her favorite thing in the world and she’s only six. I don’t know what I’ll do when she’s a teenager.
Spotting the missing pink and purple Skecher tennis shoe halfway under the couch, I scoop it up and then I’m plowing back into her room, setting the shoe beside its mate.
“Up, up, up. Get up,” I chant, opening her closet door to pull out an outfit.
Since she’s not out of bed yet she’s lost the privilege of choosing her own outfit for the day.
“Mom,” she complains in a way too adult voice. “Five more minutes.”
“You said that five minutes ago, Roe. Now get up. You have to brush your teeth and hair, get dressed, and eat breakfast.” I’m exhausted and it’s not even eight in the morning yet, but that’s what you get when you have a kid.
“Your dad is coming all the way here to pick you up, the least you can do is be ready.”
“Daddy’s coming to get me?” She sits straight up in bed, her sandy—not quite brown, not quite blonde—hair sticking up wildly. I’m surprised a couple of birds haven’t set up nest there. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I roll my eyes, throwing my hands in the air in exasperation. I carried the child for nine months, cooking her chunky butt, only to birth her and her dad be her favorite person. It figures. Not that I begrudge that. Her dad really is great with her.
She hops out of bed, running across the hall to the bathroom.
The toilet flushes a minute later, and I yell, “Wash your hands!”
In the kitchen, I pull out everything I need for her scrambled eggs and toast. Since I’ve been fighting to get her to wake up and get ready I have yet to change out of my pajamas, shower, or even brush my own teeth.
I didn’t have to go into work until ten, but after a call this morning I’m now supposed to be there in an hour.
“Brush your teeth,” I remind her when I spot the blur of her form running back to her bedroom.
“I did!”
“You and I both know you didn’t. Back in there, young lady.”
Monroe groans dramatically but crosses back into the bathroom. She’s a spitfire, and I love that about her, but some days it’s exhausting.
Before I can get the eggs on the stove there’s a knock on the door and my body tenses automatically.
Even though we’ve been co-parenting for the biggest part of our daughter’s life, I still feel a bit awkward being around him.
Putting the fork in my hand down I walk the three feet to the apartment door and open it for him.
“Spencer,” I greet. “Good morning.”
His blue eyes are bright, not a trace of dark circles or any hint of a bad night’s sleep. Unlike me. He’s probably been up for hours already, working out and doing whatever the hell else it is he does. Look in the mirror and tell himself how gorgeous he is, probably.
“Morning, Harlow.” He holds out an iced coffee. “You look like you could use this.”
“Thank you.” I take it from him gratefully. “Your daughter is being a terror this morning.”
“My daughter.” He cracks a tiny grin. “Funny, I’m pretty sure she gets that part of her personality from her mother.”
I roll my eyes and playfully slap his side.
Spencer and I get along well, and have what I would consider a friendship, but there’s always been this undercurrent of something else that makes me feel tense.
Not in a bad way, Spencer is a genuinely good guy so it’s not like I’m uncomfortable, but there’s this edge to our relationship that I feel like I have to tip-toe around.
I’ve often wondered if he feels it too, but I haven’t wanted to ask.
“How was your drive?” Small talk is the best route this morning as I resume Monroe’s breakfast.
“Nice. I listened to an audiobook.” He stands with his hands in his designer jeans, looking around my apartment like he’s never been here before.
Which he has, often. The scruff on his jaw is thicker than normal and he reaches up, scratching it.
“Why do you live here, Harlow? I could get you a better place.”
I stiffen, moving the eggs around the skillet with a spatula.
This isn’t the first time he’s said this, and each time it grates on my nerves.
I know he doesn’t mean it to be condescending, and is oblivious to how this comment makes me feel—like he thinks I can’t provide for our daughter—but that doesn’t make it okay to continuously say to me.
The two-bedroom apartment with a loft is a few blocks from the beach in Santa Monica.
Yeah, it could use some TLC but it’s not a dump and I think I’ve made it into a home.
But I guess compared to Spencer’s palatial beach house in Malibu this is nothing.
“I like it here,” I bite out, transferring the eggs to a plate. “And I don’t need, nor do I want, your help buying me a place. I’m a big girl, Spence.”
He winces. Normally nicknames are a sign of playfulness, but we both know I only call him Spence when he’s grating on my nerves.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” I keep my back to him, buttering the toast. “But you have to stop it. Take this to Roe.” I thrust the plate at him.
Honestly, I’m surprised she hasn’t barreled out here already to greet him.
He looks down at the plate with a tiny smile. “Eggs, huh?”
“Monroe likes them,” I whisper, trying to fight the memories threatening to pull me back in time.
Of course, he knows our daughter likes eggs, but he also knows I hate cooking them.
They’re so slimy and it makes me gag every time I have to crack an egg.
I can eat them just fine, it’s just the actual raw egg that gives me the ick.
He takes the plate from me now, strolling down the hall to her room. A moment later he says, “Um, Harlow?”
I curse under my breath. I don’t like the hesitant tone in his voice.
I trudge down the hall, poking my head in her bedroom.
“Monroe.” I cover my face in my hands. “What did you do?” She needs to be walking out the door in less than ten minutes to get to school on time and she’s wearing makeup.
Red lipstick lines her lips, outside the lines, and mascara streaks her eyes.
I feel my heartrate pick up because I don’t have time for this.
“I wanted to wear makeup,” she reasons logically.
I exhale a breath, and Spencer must sense my rising panic, because he says, “Don’t worry. I’ll clean her up and get out of here on time. You just … do whatever you need to do.”
“Thank you,” I mouth.
I lock myself in my bathroom and take the world’s quickest shower, pulling on my uniform for Cool Beans—the coffee shop I work at that’s owned by my sister’s fiancé’s family—in record time so I can kiss Monroe goodbye before she leaves.
Standing in the doorway, I watch her and her dad for a moment, her small hand grasped in his as she talks his ear off about some YouTube video she watched of a kid unboxing a Barbie doll. I’ll never understand why she’d rather watch another child open toys than play with her own.
Spencer looks back at me with a smile and I wave before closing and locking the door behind them.
Quickly, I put on a light layer of makeup, spray some perfume onto my body, and scarf down a dry granola bar.
Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder, swiping my keys from the narrow table beside the door. With one last look at myself in the mirror hanging above the table, I wipe a streak of mascara from beneath my eye and then I’m out the door.
Jogging down the many stairs of the apartment building I finally make it to the parking lot where my old red Nissan Altima I named Cherry waits for me. I always thought it was dumb, people naming their cars, but for some reason I started calling her Cherry and it stuck.
Like my apartment, Spencer occasionally reminds me he could buy me a brand-new car, all I have to do is say the word.
Unlike him, I’m fine with my car. It’s reliable, and while it may be getting up there in years, it runs fine. He can enjoy his gas guzzling Range Rover and whatever sports car he’s no doubt got parked in his garage.
Sometimes it’s crazy to think that Spencer and I were a couple, a young one, sure, but actual boyfriend and girlfriend. Our lives have taken us in such different directions since those days.
I’m living what I guess is a normal life, with a simple job, and taking college classes online.
But Spencer?
He’s quickly become Hollywood royalty. Practically overnight, too.
One minute we were a young couple, struggling with becoming parents at an age that made things extremely difficult, and the next thing I knew he was scouted by a modeling agent. Shortly after, he was taking acting classes and signing with a manager.
It felt like I blinked, and he went from my Spencer to one who belonged to the world.
I exhale a breath as I roll down my window, letting my blond hair blow in the breeze.
I don’t even know why I’m dwelling on things this morning. It’s in the past.
Our lives went in directions neither of us ever expected, but things happen for a reason, and while I might struggle in some ways, I am happy. It took me a while to get to this point, but I think I’ve come out stronger for it.
Pulling into the lot for Cool Beans with five minutes to spare I park next to my friend Poppy’s vehicle.
Clocking in, I put my bag in the locker they have for each employee in the breakroom and grab my apron. I’m tying it around my waist when Poppy breezes into the room.
Her fire engine red hair, bright orange on the tips, is up in Pippy Longstocking type pigtail braids. Hot pink eyeshadow with blue and purple mixed in is smoked around her eyes and her lips are covered in a blue lipstick similar to the shade blended in her eyeshadow.