43. Someone
43
SOMEONE
Harlow
There is no Sunday getaway after all.
Bridger’s colleague Mia is in town. She flew in from LA already and she wants to have a working breakfast meeting before they travel to Paris to deal with Afternoon Delight . Their flight is this afternoon. My father and Isla are taking the same one. I don’t even want to think about what the sleeping arrangements will be like in the city of light.
In the early morning in Bridger’s apartment in Gramercy Park—my boyfriend’s apartment?—I get dressed as sun streams through his bedroom windows. The sun feels like a lie though. We can’t go out in it, not really, not fully.
I keep a change of clothes here but as I pull on a summer dress and then loop my hair into a messy bun, I feel seedy. Like I’m preparing to escape before the city stretches its arms and wakes up. Is this what my father’s lovers felt like all those times they left early in the morning?
Like a secret?
But of course it’s not the leaving early that’s the problem—Bridger has a breakfast meeting. I do understand that.
It’s that we only exist behind closed doors.
With my phone and lip gloss in hand, I go to leave. Bridger’s right behind me, walking me to the door where his carry-on waits, packed and ready.
Perhaps sensing my mood, he reaches for my hand. “I’m really sorry about last night,” he says.
That nearly knocks me from my funk. With that gesture, my heart turns a little squishy. We did try last night. Sure, we failed, but at least we tried.
We haven’t talked much about what happened at the theater. Or about how to regroup. I think we both feel foolish for thinking we could subtly market our romance to my dad.
“It’s not your fault,” I say gently. I don’t want him to worry about me or us when he’s in Paris. “Don’t think twice about it.”
“We’ll figure it out, Harlow,” he says, a touch of desperation in his voice. “I promise. We’ll come up with a real plan. I land…” He stops to do the time-zone math, “…late tonight our time, but tomorrow morning Paris time. And we can?—”
I shut him up with a quick kiss. “Bridger, you have a show to deal with. The time zones and work and everything will be hard.” I thread my fingers through his. “We’ll deal with it when you return. You don’t need to worry about this or me.”
Narrowing his eyes, he growls at me, clearly disliking my assessment, but perhaps knowing I’m right. He holds my face. “I like worrying about you, Harlow. You’re worth worrying about.”
I smile faintly. “Worry about work. We won’t figure this out in Paris anyway. It’s going to be hard,” I add heavily. Then I admit the truth of last night. “It was silly to think it would be easy.”
His expression turns serious. “I know. As soon as I return, we’ll figure out how to tell him. No testing the waters. No subliminal messaging. Just the truth. No matter how hard it is,” he says, strong and certain, but underneath his tough exterior, his no-nonsense tone, I hear fear and uncertainty.
Understandable.
“Of course.”
He gives me a quick kiss, like he’s stealing it. Like we’re not going to see each other again. “When I get back, then? Maybe even before the gala. That day?”
“Sure,” I say, wanting to speed up time to Friday. Till we can roll up our sleeves and figure this out.
“I’ve been thinking too about what’s next?—”
He’s interrupted by his phone barking. After he grabs it from his pocket, his blue eyes light up. Like the caller is a Christmas gift. I glance down at the screen. David Fontaine flashes across it. It might as well be a billboard.
“Take it, take it!” I urge, excited for him.
Immediately, he answers. “Hey there, David. Can you hold on just one second? I have to say goodbye to someone.”
I wince inside. I’m only someone . I get this. I know why. But I want to be Harlow. I want to be his girlfriend. I want to be the one he declares in public.
Be patient. This was never supposed to be easy.
After he mutes the phone, he leans in, kisses my cheek. “I love you,” he tells me, and love whooshes down my body all the way to my toes.
Why then do I feel so unsteady? Just because I want this kiss on the street? At a restaurant? In the park? In a museum? Outside? Here, there, everywhere?
Settle down. Settle all the way down.
“I love you,” I say. “I’ll see you Friday at the gala.”
“I can’t wait.”
But we have to.
Now isn’t the time to make a blueprint for telling my dad we’re together. For what we’ll say. How we will say it. Besides, I finally realize that Bridger always faced the bigger obstacle.
I’d thought I did. For the longest time, I’d thought my obstacle was huge. Bridger was my obstacle.
Now I’m here with him, and he was worth the chase. This love was worth the pursuit.
I still don’t have any idea how my father will handle the news that I’m in love with him. But if I could withstand losing my mother, I could handle losing him.
Though I think, in my heart, I know my father won’t disown me.
It’s not in his nature.
My heart aches for the man I’m in love with. There’s no way he can escape without major collateral damage.
But now’s not the time to warn him. I wave goodbye since he needs to focus on his phone call.
Later, he texts me that he’s at the airport, the call was promising, and that he’ll miss me. But it feels strange writing back knowing that he’s with my dad, Isla, and Mia, boarding a flight, so I send a quick Miss you too, and leave it at that.
Everything feels weird and uncomfortable as I straighten up my apartment. Like there’s a cut in my mouth and my tongue keeps working away at it.
That feeling chases me all day—when I ride my bike along the path, soaking up the summer rays, when I go to The Frick alone later that afternoon, trying to get lost in the art, but failing. My mind is getting lost, instead, in the details of Friday, the gala, the what’s next and all the what-ifs and how-tos .
I try to shuck off this funk, but the weirdness dogs me when I head to meet Layla and Ethan for dinner in the West Village.
I do my damnedest to ignore the feeling, peppering Ethan with questions about his bandmates—including the new drummer who, in Ethan’s words, has serious rhythm. Then, I zoom in on Layla, catching up on her job and listening as she talks about office politics and the woefully out-of-touch dudes in the skyscraper where she works. Then she casually drops a mention of her sexy new silver-fox boss. “I just want to run my hands through his hair. And I might have to blackball my libido from going to the office with me.”
“Silver foxes have always been your downfall,” Ethan says.
“I’m getting that as a tattoo,” she replies.
Somewhere between the kale salad they teased me for ordering and the polenta that’s coming next, Layla clears her throat dramatically. Stares at me importantly. “Did you think we wouldn’t notice?”
I arch a brow curiously. “Notice what?”
Ethan sniffs, lifting his nose in the air. “The smell of sadness. It’s wafting off you.” He waggles his hands near me, like he’s inhaling the scent.
Dammit. I wanted to focus on them tonight, but I guess I’ve done a terrible job.
“’Fess up,” Layla says, wriggling her fingers like she’s telling me to serve it up.
I draw a fortifying breath, then tell them everything. Last night at the theater, the night before, the words we’ve said to each other.
They know we’ve been seeing each other. But now they know we’ve said the L-word
And the P-word, too, for let’s make plans .
They both ooh and ahh.
“And now we need to tell my dad,” I say, the weight of that sinking into me.
Layla’s smile disappears. Ethan sighs heavily.
“You’re really in love,” Layla says, kind of amazed.
“I seriously can’t believe you went from seducing him to falling in love with him,” Ethan adds.
I drop my head in my hand and groan, like that’ll help me find the answer to how to have it all. But I’m laughing too. “I kind of can’t either,” I admit softly.
Early on, I was driven by attraction, ambition, and conquest. Then, over time, those crumbled away, replaced by something deeper—this great love.
I lift my face, shrugging helplessly. “I don’t know what happens next. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.”
Layla inhales deeply. Lifts her glass of water and takes a drink. When she sets it down, she says, “There’s no magic bullet. Sometimes we just have to get through the hard things. We can’t game them. We can’t even always plan for them. You just have to march into it and say the hard thing.”
She knows these difficult truths as well as anyone.
I suppose in some ways I do too.
Maybe I’ve been preparing for them for the last several years.
My stomach dips, but I try to ignore the fear. Anything worth having is worth fighting for.
I’m pretty sure I’m going to have to fight for my happy ending.