CHAPTER 4
Harper
Abby’s halfway through raiding my refrigerator when she asks, “What’s with the lack of snacks? When was your last supermarket run?”
Beau stands beside her, head pushed halfway in to sniff the meager contents while his tail wags furiously.
I’m leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “You don’t have to judge my groceries,” I say, unwilling to tell her that given my recent job loss, I really can’t afford snacks outside of those I buy for Dylan to take to school.
“I’m not judging. I’m assessing,” she corrects, pulling out a container of almond milk and squinting at the expiration date. Beau stares at her with unfettered hope in his eyes. “It’s what happens when two girls grow up on the Lower East Side sharing bodega sandwiches. Survival instincts.”
I laugh despite myself. “We turned out fine.”
“Debatable,” she says, gently pushing Beau out of the way and shutting the fridge. “Remember when we…” Abby pauses, eyes roaming over me critically before narrowing. “What’s wrong?”
Abby has known me since we were eight and thought the F train was an adventure.
We grew up five blocks apart in walk-ups with radiators that clanged like percussion sections and parents who were always working.
We learned early how to navigate crowded sidewalks and louder adults.
There’s no version of my life she doesn’t already have context for.
“Nothing’s wrong,” I say, my gaze dropping away.
She moves two steps, comes toe to toe with me, and peers at me in a way that makes me hot under the collar. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine,” I say. She narrows her eyes and I sigh. “Okay. I’m… not fine. I got fired.”
“What!” she exclaims. “Why?”
I shrug helplessly, trying not to sound too whiny, which will trigger Beau into a full-on apoplectic fit. “I have no clue.”
“What are you going to do?” she asks, concern etched in every angle of her face.
“For that I also have no clue,” I reply glumly. “Look for another part-time job. And I’ve put in a request for as many shifts as I can get with the limo company.”
“I’m sorry, Harps. You know if I can help—”
I wave off her offer with a swish of my hand through the air. She knows me well enough to know I hate being a charitable cause and immediately makes a motion with her hand to zip her lips.
Abby leans back against the counter opposite me, arms folded now, mirroring my posture. “How’s Dylan?”
“Doing amazing! His last progress report was solid. B’s, mostly. A in history.”
Abby’s eyebrows lift. “Look at him go. Best decision ever for him to come live with you.”
“I know.” I can’t stop the small smile. “He’s like a new kid since he moved back.”
We both know what that means. I never had a dad growing up and it was just me and Mom forever.
But then she met hippie Marley when I was thirteen, and although they never married, he moved in with us and assumed the role of my “father,” though I can’t say he ever lived up to the role, at least not in a traditional sense.
He’s a good man… but he’s flighty and lives with his head in the clouds.
In addition to being a wannabe hippie, he fashions himself an artist of sorts.
That meant no steady job and lean times all around.
When Dylan came along, I’d just turned fourteen and stepped into the role of part-time mother as my mom traveled with Marley to art shows to sell his truly atrocious paintings.
Two years ago, they decided to move to a tiny town in the Appalachian Mountains of North Carolina that supported a thriving potters’ community, even though he wasn’t a potter.
Mom followed and Dylan, who was just fifteen at the time, went along, against my better judgment and his wishes.
Despite our fourteen-year age gap, I’ve always been the peas to his carrots, and it was a tough adjustment for him to leave New York.
He got in trouble, hanging with the wrong crowd, and because my mom and Marley lived inside a happy little bubble, they refused to take him in hand.
I offered for Dylan to come back to New York to live with me his senior year and despite it being a tremendous financial burden, there’s zero regret. He’s where he needs to be.
With me.
“He’s able to be himself here,” I murmur, a sudden wave of love and fondness welling within me for the goofy kid.
“The best sister ever,” Abby says.
Beau nudges me with his head, tongue lolling, and I give him the scratches he not only demands but deserves. I think about that conversation with my mom when I insisted Dylan needed to come live with me.
It wasn’t a dramatic decision. No slammed doors. Just phone calls and practical conversations and the acknowledgment that he was floundering. So he moved into the apartment, transferred schools and started over.
“He’s where he’s supposed to be. That’s what matters.”
On the Lower East Side, you learn early how to make things work with what you’ve got.
Abby pushes off the counter and drops into one of the kitchen chairs like she’s settling in for a proper interrogation.
“So,” she says, stretching the word out. “Let’s change the subject to a less daunting topic. Dating.”
I groan immediately. “Less daunting? More like more daunting… We were having such a nice conversation.”
“Were we?”
“There’s no dating,” I say, spreading my hands. “There’s work, and Dylan, and Beau shedding on everything I own. That’s the romantic landscape.”
Abby snorts. “You haven’t even downloaded any of the apps?”
“I downloaded one,” I admit. “I deleted it in twelve hours.”
“Twelve?”
“One guy opened with ‘You look like you’d ruin my life in a fun way.’”
Abby bursts out laughing. “Okay, that’s terrible.” She shakes her head. “From what I’ve seen lately, you’re not missing much.”
“Is that right?”
“Three dates in the last two months,” she says, ticking them off on her fingers. “One talked exclusively about cryptocurrency being the next big thing, one brought up his mother six times, and one had the audacity to ask if I’d ever consider moving to Jersey for him.”
I gasp in mock horror. “Did you end the date on the spot?”
“Did I have any other choice?”
We both laugh, but it’s the kind that has a little truth in it.
“It’s not even about finding someone amazing,” I say after a second. “I’d settle for stable. Mature. Someone who knows how to show up when they say they will.”
“With hair,” Abby adds solemnly.
“With hair,” I agree. “Why is that so rare now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s like the pool is either emotionally unavailable, financially unstable, or balding.”
“Or all three,” I add.
“Or all three.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Honestly, even if Mr. Fully Formed Adult with a 401(k) and a healthy hairline showed up, when would I see him? Between driving shifts and trying to keep Dylan on track, there’s no time for anything else.
And frankly, Dylan is more important than anything I could ever want for myself. ”
Abby’s expression softens slightly. “You deserve a break, you know. Not just responsibility.”
I look down at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with my finger. “I know. It just feels… indulgent sometimes. Like dating is this optional luxury.”
“Harper,” she says firmly, “it’s not indulgent to want someone.”
I meet her eyes. “Maybe. But right now, I’d settle for someone who texts back, doesn’t ghost, and still has hair.”
Abby raises an imaginary glass. “To the endangered species.”
We clink invisible cups.
“All right,” Abby says, as if she’s just reached a verdict in a courtroom. “We are getting you out of this apartment.”
I eye her cautiously. “Out where, exactly?”
“Out out,” she clarifies, waving a hand. “On the town. In clothes that aren’t leggings. Around live music. Around people. Around men who might still possess both emotional availability and a—”
“Pulse?”
“I was going to say a job.”
I laugh despite myself, but she’s already leaning forward, momentum building.
“There’s this new band, The Geese, everyone’s obsessed with,” she continues. “They’re playing Thursday night in Greenpoint. It’s one of those buzzy, impossible-to-get-into shows.”
“Impossible is not usually a selling point. Regardless, I really can’t afford tickets.”
“You don’t have to pay for a thing,” she says with a self-satisfied grin. “One of my clients knows the promoter. I can get us in.”
I hesitate, picturing the logistics—the train, the late night, the inevitable exhaustion the next morning.
“You need this,” Abby insists, softening slightly. “You need to leave your apartment for a reason that doesn’t revolve around work or responsibility or crisis management. You need to mingle a little. Remember what it’s like to just exist in a room.”
I open my mouth to object, but she barrels on.
“And,” she adds triumphantly, “that marshmallow chocolate place we love? The one with the dark chocolate sea salt squares? They’re one of the sponsors. They’re doing samples.”
My resolve falters. “They are not.”
“They are.”
My expression betrays me. “Those marshmallow chocolates are dangerous.”
“I know,” she says. “Which is why you’re coming.”
I let out a slow breath, already halfway convinced. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come. I just need to check my driving schedule before I commit to anything.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I reach for my phone and open the chauffeur app, already calculating which bookings I might need to shuffle but hopeful I can snag others to make up the difference. The screen loads as usual, the familiar interface appearing beneath my thumb.
And then I pause.
The bookings tab is empty.
“That’s odd,” I murmur, and Abby tilts her head in question.
I refresh the page, assuming it’s a glitch.
Still empty.
A small crease forms between my brows. “What the fuck?”
“What is it?” Abby asks, her whole demeanor shifting.
“All my Thursday bookings are gone,” I say slowly, scrolling further. “Friday… Saturday.” I scroll further into the handful I had next week. “Actually… everything’s gone.”