Chapter 3 It’s Giving… Fuck Boy
It’s Giving… Fuck Boy
Harlee
Afew hours later, I’m wandering downtown Chicago with no real destination, just letting the city swallow me whole. The L rattles overhead, horns scream at each other, somebody’s saxophone is fighting a jackhammer two blocks down. It all blurs into this loud, ugly lullaby I didn’t know I needed.
I’ve already lingered in two bookstores, touching spines like I’m blessing them, pretending I might buy one if my bank account catches the Holy Ghost. A comic shop tried to seduce me with glossy covers and variant art, but broke girls don’t start new hobbies.
I step out of a thrift store that smells like old leather and grandma perfume and finally check my phone.
Two. Hundred. Dollars.
That's all I have to my name. Making me officially 2026 broke. Hell even my dreams cost money that I can't afford. My checking balance stares back at me, bold as hell, like it isn’t disrespectful to my entire hair care routine.
Two hundred dollars until my next paycheck. Two hundred dollars in a city where breathing costs nineteen ninety-nine plus tax. And that’s before Northbridge decides whether they’re about to snatch my early graduation away and saddle me with another free-labor practicum.
I shove the phone back into my bag before I yeet it into the street. If I think too hard about another unpaid internship, my heart might just tap out.
A guitarist on the corner eases into an acoustic version of “Alone” by Heart, because the universe has a dark sense of humor. I still toss a couple crumpled singles into his case. We’re all just out here hoping our skills cover rent.
Coffee smell hits me from the next block and my feet betray me.
I duck into a tiny café I cannot afford and order the cheapest thing they’ll legally call “coffee.” Even as I swipe my card, my stomach clenches, but that first sip slides down my throat and spreads warm through my chest, and I decide I deserve at least this small, caffeinated lie.
My phone buzzes again.
Spencer.
Of course.
Spence: WYD?
Me: Just grabbed a coffee.
I roll my eyes. He knows I hate shorthand like he’s too important to type vowels
The message barely sends before the screen flips to an incoming call.
I sigh and answer. “Hello?”
“I can’t believe you drink that crap,” Spencer says by way of greeting. His voice is low, amused, already on my nerves. “Coffee isn’t pure for the body.”
I take another loud sip out of spite. “When you’re an addict, meth is just as good as heroin. Let me have my vices.”
“In my professional opinion,” he says, “your veins deserve better.”
“In my broke grad student opinion, you spend fourteen dollars on bottled lawn clippings, so we all have flaws.”
“Fourteen is what your insides are worth to me, babe,” he counters. “I invest.”
My chest tightens at the word babe, even though I know better. This is how it always starts: little jabs, little sweetness, little crumbs.
“Where are you?” he asks.
“Near Grant Park,” I say, weaving around a stroller.
“Perfect. You should come by later.”
“Later when?” I shift my tote higher on my shoulder. “You want me to come now?”
“I’m meeting my parents for dinner,” he says.
My heart drops a little, even though I knew that was coming. I’ve lost track of how many times Spencer has said “my parents” and I’ve never once seen them. I could walk past Mr. and Mrs. Buchanan on the street and only know them by the price of their shoes.
“I don’t mind,” I lie. I do. I mind that I’ve been naked with their son more times than I can count and still don’t exist in their version of his life.
“You’d be bored,” he groans. “It’s all law talk, all night. How about I scoop you after? We’ll stream that hospital show you like. The one where everybody’s screwing in supply closets.”
“Grey’s Anatomy?” I deadpan.
“Yeah, that one. On the big screen. I know watching it on your dusty laptop all summer can’t be fun.”
I lean back against the brick of some random building, the cool roughness pressing into my spine. “I’ve been out all day,” I tell him. “I was thinking about heading home.”
“Aw, babe, but I miss you,” he says, dragging the word out. “You can’t tell me you don’t miss me.”
I push a curl behind my ear, hating myself for how my body responds to that one syllable. “I do, but—”
“I’ll do that thing you like,” he cuts in, voice dropping. “You know, the thing I don’t like doing but you love?”
Heat flashes up my neck. I turn my back to the street, thumb pressing the volume down like somebody might overhear.
“I know what you’re talking about,” I mutter.
“Don't you want me to do that thing?” he presses, and I can hear the smirk in his voice.
I close my eyes, torn between desire and frustration. “I mean... of course I do. I always do, but I also know you don't enjoy it.”
Do I want him to? Always.
Even if his “thing” is two minutes of kitten licks, one lazy, “Did you come?” and then “Get on top” whether I did or not. He’ll finish, he’ll cuddle, he’ll go to sleep convinced he put it down. My orgasm status? Negotiable.
“Ah, babe, you know I don’t like eating things that bleed,” he adds.
I actually pull the phone away to stare at it. “Don’t you eat steak?” I ask. “That doesn’t bother you?”
“That’s different,” he says instantly. “It doesn’t have a face.”
My face goes all the way flat. “Right.”
“So.” His tone shifts back to casual. “I’ll be done around nine. I’ll pick you up at that little coffee shop you love. We’ll watch your show, get some… exercise.”
It’s barely past four.
Five hours to kill. For a man who can’t be bothered to ask what I’m doing with the five I already have.
The smart thing to do is say no. Go home, take a shower, finish my problem set, sleep. Respect myself a little.
But my brain is chewing on Shawl, and Northbridge, and two hundred dollars, and the part of me that’s tired and lonely just wants to feel something that isn’t anxiety.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “What time?”
“Nine,” he repeats, satisfied. “Don’t fall asleep on me.”
He hangs up without a goodbye.
“Asshole,” I mutter, shoving my phone deep into my bag like I can bury this whole mess.
Grant Park is heavy and humid, the kind of summer heat that makes your clothes feel like they’re arguing with your skin.
Kids shriek near the fountain, someone’s Bluetooth speaker is losing a fight with the cicadas, and joggers keep doing that little glance at their watches like the world depends on their pace.
Near the entrance, a pack of college boys loiters like they’re waiting for a music video to start.
“Hey queen, I like that top,” one calls.
I don’t even look up. Vintage MTV tee, cutoff shorts, gray retro Reeboks, curls piled in a messy bun with a black bandana. My default “I don’t give a fuck” fit. The fact that he thinks it’s an invitation is his problem.
“Why you looking so mean? Smile,” he yells when I don’t respond. “Do your feet hurt? ’Cause you been runnin’ through my mind all day.”
My earbuds go in. Volume up.
“Oh, so you don’t hear me?” he snaps. “Forget you then. You ain’t even that cute anyway.”
I roll my eyes behind my sunglasses. Nothing like a dusty insult to really get the juices flowing.
I’ve never been the girl who stops traffic. I’ve always been the wing-woman, the cousin on the couch, the friend of the friend keeping the weird guy occupied so my girls can make their escape. Nerdy Black girl with big glasses and bigger textbooks. The museum pass, not the main exhibit.
Meanwhile, Wynter hit puberty and the world started spinning around her. People either want to love her, hate her, sleep with her, or put her on a playlist. I remind her of her braces era; she reminds me on a biweekly basis that I’m fine as hell and need to act like it.
I find a patch of grass under a massive willow and sink down with a sigh. The ground is damp and cool, smelling like cut grass and childhood. I pull my used paperback out of my bag and try to read, but the words keep blurring as my eyes track the lives happening around me.
A dad jogs slow circles with his German Shepherd, laughing every time the dog wipes out chasing a ball. A very pregnant woman waddles by, muttering, “Lease is up, kid. Time to move.”
Two little girls play tag around a tree while their moms dissect some miracle cleanse. I catch, “Fifteen pounds in two weeks,” and “She definitely got work done,” before tuning them out.
Without meaning to, my gaze slides over to the basketball court.
Pick-up game in full swing. Not frat boys. Men. Their shirts are off, tattoos gleam, sweat glides along carved shoulders. There’s trash talk and laughter and sneakers squeaking against hot asphalt.
One of them is tall enough to make the rim look shy. Burnished brown skin, locs pulled back, shoulders like a Marvel origin story, long green shorts hanging low on his hips. When he laughs, his whole face opens.
As if he can feel me staring, he glances over.
Our eyes catch. His mouth tilts. He winks.
Heat floods my cheeks. I yank my attention back to the page like I didn’t just get caught thirst-watching from the sidelines.
Focus, Harlee. You are killing time, not casting boyfriends.
Eventually the shade shifts and the ground starts to feel like a damp towel. I stuff the book back into my tote and push to my feet, brushing bits of grass from my thighs. My fingers automatically pat my pockets for my phone.
Front pockets. Back pockets. The boob check.
Nothing.
My stomach dips. “No, no, no.”
I dig through my bag with growing panic. Wallet, keys, pen, lip balm, Target receipts. No phone.
“Shit,” I hiss. My dad’s voice immediately queues up in my head. 'Harlee Quinn Prince, how many times do you have to lose a phone before you learn?'
I spin back toward the willow, heart hammering. The bench nearby is now occupied by a gang of teenagers, all locked onto their own screens.
Perfect.