Chapter 7 If I Die, At Least I Die Cute
If I Die, At Least I Die Cute
Harlee
If you’d asked me a week ago what I’d be doing on a random Wednesday in the middle of summer, I would’ve said: in bed, hair in a pineapple, Grey’s Anatomy yelling in the background, veggie chips disappearing like I’m a magician with a sodium addiction.
My phone glows against my palm, bright enough to make me squint in the station’s dim light. My reflection stares back at me from the dark glass of the arriving train, eyes wide, lips soft pink, curls still holding on by faith and gel.
I inhale.
Diesel. Hot metal. Somebody’s cologne trying to fight the city and losing.
I exhale.
“Okay, Harlee,” I whisper. “We’re not doing Dateline. We’re doing… dinner.”
My stomach flips anyway.
Let’s call it what it is: I’m meeting a man I barely know at night, at a station, in the dark, and the only person who technically knows is my best friend… who is three time zones away and currently sleeping like a baby angel while I play real-life choose-your-own-adventure.
I pull up my texts with Wynter.
Me: This is my official “if I go missing” text. Wearing your black off-the-shoulder top, my high-waist Levi’s, and those wedges you never wear. If I die, at least I died cute.
I hit send, then immediately feel dramatic. But also… I mean, it's giving Sandy from Grease. But if she was black and had these hips.
I switch my phone to Do Not Disturb, because if I let myself stare at the screen waiting for a response that won’t come, I will talk myself out of this. And I did not take the fastest hoe-bath of my life, slather on cocoa butter like armor, and dab jasmine oil behind my ears for nothing.
Yes, I did a hoe-bath. No, I will not be taking questions.
The train doors sigh open, and I step inside.
The car rocks as it starts moving, lights buzzing overhead. I take a seat by the window, knees bouncing once before I force them still. Outside, Chicago slides past in streaks of neon and streetlamp gold, the city acting like it’s not fully awake even though it never really sleeps.
I put my headphones in and hit play, something smooth and jazzy. Something that tells my nerves to sit down.
My camera app opens without me thinking. I check my face again, because apparently this is who I am now: a woman meeting a man at night who keeps making sure her mascara hasn’t committed a crime.
“You clean up nice,” I murmur at my own reflection.
And I do. I really do.
It’s not even about him.
That’s what I tell myself. It’s about me. It’s about the version of me that doesn’t burst into flames the second I take up space. The version that can say, ‘Hi, yes, I’m supposed to be here,’ even while my impostor syndrome is screaming, ‘Girl, don’t get comfortable.’
It’s about the version of me that is tired of living like every decision needs a permission slip.
Still… my pulse taps hard under my jaw.
I open our thread.
Me: Arriving in 5.
The reply comes so fast it makes me laugh once, short and disbelieving.
August: Perfect. I’m here. See you shortly.
Great. Great, great, great.
My stop is next. The intercom crackles. People stand. I stand too, adjusting my bag on my shoulder, smoothing my top like that’s going to smooth my brain.
When the doors open, warm summer air rushes in, carrying street food, exhaust, and lake wind. I climb the stairs to street level with my heart in my throat, every step feeling like a countdown.
At the top, the city is loud in that late-night way: laughter spilling out of bars, sneakers slapping pavement, a sax player doing something soulful on the corner like he’s auditioning for my decision-making soundtrack.
I almost stop and tip him just to buy myself thirty seconds.
Then I see August.
And everything in me goes quiet like somebody hit mute.
He’s leaning against a deep green Mustang, that looks restored and loved and dangerous in a very specific way. Not “I’m going to hurt you” dangerous. More like, “This car has stories” dangerous.
August has stories too.
He’s not in basketball shorts this time.
He’s dressed like he stepped out of a summer magazine spread without trying.
Tan short-sleeve button-up, a couple buttons undone, the hint of ink at his collarbone and a sleeve down his arm.
Light pants sitting easy on his hips. Watch on his wrist, chain around his neck catching the streetlight.
Hair pushed back into loose curls that look touchable on sight.
And when he lifts his head and locks eyes with me, his smile comes slow. Dimples. Like punctuation.
His gaze drags over me, not rude but not pretending either. Like he’s saving the image somewhere private.
“Buenas noches,” he says, low and warm, like he’s been waiting on this moment to arrive. “Harlee.”
My feet keep moving even though my brain has fully stopped.
“Hi,” I manage, which is insane because I have a whole degree in words and this is what comes out.
He pushes off the Mustang, closes the distance, and opens his arms like it’s not a big deal, like he’s not standing there looking like a temptation with a driver’s license.
I step in.
His chest is solid under my cheek. His arms come around me, heavy and sure. And he smells… unfair.
Clean, bright, expensive in a quiet way. Like soap and bergamot at the edges, then a deeper wood note underneath that makes my brain go soft. Like safety with a pulse.
I inhale before I can stop myself.
He kisses the top of my curls, quick but deliberate, then pulls back just enough to look at me.
“You good?” he asks, like he already clocked something in my face.
“I’m fine. Just… wow. You clean up nice.”
His smile tips. “I could say the same.”
Heat crawls up my neck.
“Boy,” I say, because my mouth is a traitor, “you working overtime already?”
His grin widens like I just fed him exactly what he wanted.
“I’m trying to be normal,” he says, stepping closer again. “But you make it hard.”
My laugh comes out a little shaky. “Normal. Right.”
He opens the passenger door. “Come on. I’m feeding you.”
“I can eat,” I say, sliding in.
“So can I.” His eyes flick down to my mouth, then back up, like he caught himself mid-thought. “Trust me.”
He closes my door and circles to the driver’s side.
The first thing I notice is the small Dominican flag hanging from the rearview, swaying with the faintest bounce like it belongs there. Like it’s been here for every version of him.
The car smells like leather and old-school pride, like somebody who takes care of what matters.
The engine turns over with a throaty rumble that I feel in my bones, and my hands go automatically to the seatbelt.
Click.
My fingers brush the door lock.
Once.
Then again, like if I don’t do it, my body will do it for me louder.
I hate that I can’t just exist in a car like a regular adult human. I hate that my brain keeps a little emergency alarm on standby, even when everything looks fine.
August slides in, eyes forward, posture relaxed. He doesn’t stare at me like I’m a problem.
But he notices.
I can feel it in the way he lowers the music half a notch. In the way he takes his time pulling out, smooth and unhurried, like he’s choosing gentleness on purpose.
“You okay?” he asks again, softer.
“I’m good,” I lie, because I’m practiced. “Just hungry.”
He doesn’t call me out. He just nods once, like: noted.
“Tell me if you want the windows down,” he says. “Or up. Or if you want me to slow it down. Whatever.”
My throat tightens, because that’s… considerate. A weird word to feel in a car at night.
“I’m fine,” I say, too quickly. Then, because my pride is allergic to being handled, I add, “I’ve been in cars before.”
His mouth twitches. “That’s comforting.”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting.” He glances at me briefly, then back to the road. “I’m just… here.”
It’s such a simple sentence.
And yet my chest does something like it’s trying to unclench.
We drive through pockets of city light and shadow, the streets glossy from heat. The skyline peeks in and out between buildings like it’s eavesdropping.
I stare out the window and try to keep my shoulders down. Try to keep my breathing normal. Try not to count.
One, two, three…
The car stops at a light and I realize I’ve been holding my breath anyway.
“Do you want to talk,” he asks, casual, “or do you want music?”
I blink. “You’re giving me options?”
“I always give you options.” He says it like it’s obvious.
My fingers curl tighter around my bag strap. “Music is fine.”
He turns it up a little, not loud. Just enough to fill the space without crowding me.
The light turns green. We move again.
And something about the way he drives, controlled but not showy, makes me feel like he’s not trying to impress me with the car. He’s trying to impress me with him.
Or maybe that’s just my nervous system romanticizing a basic act of consideration. Wouldn’t be the first time my brain got poetic under pressure.
“You restored this?” I ask, because I need my voice back. I need something that isn’t my pulse.
His face softens. “Yeah. It was my dad’s. He bought it at auction when I was a kid. Weekends, it was me, him, and busted knuckles.”
“That’s sweet,” I say, and mean it.
He nods, jaw tightening briefly. “He died when I was young. She sat for a while after that. I didn’t… I couldn’t.”
The words hang between us, heavy but not dramatic. Like he’s not performing grief. Just acknowledging it.
Something in my chest aches, familiar.
“How long has it been?” I ask, quiet.
“Nineteen years this October.”
My mouth opens before my brain approves. “I was nine.”
His eyes flick to me. “What?”
I close my eyes, wishing I could take the words back. But it's too late now, and I can feel August's gaze on me. I keep my eyes fixed on the road ahead, watching the streetlights change from red to green.
"My mom," I say softly, the words feeling strange on my tongue. "I was 9 when she passed away. So, I know that feeling. Keeping something that reminds you of them, even if no one actually understands why."