Chapter 33 Say That Shit Again
Say That Shit Again
Harlee
“Girl, this mirror is lying. Ain’t no way I look this damn fine.”
Wynter’s voice floats out from behind the curtain, rich with mischief. I’m half-listening, sunk into a velvet couch that probably costs more than my rent, thumb hovering over my phone. August’s name glows at the top of my screen.
Bae: Still waiting on my date for the gala... I’ll let you make it up to me with a dance. Deal?
I’ve read it ten times. Still can’t bring myself to respond.
A swirl of perfume—vanilla and something expensive—hangs in the air. Soft jazz plays overhead. The whole boutique feels like it’s holding its breath, waiting for someone to say yes.
Me: You know I’d love to, but it’s not a good look for me, babe.
He replies immediately.
Bae: What? You’ll be the baddest one there. Plus, I get to introduce the world to my insanely talented girlfriend. Win-win.
The word girlfriend snags on something tender. I exit out of the messages, stomach twisting, just as Wynter steps out like a whole damn moment.
The dress is sleek black, clinging to her hips with a neckline so deep it might be illegal in five states. She plants one hand on her hip, waiting for my verdict.
“You look like somebody’s about to risk it all,” I say, eyeing her up and down. “But... it’s not the one.”
Wynter spins, braids flying, checking herself out in the mirror. “Exactly what I’m going for.” Then, frowning, she smooths her hands down her sides. “Mmm. Nah. It’s not shutting it down enough. I need entrance energy, not just a cute statement.”
Wynter struts closer to the mirror, hips swaying like the dress came with a soundtrack. “So... Jaxson Ramirez?” I tease, flashing my screen.
Chicago Comets’ star center fielder. Arms like tree trunks. Smile like temptation. He’s got Wynter’s DMs lit up like playoff season.
Wynn smirks. “What? He’s fine. And he asked like a gentleman. Plus, that smile? Whew.”
She gives a slow turn, eyeing her reflection.
“Looks like he’s treating your inbox like home plate,” I mutter, sipping from the complimentary water bottle the boutique handed me like it’s spiked. “Zero hesitation. Full send.”
She tosses a braid over her shoulder, unbothered. “Then he better keep up. Sliding into my DMs was bold. Now we see if he can handle the energy.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat.
“And what about August?” she asks, eyeing me through the mirror. “Still trying to finesse you into that gala?”
I exhale, dragging a hand over my curls. “Trying? Girl, he’s gone full Spanish romance novel. But I still haven’t said yes.”
Wynter turns. Hands on hips. “Why the hell not?”
“Because it’s not just a party, Wyn. It’s public.” My voice lowers. “He’s my boss.”
Wyn steps toward me, her tone shifting. “So? You’ve earned your spot. People know that.”
“I don’t want them thinking I’m just his plus-one. Like I got here through him instead of through my own work.”
She softens, voice gentle. “Nobody’s gonna think that.”
I look away. “I might.”
Wynter watches me carefully. “What’s really going on in that overthinking-ass head of yours?”
I exhale, elbows on my knees. “It’s just... I adore him, I do, but I’m scared it’ll change things. Change me.”
Wyn cocks her head. “This about Spencer?”
My whole body tenses. Just hearing his name feels like a crack in glass.
“No,” I lie. Then again, quieter, “Maybe a little.”
It rushes in, uninvited—Spencer’s voice in my head, picking apart everything I said, wore, believed. The way he made confidence feel like a sin I hadn’t earned.
“I just... I don’t want to make decisions for someone else again,” I say. “I don’t want to lose myself trying to make someone else comfortable.”
Wynter disappears behind the curtain, tugging at another zipper. “You’re not her anymore, Lee. You’re smarter now. Stronger.”
She pauses, then calls out with a smirk I can hear through the fabric. “And let’s not pretend you ain’t let that man tongue-baptize you all over the city. Shadows? Girl, that ship sailed.”
I cover my face, mortified. “Wyn—”
From the next stall, a horrified mom grabs her daughter’s hand and whisks her away.
“Mommy, what’s tongue-baptize?”
I choke on a laugh, burying my face in my hands. “You did not just traumatize that child.”
Wynter peeks out. “Oops. Didn’t see her.”
I’m shaking with laughter now, the tension loosening for the first time in hours.
“She’ll be fine. Kids today got access to TikTok. I’m doing community service, really.”
Wynter sticks out her tongue at me in the mirror, then—because of course she does—drops into a quick twerk before turning serious.
“Speaking of community... I found a spot in Silver Lake. This house? So me. Close to a couple artists I’m writing for, and the label’s footing the bill. Just feels right, you know?”
I blink. That rush hits—envy laced with confusion. Wynter talks about her future like she’s already living it. Meanwhile, I’m still here, straddling the line between who I’ve been and who I’m scared to become.
“LA, huh?”
She clocks the wobble in my voice immediately. “Don’t gimme that face. You know you’re welcome. Chicago was always temporary. LA could be a whole new vibe for us.”
Her voice softens, dipping into the syrupy sweet tone she saves for convincing me to do reckless shit. “You could test out the whole financial advisor thing, dip your toes in. Come be my plus-one to all those stuffy industry parties. I’ll distract you with tequila and bad decisions.”
It’s tempting. It always is.
My chest tightens at the thought of me in LA. Not just visiting—but in it. A part of it. A part of me. “Yeah... maybe,” I murmur, swiping at my screen as another message from him lights up.
Wynter’s still watching me. Her grin fades, her voice gentler now. “You know I just want what’s best for you, right? No pressure. No expectations. Just... life’s too short not to say yes sometimes. YOLO, bitch.”
The words hit. Quiet and sharp.
I nod slowly. “You’re right.”
Wynter gasps dramatically. “Did Harlee Quinn just say I’m right? Somebody call the Smithsonian. Frame it.”
I laugh, nudging her away. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Too late. I’m ordering plaques.” She ducks back behind the curtain, then calls out, “But seriously—whatever you choose, just make sure you’re choosing you. If August fits into that? Even better. But don’t shrink to make him fit.”
I glance at my phone.
Bae: Man, I really wish my stylist will stop asking me about matching colors for this gala. I already told her, I am flying solo. Sadly…
Bae: Without mi vida by my side.
Bae: To steal all the spotlight.
I laugh under my breath, thumb hovering over August’s message. “He’s so damn persistent.”
“Persistent?” Wynter scoffs. “Girl, that man is in love. Loudly. Let me guess—he’s trying to eat your booty in Tahiti.”
I throw my head back. “Wynter!”
She spins in front of the mirror, striking a pose like it’s a photo shoot. “I’m just saying—you’ve got a man who would charter a jet to spell your name in the clouds. And you’re treating it like a trick question.”
“It’s not that simple.”
She stops mid-twirl, hands on hips. “Oh, but it is. He adores you. You like him. He’s fine, rich, and fully obsessed.
You’re just scared of what other people think.
And I get it, the school thing, but you've been discreet. No one is going to find out or frankly care once they see how much that man loves him some Harlee.”
That last part lands like a sucker punch. I look down, pretending to reread his message, even though I’ve already memorized it.
“Maybe...” The word slips out. “But what if going public with him changes everything? What if I start molding my life around his without meaning to?”
“I can't see him ever allowing that shit to happen. Besides, no one said you had to lose yourself inside that man,” Wynter says, voice softer now. “You’re growing. Big difference. Evolving doesn’t mean disappearing, Lee.”
I exhale hard, a little lighter, but still tangled in doubt. “I just don’t want it to look like I only made it because of him.”
Wynter crosses her arms, annoyed. “No one thinks that. Except maybe... you.”
I flinch. She’s not wrong.
“Spencer—”
“Spencer is trash.” Her tone cuts clean. “We do not speak his name. That man dimmed your light. August? He turns the damn spotlight on.”
My chest tightens, but it’s the good kind.
“And if he ever stops?” she adds, smirking, “I’ll fuck all his shit up. Starting with that perfect jawline.”
I smile, eyes flicking back to my screen. August’s message is still waiting. I promise to make it worth your while if you accompany me to the Gala in a few weeks.
It’s like he knows it's killing me not to go with him.
Wynter huffs, grabbing another dress. “While you sit there spiraling, I’m gonna go fight this zipper like it owes me money.”
The curtain swishes behind her, and suddenly the air feels easier to breathe. Her words hang in the quiet, threading into the part of me that’s been holding back. She’s right. I am scared—of judgment, of backsliding, of love feeling too good to be real.
But August isn’t Spencer.
“Okay, real talk,” Wynter calls out, voice muffled. “Hold on, I need to channel Hercules strength for this zipper.”
A beat later, she bursts out wearing black silk and attitude, thigh-high slit and drama for days.
“Be honest,” she says, flipping a braid over her shoulder. “Am I giving bad bitch or trophy wife on her second divorce?”
I blink. “It’s giving spank me, Daddy.”
She grins, spinning slow. “Perfect. Jax is not ready.”
I laugh. “Unless he’s lame. You ever think of that?”
She shrugs. “Girl, this ain’t marriage. I’m here for a good time, in a certain tax bracket.”
Then she glances at my phone again. “Unlike you, over here treating a simple gala invite like a life-or-death decision.”
“What do you mean?”
Wynter leans against the mirror, suddenly serious. “I mean—it’s a gala. But it’s also a room full of power players. CEOs. Money. Access. You show up as you—smart, fine, sharp—and you leave with doors open. That’s the real game.”
I blink. “I hadn’t thought of it like that.”
“Of course you didn’t,” she teases. “You’re too busy worrying about optics. But babe... this is your career we’re talking about. Why wouldn’t you let the man who believes in you help you win?”
She steps back toward the changing room, then stops. “And when else are you gonna get to wear something show-stopping and shut down a room full of old rich men?”
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You and August are both relentless.”
Wynter pushes open the curtain with a smirk. “That’s because I’m right. And he's just fine as fuck.” She starts to close it, but pauses. “Now, are we going to this damn gala or not?”
I shake my head, laughing. “Fine. I’ll think about it.”
“Think faster,” she calls, vanishing behind velvet. “Because the way I am already plotting my outfit choices, bitch. I'm thinking old Hollywood.”
I glance down. August’s message still glows on my screen. Without mi vida by my side.
Something inside me shifts.
I glance at my reflection—my face lit by the glow of his name, my mind finally quiet. No fear. No shame. Just clarity.
“I think I’m ready,” I say, the words steady, more for me than for her. “Not just to be with him. To be seen with him. But also to choose me—loudly.”
Wynter raises a brow, curious. “Okay, philosopher queen. Define that.”
I take a breath, the kind that steadies you before a jump.
“If I go to this gala, I’m not going as August’s girlfriend.
I’m going as Harlee Prince, future CFO or whatever the hell I decide I want to be.
” My voice firms as I go. “I’m showing up to network.
To move. To build something that’s mine.
Because if I’m going to be in love with him, I can’t also work for him. That’s the next move.”
Wynter stills, then slowly grins, pride blooming behind her eyes. “Say that shit again.”
I smile. “I need a new job.”
She nods like I just unlocked a new level. “You need a new job and a custom dress. Both by next week.”
We both laugh, the energy shifting—lighter, fuller, honest. For the first time in weeks, the anxiety that’s been curling around my chest loosens its grip. I’m not spiraling. I’m choosing. Not running from love or ambition, but walking straight into both.
Wynter flips a braid over her shoulder like she’s closing a deal. “Then it’s settled. We’re not walking into that room to be seen. We’re walking in like we already own it.”
And for once, I believe it.
I glance at my reflection—my face lit by the glow of his name, my mind finally quiet. No fear. No shame. Just clarity.
I finally type out a reply and hit send before I can second guess it:
Me: I’ll see you at the gala. And yes—I’ll dance with you. But I think we should talk. I need to start looking for a new job for after graduation.
The typing dots appear instantly.