Chapter 50 Love And The City Of Angels
Love And The City of Angels
Harlee
They moved me into a bougie ridiculously overpriced studio that screams “I’ve made it” louder than a toddler mid-meltdown.
From my window, downtown Los Angeles stretches out like a glittering carpet of dreams and broken promises.
I told them I didn’t drive—because, hello, anxiety—and they handed me a driver and a personal assistant before I could blink.
It’s been five months since I left Chicago.
Five months that feel like five years. After that nuclear fight at August’s condo, I saw him one last time—at my going-away party.
We spent the night actually talking. I told him how badly I wanted his support, how childish it was to ghost him again instead of facing my feelings like a grown woman.
I needed to prove to myself I could fly on my own.
And August? He was just loving me so hard, he couldn’t stand the thought of being without me. Classic rom-com miscommunication. Except this isn’t a movie, and there’s no guaranteed happy ending.
We’d been inseparable for months. His touch was home. His scent, my favorite place to breathe.
Now, it’s 5:15 a.m. on a Wednesday, and I’m perched on the edge of my California King—a minimalist masterpiece that judges me for not having my life together. I’m wearing my—no, his—favorite sweatshirt, pressing my face into the fabric like maybe I’ll find him there. I never do.
On my nightstand: a note tucked under a first-class ticket to Chicago. His way of saying he’s not closing the door on us. I am.
I want to be with him. God, do I want to be with him. But neither of us can give up the life we’ve built. Between his expansion at James Wilde and my new role here, neglect would creep in sooner or later.
And the truth? I’m scared to go back because I know I might never leave again.
California is beautiful. My job is everything I dreamed of. And I am lonelier than I have ever been.
Most nights I curl up in this sweatshirt, boy shorts, and Netflix reruns. Other nights, I doomscroll his social media. He’s all smiles—on yachts with Kelley, volunteering with FEMA, surrounded by friends. In one post, his arm is draped over some leggy blonde’s shoulder.
“Who is she?” I mutter, zooming in. Perfect cheekbones, perfect teeth. Probably perfect mental health.
I keep scrolling—August at a baseball game, August hiking, August giving a TED Talk. My chest aches. I want to be in those pictures.
“Why am I like this?” I toss my phone onto the bed, his smile still glowing on the screen.
My gaze drifts to a framed photo from my going-away party. Wynter’s got her arm around me, Lori’s throwing up a peace sign, and I’m... happy. For a second, I’m back there—the smell of barbecue, Wynter’s laugh, August’s eyes tracking me from across the yard.
The sharp trill of my alarm snaps me out of it. I swing my feet onto the rug, softer than anything I’ve owned, wishing for the worn floors of my old place, Wynter singing in the shower, the sputter of our ancient coffee maker.
Instead, I’m here, staring at a city that should feel like opportunity and just feels like distance.
I grab my toothbrush, but my eyes land on August’s sweatshirt. I press it to my face. No trace of him left. Just fabric softener and my shampoo.
“What am I doing here?” I whisper into the cotton. “What am I really doing?”
After another day of plastering on a smile and going through the motions, I drag myself into my apartment just after 7 p.m., feeling like I’ve run a marathon in stilettos. All I want is to face-plant into bed and ugly cry. But first—food.
Keys and phone hit the counter with a clatter. The fridge greets me with two sad, half-eaten takeout containers and the faint shame of neglect. I grab a sparkling water, muttering, “Guess it’s another night of Harlee’s Delivery Roulette.”
DoorDash wins, as always. Ten minutes of scrolling later, I land on some bougie acaí bowl that promises to “nourish my body and soul.” We’ll see.
I’m halfway out of my bra when a knock rattles the door. My eyes flick to my unopened Ring camera box—thanks, Dad—then to the app. Nope, my food’s still “preparing.”
Another knock. Then the buzzer.
I grab August’s sweatshirt, drop low like I’m in Mission Impossible, and crawl toward the light switch. The buzzer goes off again, killing my stealth mood. Fine.
I snag the bat from the coat closet—college send-off gift from my dad, “just in case”—and peek through the peephole.
Not a creep. Not a salesperson. Wynter.
I fumble the locks, nearly smacking myself with the bat. “Wynn? I thought you were in New York!”
She breezes in like she owns the lease, luggage rolling behind her, sunglasses still on at night. “I was. Now I’m not. What up, bitch?”
I laugh—really laugh—for the first time in weeks. “Hollywood? Girl, please. You’re the one serving paparazzi realness.”
“RiRi wishes,” she says, flipping her hair. Then she clocks the bat. “Who were you about to take out with that?”
“You!” I lean it against the door, cheeks hot.
Her arms open wide. “Surprise.”
I’m across the room before she finishes, wrapped in coconut shea butter and memory. We sway, squealing like we’re twenty again in our Chicago apartment, back when life was simpler and the world hadn’t bent us into these shinier, lonelier versions of ourselves.
“In the flesh,” she says, patting my head. “You looked like a sad sack of potatoes last time we talked, so I carved out a break in my promo tour to water my plants and check my girl.”
She gives my place the once-over, impressed. “Damn, EchoHouse really rolled out the red carpet.”
“They even sent an interior designer,” I say, glancing around. “New life, who dis?”
She unzips her Prada catch-all with a flourish and pulls out a bottle of wine that probably costs more than my old rent. “I brought libations.”
“Duh.” I point her toward the cabinet. “Second on the left.”
Wynter finds the stemless wine glasses and pours like she’s trying to drown whatever truth I’ve been hiding.
The rich burgundy rides the rim, trembling with every movement.
“We’re gonna need more than this,” she mutters, evening them out.
She hands me one, lifts hers. “To reunions and new beginnings.”
We clink, and the sound feels like a pulse I haven’t heard in months. The wine is smooth and velvety, but the look she gives me is sharper—concern dressed up as determination. “So, spill it. What you been doing besides staring at these four walls? Or are you still on your sad girl shit?”
I smirk, lips pulling to one side. “Now you know…”
“Okay, yeah, we’re definitely going out tonight,” she announces, like it’s law. “I’m in town for forty-eight hours and I refuse to spend it watching you marinate in this pretty-ass apartment.”
“I have work in the morning,” I say, already curling into the couch arm like it’s a fortress. “And before you even start with the ‘fuck work’ sermon, I don’t want to. Food’s coming. Then bed.”
Her brows rise. “Harlee. You’ve been ordering food and going to bed for five months. You can’t ghost the whole world forever.”
“You make me sound like a damn endangered species.”
“No, you do,” she fires back. “All blackout curtains and sad girl energy. I’m surprised you haven’t gone full My Chemical Romance with the black nails and bangs over your face.”
I flip her off with both hands. She laughs, but there’s steel under it.
“You’ve been here almost six months,” she presses, softer now. “Haven’t met anyone? No fine Cali men?”
I swirl my wine, eyes locked on the dark liquid. “Don’t want ‘em.”
“Boooo,” she says, the word bouncing off my high ceilings. “Girl, this is L.A. The land of palm trees, prosperity, and problematic reality stars. And you’re in here playing the world’s longest game of hide-and-seek.”
“I’m not sulking,” I lie, and we both know it.
She tilts her head. “Mmm. Sure.”
Heat rises in my chest. “You coulda saved the SkyMiles if all you came here to do was judge me. I told you yesterday—I’m not in a place to be doing extra. You see this?” I wave my arm at the apartment. “Half my check goes to rent, the other half keeps the lights on. I will be enjoying this rent.”
Wynter sets her glass down, eyes locked on mine. “FaceTime might let you bluff, but you’re not lying to me in person. I’m here for two nights. Hit the town with me.”
“I’m hitting my sheets.”
“You suck.”
“Probably.” I shrug. “But I’m up at five, driver at seven, desk by eight. So unless one of those suitcases is holding pajamas, I’m booked.”
She sighs—big, theatrical—but there’s a flicker in her gaze. Not defeat. Understanding. “Fine. You win tonight. But tomorrow? We’re painting the town. And—” She grins, letting the pause linger like a hook before a beat drop. “I just booked SNL, baby.”
My jaw drops. “Hold up—what?”
“You heard me, bitch.” Hands in the air, grin wide enough to split her face. “Musical guest. This Saturday. Had to swing by and bless you with my soon-to-be-even-more-famous presence.”
It takes me a beat to process, my brain buffering like bad Wi-Fi. Then it lands, and I’m up, nearly spilling my wine. “Holy shit, Wynn! That’s—fuck—that’s incredible!”
She’s glowing, spinning in my living room like she’s already on stage. “I know, right? Your girl’s moving up!”
I watch her dance, my chest warming. It’s more than happiness for her. It’s like she’s cracked a window in this place I’ve been calling home, letting in air I didn’t realize I was starving for. Not just hope—something heavier, hungrier. The reminder that maybe the story isn’t done yet.
By Friday, after enough pleading to wear me down, I finally caved and called in sick. As much as I hate to admit it, Wynter was right. I needed this. We’d spent the whole day playing tourists in our own damn city—zooming around LA like we didn’t already live here.