Three
“Absolutely not,”
Harper says, standing in my doorway with the same energy as someone staging an intervention.
I don’t look up from the couch, where I've spent the last hour doom-scrolling. “Absolutely not what?”
“You, wallowing.”
She crosses her arms, looking at the half-eaten tub of Ben & Jerry’s balanced precariously on my lap. “Girl, you’re one rainstorm away from standing outside his house with a boombox.”
I whine, dropping my phone onto the cushion. “For the record, I’m not even sad about Daniel.”
“I know. That’s great,”
she chirps. “Because we’re going out.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
Harper grabs the remote, shutting off the TV and ignoring my protests. “It’s Saturday night. You’re not spending it shoveling ice cream down your throat.”
I narrow my eyes. “We? Like you and me?”
“No, me and the ghost of your love life.”
I fling a throw pillow at her. She catches it effortlessly, laughing. “Eli’s meeting us at a bar with some friends.”
Instantly, my guard goes up. “Are you setting me up?”
She shrugs. “Maybe. Would it be the worst thing? You wrote to a dating podcast for advice. I’m just following Jo Quinn’s orders and saving you from yourself.”
I groan, even though she’s right. “Hot men are exhausting.”
“You can be exhausted here or exhausted there, but isn’t it better to be exhausted while biting a headboard?”
Harper watches me, her confidence unwavering. She’s always been the outgoing one, the kind of woman who turns heads no matter where she goes. Her hair is a crown of tight, springy curls—big, bold, and completely unapologetic, just like her. She’s strikingly beautiful, tall with warm brown skin and a figure that demands attention. But it’s more than that. Harper walks into a room like she owns it, and people just accept that she does.
Me? I’ve had my moments to shine, when I leave the apartment for more than work, that is.
“Fair point.”
I sigh, defeated. “Fine. One drink.”
She smiles, already pulling me off the couch. “One drink. Maybe two. Possibly four.”
“I regret this already.”