2. Two
“Great. Just great,” I mutter under my breath when I see the red taillights lined up for miles on the highway.
“You should not have taken I-85. I told you it would be a nightmare during rush hour,” Paloma says from the backseat. I glare daggers at her through the rearview mirror. She meets my glance with stoic hazel eyes that scream I told you so, bitch. She’s my best friend and personal stylist, but she likes to be in charge, and backseat driving is one of her favorite ways to rule the friendship. I ignore her.
“Alicia, I’ll never make it home in time to get Hendricks to school with this traffic. I knew I should have arranged with one of the other moms in the class to pick him up,” I complain, casting a glance at my manager in the seat beside me.
She’s busy tapping away on her phone with a bemused twist to her lips that tells me she’s responding to another press request for me. Alicia doesn’t care about anyone’s schedule but mine, even when it’s my son who’s missing out. I knew it was a possibility, but I told my babysitter that I would be back in time, and now it’s too late to change the plans with school having started while I was still on set and unable to send her a message to take him in after all.
“Honey, it’s fine. He’s four,” Alicia says, laying a manicured hand against my arm and looking up at me from heavily lashed brown eyes. “What are they going to do, give him detention for being late?”
“Well, I would’ve been back in time if the news segment hadn’t dragged on and the producers let me shorten my cooking demonstration to just one of the recipes rather than all three,” I retort.
I felt the minutes ticking by when I should have been out the door. Even TV magic with prepped bowls of ingredients, shoving the uncooked pans into the fake oven, and pulling out the pre-finished food to show how marvelous it could all look couldn’t get me out of that studio on time.
“The extra air time was so worth it!” she enthuses, brandishing her phone with a page of analytics pulled up. I glance at it for a second before returning my eyes to traffic. “Your social engagement went up sixty-three percent while it aired, and you have new channel subscribers and followers,” she sing-songs. Of course, she’s thrilled. It’s her job to see that my new cookbook, At Home With Harlowe: A Foulmouthed Foodie’s Guide To Eating Well, gets the best press and she wants me to ride the release week momentum as much as I can.
I shouldn’t have been such a pushover for the press my publisher and Alicia set up, knowing it was going to cause a scheduling conflict. I know it’s really good coverage that will likely drive up sales, but it’s still interfering with my son’s life, and that’s one promise I made to myself that I’m at risk of breaking.
“Breathe, Lolo. No use fretting over it now when you can’t do anything. Just call the school and excuse his absence, or whatever. That’s what I do for my boys,” Callie adds to the mix from her seat in the back under a stack of cookbooks. She’s never worried a day in her life, not for money, jobs, or the prospect of having her kid kicked out of school. She lives in a daydream bubble and somehow things just turn up roses for her, thanks to a mega-rich older husband who holds ownership in the Atlanta Condors football team.
I snake my phone out of my purse from the center console and fumble to pull up the school’s number. It’s just preschool, but they are incredibly strict with their schedule and I don’t want to be on the administration’s bad side. It costs an arm and a leg to keep Hendricks in this program, and there is a waiting list for years they could easily replace him with.
I never knew how savage preschool was until I looked into enrolling my kid in the best school I could find for his super smart little brain and learned firsthand that I should’ve signed him up when I found out I was pregnant. Lucky for me, I know the right people, mainly Callie’s husband’s acquaintance who’s on the board, and I carry just enough of a sparkle of former celebrity status that a spot was made available when Hendricks was ready.
The phone connects through my car speakers and the call is answered while the girls grow quiet.
“Hi, this is Harlowe Sorenson, Hendricks’s mom. I’m so sorry, I’m running late and won’t be able to drop him off until,” I pause and my eyes dart to the clock, then back to the gridlocked traffic, “probably ten.”
“Ms. Sorenson, that’s an hour and a half into the school day. Our policy allows late drop-offs up to fifteen minutes, but after that, the classes move quickly into their programming. Unfortunately, it’s too disruptive to the students’ academic and imaginative pursuits to have a peer join them later,” the receptionist informs me, her voice taking on a patronizing tone.
“That’s bull—” I stop myself before I curse out this woman who is probably paid minimum wage and has school policies she has to follow.
Giggles erupt, and Callie quickly covers her mouth with her hand.
“I’m sorry, but this is preschool. It’s not like it’s medical school. They fingerpaint and chase each other around before listening to stories and having a nap. Not exactly a rigorous curriculum of strictly academic excellence. I doubt any of these four-year-olds would be disrupted by Hendricks arriving late.” I roll my eyes as I say it because it’s my fault my kid attends a pretentious preschool. I wanted him to have the best opportunities I could afford, and this place is ranked first in the Atlanta metro. I hear a supportive hum of approval from the peanut gallery in my car.
“Despite what you may think, our classes are designed to prepare young minds for their future, shaping their development and directing milestones to best cultivate their cognitive functioning. You will just have to keep Hendricks home today and drop him off tomorrow during the specified window. I’ve noted the absence in his file. I hope you’re aware that you only get three unplanned absences per term before you will be asked to re-evaluate your commitment to your son’s future.”
Alicia scoffs and stops her phone scrolling. Paloma clicks her tongue softly. I catch Callie’s worried expression in my quick glance in the rearview mirror.
Damn. The preschool staff lay it on thick. Hendricks has only been at the school for a few months, and he seems to love it. Guilt gnaws at me, knowing my career has gotten in the way of his happiness and education. Every day he comes home with a new story or fact that I end up having to look up myself just to see if he’s making it up. He’s an absolute sponge and is doing so well. I was a good enough student, with a demanding Asian mother who pushed for academic excellence, but I didn”t go to college. I just went straight into modeling after high school. Hendricks definitely got his incredible brain and aptitude for learning from his businessman father.
“Fine. He’ll be in class tomorrow.”
I hit the hang-up button on the dash screen and look up in time to see the line of cars stopped in front of me. Gasps sound around me as I slam on the brake pedal. Adrenaline whisks through my veins, the tingly rush of fear an instantaneous cold draft. I manage to stop with bare feet between me and the next car, but quickly I’m rocked by the slamming of a car into my rear bumper. My head snaps back painfully from the momentum and I already know it wasn’t just a light scratch I can ignore. By some miracle, I was far enough back not to hit the car in front of me.
“Oh no, a motherfucker didn’t,” I swear, thinking of how much more this will set me behind. I don”t have time to deal with a fender-bender today and all the complications that are going to add to my already haphazard schedule. I have more press interviews, and a signing at a bookstore tonight. “Are y’all alright?”
“Ay, Dios. I knew I-85 would be a horrible choice. It’s cursed,” Paloma mutters, clutching her seatbelt when I turn quickly to see if the girls are hurt.
Callie rights herself in her seat, her stack of books now on the floor and a stunned expression on her face. “Did someone just, like, hit us? How rude,” she says, without any irony at all. Bless her heart.
“Atlanta drivers are worse than LA drivers, I swear.” Alicia rolls her neck and resumes her phone tapping, hardly fazed.
“No, no, no.” I signal to get over to the shoulder. “This cannot be happening.”
“If we get this wrapped up quickly, we can still make the virtual interview,” Alicia says, her fingers flying over her phone, likely managing some PR magic I want no part of. She’s pragmatic to a fault, but damn good at her job, and I leave her to it.
I put my car in park and turn off the ignition with trembling fingers. The adrenaline is still running high and I’m not taking it well. Or maybe it’s combining with all the caffeine I’ve had to get me through the four a.m. wake up and early morning on set, jacking me up with anxiety and making me shake like a cracked-out chihuahua.
“Look alive, ladies. A man approaches,” Paloma says in her richly melodic voice.
“We are alive, Paloma,” Callie assures her, placing a slim hand on Paloma’s wrist with her big blue eyes opened wide.
Despite the warning, a gentle tap on my window startles me, and I look up to see the driver who hit me. He’s on the tall side and of average build, with dark hair, olive tanned skin, well-dressed, and good-looking enough for me to note about someone who just rear-ended me in traffic. He motions for me to get out of the car, and I do. I hear three doors open in quick succession after mine. Great. Now I’ll have a mob to witness the exchange of insurance.
“Ma’am, I’m so sorry. Traffic stopped suddenly and I tried to get onto the shoulder, but I still hit the edge of your bumper. I’ll take care of everything, but you’ll need to take photos and call your insurance.”
“He called you ma’am,” Paloma snorts, coming up on my left and digging her elbow into my side.
We have been friends for a decade, practically growing up together in the fashion industry. She styled many of the shoots I modeled on and became my best friend. She was supportive enough to follow me back here when I retired from the business, though it feels like ages since either of us saw that life. But I’m only twenty-nine years old. That doesn’t really qualify as ma’am territory. Although, this is the South, and he’s probably a good ol’ boy relying on his manners. I shake it off and nod.
“It’s been that kind of morning, that’s for sure,” I say, feeling the weight of responsibility and my schedule sitting heavily on my shoulders. I rub my neck and look at the traffic slowly creeping past us. There’s a weariness I hadn’t anticipated clinging to me, and that is almost more distressing than the accident, though a sore neck certainly won’t help.
I’ve been doing non-stop press for a week leading up to the release of the cookbook, and there are still a few more weeks of events to keep the momentum up now that it’s released. Alicia says we may be entertaining a cooking show option with a major channel because the pre-sales have been so high, but they want to see more engagement with my Foulmouthed Foodie YouTube and social channels.
I’m known for dropping F-bombs and maybe an ingredient or two on my tits on occasion. I make people laugh and salivate with both my food and my body. It’s a narrow line to walk of funny and sexy, but it’s won me a loyal following of men and women who enjoy my content. It’s taken me years to embrace who I am at my core—a woman who now loves her body despite years of hating it, who wants others to embrace themselves also, and who makes damn good food that everyone can enjoy while saying the shit everyone is thinking, anyway.
It’s that channel that got me the book deal in the first place, as I have grown my audience to several million subscribers who interact regularly with my videos and social media. It’s been a full-time job just managing that alone, and now I have to wrestle with all of this.
“Come around back so we can get you out of here as quickly as possible,” the man says, taking control of the situation as kindly as possible. Definitely a high-level businessman of some sort, if that’s how he can manage even an accident.
I follow him around the back of my black Audi SUV, the girls on my stilettoed heel, and I keep my eyes trained on the bumper, looking for damage.
“Oh, fuck,” I whisper, seeing the smashed-up right side of the bumper. It’s completely crushed, the paint around the back hatch also scraped.
“Holy shit!” Callie shrieks.
“That’s it?” Alicia drolls at the same time. I look between them and shake my head. Two sides of the same coin, these two.
“I think it’s still drivable, but that’ll definitely need to be fixed. I’m Javier Montero, by the way.”
I nod absently. My thoughts focused on how long the car will be in the shop, if I can get a loaner vehicle on short notice to get downtown tonight, and how much it’ll all cost. I do well on affiliate money and sponsorship deals with my channel and social media, and with my book advance, but there’s always the worry of what could happen in the future. This is a significant expense.
“She’s obviously not pleased to meet you, given the circumstances,” Paloma says for me, and I give her a look to keep out of it.
“Harlowe?”
I glance up when I hear my name spoken by a familiar resonating baritone that has haunted me for five years. My heart leaps into my throat when I catch sight of the passenger getting out of the Land Rover pulled up behind us.
“Zander,” I whisper, my already shaking hand coming up and covering my mouth.
I step back against Paloma, her fingers gripping my arms in support. Callie straightens in reflex next to me, her impeccably inflated chest turning to the man looking toward us. I’m not surprised by her reaction. Everything sits up and takes notice when Zander Olsen arrives. Even my nipples are straining through the lace of my bra and poking at my tight, dove gray top. His eyes clock the traitors and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips. My lips flatten in response, even if my nipples refuse to.
“Y’all know each other?” Javier asks, looking between me and the bad boy billionaire casually exiting the SUV’s passenger side like it’s a fancy exotic car and not a utilitarian vehicle.
Zander strides toward us with the confidence of an action movie hero walking away from an explosion scene. Too bad the explosion is the obliteration of my thong, because even my pussy is a traitor, and as much as I loathe seeing him, he still makes me impossibly wet with one fucking look, and I absolutely hate him for it.
Behind me, Paloma snorts derisively, Callie stands glaze-eyed and silent, and Alicia stays glued to her phone, uninterested.
“Barely,” I answer, lowering my hand and tearing my eyes from Zander’s perfectly chiseled face that has starred in far too many of my anxiety dreams over the last few years. How can he look exactly as I remember? Devastatingly handsome—the kind of beautiful that is life-altering—with eyes that take me in, yet hold no warmth for me now when they were once endless wildfires that consumed me.
Self-consciousness rises, and I’m acutely aware of the weight I’ve put on since he saw me last, the softness of my thighs that were once toned, the way my ass has grown and jiggles, the remaining hint of a momma belly that won’t quite leave despite all of my workouts. I can’t imagine how he would ever pick me now, because I’m so different from the na?ve twenty-four-year-old swimsuit and fashion model he knew then. I chastise my own cancerous thoughts and repeat the mantra that has sustained me as my figure and life transformed. I am enough.
Fuck, I have to be enough.
I pull my eyes away from Zander and turn to answer Javier’s question. “I’m shocked he remembers my name.”
The coldness I’m able to infuse into my tone surprises me, given how rattled I feel, and Javier gets a look of understanding on his face. That’s right, I’m just one of Zander’s many conquests. Have a laugh at my expense later.
“How could I forget it?” Zander asks, striding closer, drawing my attention again. “You were the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model of the year and on dozens of mainstream ad campaigns. Your face and name were everywhere when I met you.”
His voice is unreasonably cool and collected, a hint of humor barely keeping his recitation of facts from sounding banal. I clench my teeth but manage to plaster on a perfectly calm face. We had so much more than my professional accomplishments, but why would he care to recite those facts? He doesn’t do attachments.
“That’s not all you should remember, asshole,” Paloma says under her breath, defensively stepping up to shield me.
I lay a hand on her arm and shake my head. The less we engage Zander, the better. Not now. Maybe not ever.
She is the only one who knows to what degree Zander Olsen changed my life. She watched me struggle with the consequences of time spent in his captivating presence and saw what the sting of being completely shut out of it when he was done with me did to my confidence. Of course, Paloma would want to rip his eyes out now, even if I just want to disappear from his radar once again.
Javier’s eyes widen. “I thought you looked familiar! You’re Harlowe Sorenson! You were a Guess model, right? You did that iconic commercial in the field of yellow flowers with just cut-off jeans shorts on, the flowers covering your…” he trails off, running a hand through his hair and looking anywhere but at my face. Or my tits, which the yellow flowers barely covered in that particular ad campaign.
I cringe inwardly, thinking of my late teens and early twenties and all the brand campaigns, photoshoots with big names, swimsuit fashion shows, and cosmetic lines I desperately tried to land. It’s still the scantily clad ones that stick with people. Even now, after major self-reflection and work in therapy, all the stinging rejections for being too ethnic, not ethnic enough, too big, too small, too brown, too Asian, too indeterminate, too mixed, not American enough, too loud, not having a recognizable name, and a million other reasons for rejection that were given to me while I was a working model still bubble to mind with the mention of one of the few campaigns I actually landed.
“Harlowe has had a million photoshoots. She was the face of Givenchy perfume, which is truly iconic.” Callie pops a hand on her hip as if to chastise the man for not knowing.
Callie wasn’t a model, but her work on a reality show allowed her to create a clothing line that is still going strong, so she’s just as familiar with the industry as I am. We became friends in LA through Alicia, who manages us both. It was a stroke of luck when she met Myles Klein and he moved her to Atlanta after he put a huge diamond on her finger and bankrolled her fashion line. He is absolutely besotted with his wife, and Callie isn’t complaining. And I like having my friends all in the same city.
“I think I’ll just take some photos and get out of here. I have things to do and spending time on the shoulder of a major highway during rush hour isn’t high on my priority list.” I cast a look back at the traffic crawling by us and pull my phone out of my back pocket to start snapping pictures of the damage. “Ladies, you can get back in the car now.”
I can feel the disappointment from Callie as she turns and struts back to the car. Paloma hesitates, eyeing me but saying nothing, for once. Alicia started for the car before I finished my sentence.
“Oh, yeah, sorry. I’ll grab my insurance card.” Javier turns back to the Land Rover, leaving me to face Zander alone.
I feel him staring at me and try hard to ignore him. This morning is feeling more and more like an episode of Black Mirror than my actual life.
“You look good, Lowe,” he says, voice quiet and familiar. Too familiar for not having seen each other in five years.
I don’t even spare him a look. “You look the same.”
“You’re a mom now.”
My spine stiffens as I fight the urge to freeze, but slowly rise back up from the crouch I had taken to get a close-up photo of the bumper damage. I turn towards him in what feels like slow motion, my face set in steel, not giving away that my heart is hammering away in my chest, full of fear. Thoughts race through my mind at what he could possibly know and why he is bringing this up now.
“I am. It’s nothing for you to worry about.”
Zander’s expression flickers, a bit of the casual openness shutters, replaced by a mask of indifference that slips forward in the blink of an eye. An eye that matches those of my beautiful son.
“Is he...” He blinks, pausing for a moment before a brief shake of his head and continuing with a wry smile. “You’re with a football player, I saw. Is he good to you?”
“You seem a little too knowledgeable of my personal life for someone who doesn’t do attachments.” My voice is calm, but tinged with vicious malice. I don’t confirm anything other than his awareness of me so long after I was told he would never care about me long-term.
“The Atlanta Haute List seems to like reporting on your life right now almost as much as they scrutinize mine. I can’t help but read the stories when I’m ensuring they aren’t spreading too many rumors about me.”
Ah. It always comes back to how things affect him. “Feel free to skip those stories. It”s of no consequence to you what I happen to be doing or who I’m with. I know you don’t care about the people you’ve bulldozed in your quest for world dominance. No attachments and all that.”
I’m glib, but the words still taste of poisonous hurts and insecurities. He can’t possibly begin to understand the pain he caused me, even though I knew his “rules”. No attachments. No repeats. Short-term fun only. I’d agreed to them, even. How was I supposed to know we would find something special in the middle of the ocean and it would change me forever? I thought it had changed him, too, but I was wrong.
I can’t have been the only foolish girl to think maybe I was different. That maybe the extra time he spent with me meant something. Maybe I meant something. I quickly learned just how wrong I was to assume he would ever care about anything other than his work and his own pleasure.
Zander’s face gives nothing away, and I’m surprised to feel disappointment when he nods. “Take care of yourself, Lowe. Javi will get this straightened out. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Words freeze in my throat when he turns, dismissing me, and returning to the Land Rover as Javier hurries forward, wringing his hands.
“I reported this to my insurance, and they’ll cover everything. But,” he says, looking away from me in hesitation, “I don’t have my card on me. I can text you a photo when I get back to the office. I’m so sorry to take up so much of your morning and for causing this inconvenience.”
“That’s too fucking convenient,” I say, hand moving to my hip. “How do I know you won’t just disappear and leave me with a crazy insurance claim to take care of? Do you work with him?” I ask, nodding at Zander.
“Yes, so you know where to find me. If there is anything insurance doesn”t cover, I will personally. I don”t want you coming out of pocket for anything. This was my fault. Let’s exchange numbers in case there is anything that comes up?” His voice belies an almost endearing nervousness.
I sigh as I enter his number in my phone, and quickly text him my contact information, just so I can check he gave me a real number. His phone vibrates, and he shows me, an apologetic half-smile softening the rugged planes of his face. “If I have to drag you out of that tower downtown to get your damn insurance card, I”m going to be pissed,” I mutter.
“I promise you won’t have to. I’m so sorry about this. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to pay for a thing,” Javier repeats as we finish up.
I can feel Zander’s eyes on me throughout the exchange, and it makes me nervous. More so because he knows about Hendricks. I wanted to stay off his radar for my son’s sake, but fate has other plans, it seems.
When I finally flop back into my seat, I have three sets of eyes glued to me. “What do you nosy bitches want?” I ask, signaling to get back onto the highway in the still gridlocked morning traffic.
“Why didn’t I know you dated Zander Olsen?” Alicia asks immediately.
“He’s so hot. You two are like gorgeousness personified standing next to each other,” Callie gushes. “I think I was just inspired for my spring/summer line from that one interaction alone! I can see it now, menswear-inspired pieces with florals and chiffon,” she muses, clapping her hands and speaking her thoughts out loud.
“Oh, please. Don”t wax hoetic about that jackass,” Paloma says to Callie, before leaning forward and focusing on me. “Are you okay, Lolo?” she asks, placing a cool hand on my shoulder. I cover hers with my own for a moment and check the lanes next to me as traffic finally eases up, and the flow opens enough for me to merge
back onto the highway.
I feel more disrupted and unsure of my life than ever. I started the morning on a high feeling like I had my shit together, promoting my new cookbook on a local news channel. I began feeling like a failure for running late, ruining my son’s day, and possibly jeopardizing his spot at school. It really went downhill with the weird flex of fate of being hit in traffic, both slowing down my already beleaguered schedule, then, the ultimate fuck your self-confidence, chucking Zander into the already chaotic mix.
If he only knew that I see his face every day when I look at my son, that I think of our short time together and my failure to create the sort of security for my son that a father would have provided, he may have been less casual, less unaffected. But that’s not how Zander rolls, and I knew it when I agreed to a spontaneous trip with him. Stupid, na?ve girl. There is so much I would change, so much I wish I had known then.
Even so, the best thing to ever happen to me came from it.
“I’m okay. For now,” I answer.