“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means your face is all red, and you look like the cat who ate the canary.”
I debate whether I want to say anything to Harley about what happened this morning. The three of us don’t generally keep secrets from one another, and I’m not entirely sure I’ll be able to keep it from either of my sisters, even if I wanted to.
“Maybe it should wait until we get to Spark House. What kind of mood is London in this morning?”
“Oh my God! Does this mean you two hooked up?” Harley’s eyes light up like it’s Christmas baking day—which incidentally is her favorite time of year. Any time she can make cookies and tarts, she’s a happy camper.
“Do I look like I’m in any kind of condition to entertain a hookup?” I motion to my half-casted form.
“Something happened though, right? Like something had to have happened. Did you make out? Did he kiss you? Was there groping?”
“I’m answering none of these questions right now.”
She hits the brakes a little harder than necessary when a light changes yellow—she’s been driving extra cautiously on my behalf, aware I’m still nervous. She glances in the rearview mirror and claps excitedly. “Something totally went down! Your face is so red right now. This is so exciting!”
“You sound like you’ve been waiting for this to happen,” I mutter.
She gives me an incredulous look. “Seriously, Ave?”
“Seriously what?”
“Oh come on, you two have been friends for years and you freaking live together. I sort of expected something to happen a lot sooner, but times of crisis have a way of either pulling people apart or bringing them closer together.” Her expression turns wistful for a moment.
“I don’t think London is going to be nearly as excited about this as you are. And you never answered my question about what kind of mood she’s in.”
Harley glances at me briefly before she focuses on the road again. “She’s a little stressed out.”
“Is that why it’s just you picking me up, or is there more to it?” I press. “Did something happen with that photographer guy she’s been seeing?”
“It’s not about Daniel. They’re still seeing each other.” Harley taps the wheel with a sigh. “I need to tell you something.”
“This doesn’t sound good.” Anxiety makes my throat tight. “Did something happen?”
“It’s more like something didn’t happen.” She makes a face. “We didn’t get the alumni account for your university.”
“What? Why not? It was practically in the bag; my meeting was supposed to be a formality.”
“Yeah, I know. But it was a formality when you were involved. We pitched your ideas, but without your knowledge to back it all up, and with the uncertainty of when you’d be able to work on the project, they didn’t feel good about making the commitment. London was crushed, and she’s been afraid to tell you because she doesn’t want you to be upset with her.”
“Why would I be upset with her?” Am I disappointed? Sure. But it’s not her fault it didn’t work out.
“Because her pitch flopped. She’s really struggling, Ave. And I don’t want to put this on you because you have enough to deal with, but I don’t think either of us realized exactly how much weight you pull at Spark House until you weren’t there to pull it. This is your passion and it always has been. You live and breathe Spark House. You make everything look so easy and effortless, when really it’s not.”
She’s not wrong. Until this accident, the only thing I did other than work was hang out with Declan and the guys and play rec soccer. Even now, with my being stuck at home, I’m still trying to get stuff done, although it’s not as easy doing it remotely. Still, I don’t want my sisters to feel like losing the alumni account means they’ve somehow failed. “I just talk a good game.”
“Uh, that’s absolutely not true. You have an incredible presence and people are drawn to you. That’s a fact.” She blows out a breath. “So yeah, that’s where London’s at this morning.”
“So maybe I should keep my mouth shut about Declan, then.”
“You can try, but I doubt you’ll be successful. London will pick up on something, and if you keep it from her, it’ll hurt her feelings. You and I both know how sensitive she is.”
Harley’s not wrong. London is incredibly sensitive. She just hides it well.
Harley makes a right onto the long, winding driveway leading to Spark House, the massive mansion-style hotel we’ve turned into a unique event space. Pink ribbons adorn the lampposts and huge, tacky metallic pink unicorns are interspersed between them.
“It looks like we’re prepping for a six-year-old’s birthday party, not a bachelorette,” I remark.
“Just you wait until you see the food and cake designs. I have never met an adult woman so in love with pink and unicorns, makes me wonder if she was either deprived as a kid or totally overindulged.”