But even as the thoughts circle my head, I know there’s nothing I could have done differently, even if I’d tried. Harlow is my kryptonite. Always has been and probably always will be, even when she’s married to the carefully and logically selected man of her dreams and I’m halfway across the country working with whatever team wants to take me on after my stint in Syracuse.
Imagining Harlow married to some asshole who checks all her boxes makes me want to call Evie and cancel, but I don’t.
Nothing good will come from staying in, throwing darts at my dartboard, and pretending it’s Harlow’s future husband’s face. And Evie’s almost always in a good mood lately. I’ll do my best to enjoy her happiness and let go of feeling sorry for myself for a while.
It’ll be good for me.
Or, at least better than being alone.
Deciding to skip the subway in the name of a head-clearing walk, I head over to Ninth Avenue and start south, past the familiar bodegas and restaurants and the less familiar outdoor dining huts that have become a thing in the city these days, even in the winter. As I walk past the dimly lit individual dining pods and patios warmed by portable heaters, I do my best not to look at the couples snuggled up at tables for two.
I never even got to take Harlow on a proper date…
I reach for my cell to text her a request for a real night out before she writes us off completely, but then force myself to leave the phone in my coat pocket. She made herself perfectly clear this morning. She’s made her decision, and I have to respect it, no matter how much it hurts.
But the sight of so many couples out enjoying a pre-holiday date night together—eating at their favorite restaurant, wandering through the holiday market in Union Square, and spilling out of bars laughing as I head into the West Village—works dark magic on my already low mood.
By the time I’ve completed the forty-five-minute walk to Hella Good, I’m ready to call a cab and head home.
Or maybe just throw myself in front of a cab.
This was a bad idea. Evie’s going to sense that something’s wrong. She’s an art therapist, not a therapist therapist, but I swear she’s better attuned to my emotions than I am most of the time.
She’ll see that I’m hurting and want to talk about it, but I can’t talk about this.
I can never let Evie know that I fell in love with her best friend.
I wrench open the restaurant’s door, stepping into the warm, tomato-and-cheese-scented air, already planning my excuse to leave early. I’ll tell Evie I think I have food poisoning or something, order one beer, and then head for home.
But when I search the tables filled with laughing college kids and families out for pizza with squirming toddlers attempting to escape from their highchairs, I don’t see Evie’s blond curls. Or any sign of Cameron or Jess. I decided not to invite my friends from the team, so there aren’t any giant hockey players to look for, but I should still be able to spot Evie and her friends.
I’m running a little late and Evie is always early.
I approach the hostess stand and smile at the teen in the “Pizza is My Life” shirt. “Hey, I’m here to meet my sister and her friends. She’s petite, green eyes, short curly blond hair?”
His eyes light up in recognition. “Oh, yeah. Hey! You’re Derrick, right?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“Cool.” He grabs what looks like a shoebox from a shelf in the stand in front of him and motions for me to follow him toward the back of the restaurant. “We set you up in a private room. Less noise.”
“Oh, okay, thanks.” My brow furrows, but I follow him through the crowded tables and down the narrow hallway leading past the restrooms.
I don’t know why we need a private room for a party of four, but maybe Evie has something up her sleeve. She and Jess have been after me to play some horrible-sounding fantasy game where you pretend to be wizards and orcs. They apparently need at least four people to launch a campaign and Harlow refuses to play on the grounds that she “doesn’t have time for weird wizard shit.”
Another pang hits my heart.
Fuck, I love that woman. I love her practical, hysterical, spot-on take on fantasy card games and just about everything else.
She’s almost always right.
Except about us. She’s wrong about that, I know it, but I also know changing her mind is virtually impossible. I’m more likely to see my classy Hepburn girl in a brown robe, rolling dice and pretending to be a goblin with toxic fart powers than on my arm again.
I’m so distracted by my pity party—and brainstorming excuses to bolt if Evie’s in here with Orc Wizards of Inner Earth spread out on the private table—that I’m not paying attention when the host opens the door.