“I’m also leaving tomorrow,” I say, way more excited by this coincidence than I should be, especially considering Harlow looks like she’s just learned there were crickets in the box of chocolates she just finished. “I can give you a ride if you’d like. Save you the train fare.”
Harlow’s eyes go wide, and she mutters something that sounds like, “I don’t believe in signs,” but before I can ask her to repeat herself, Evie pipes up, “Oh, come on, Harlow. You should totally let Derrick drive you. He’s headed up there anyway, and you hate Penn Station.”
“Of course, I hate Penn Station. You know what happened last time.”
“What happened last time?” I ask.
“A man wearing a Mylar balloon as a dress peed on her luggage and stole her cupcakes,” Evie explains.
“He wasn’t well hydrated. The smell was awful. And I really wanted cupcakes,” Harlow mumbles, still looking like she’s seen a ghost.
I’d be insulted that the thought of a couple hours in my company was such a dreadful prospect, but I get the feeling this isn’t about me.
At least not entirely.
So, I do my best to keep my voice neutral as I promise, “Well, I won’t pee on your luggage. I’ll even load it into the trunk for you and let you rule the radio. As long as you don’t make me listen to true crime podcasts.”
Laughing, Evie says, “Derrick can’t handle true crime. It gives him nightmares.”
Some of the color returning to her cheeks, Harlow nods. “Me, too. I get enough proof that humanity is a dumpster fire walking the city streets every day. I don’t need to hear about serial killers cruising around in their murder vans hunting innocent humans on top of it.”
“Agreed,” I say. “That’s why I listen to old ball games. Or The Happy Spot. It’s this podcast by a psychologist who—”
“Studies the science of happiness,” Harlow supplies. “I listen to it all the time.”
My brows lift. “Really?”
“Really,” she says, before adding with a deadpan expression, “That’s why I’m so fucking happy, Derrick. Obviously.”
Her delivery is so spot-on, I can’t help but laugh. And not just any laugh, this one comes straight from my gut, the kind of chortle that makes your stomach tighten and your eyes tear up.
I expect Harlow to slap my arm or mock me for losing my shit. Instead, she starts laughing, too, this husky, full-throated number that instantly makes her even prettier.
Cool, brilliant, smartass Harlow is sexy as hell, no doubt about it, but laughing, pink-cheeked Harlow is…delightful.
For a moment, her walls are down, and I see the girl I used to know, the one who thought I was the coolest big brother ever and always thanked me for letting her tag along with Evie to my hockey games in high school.
Little-girl Harlow was a feisty, PG version of her current smartass self, but also very sweet, and almost always smiling. I haven’t seen Harlow’s smile much the past few years. I assumed it was because she loathed me and was saving her smiles for her friends, family, and other people who hadn’t gotten on her bad side.
But now I wonder…
Maybe Harlow isn’t as happy as she’d like to be. Maybe she’s as lost as I am, looking around at all the dreams she’s made come true for herself and wondering why “success” doesn’t feel as good as it’s supposed to.
“Then, it’s settled,” Evie says as Harlow and I finally regain control. “You’ll drive up together tomorrow morning and listen to shiny, happy podcasts the entire way. And who knows? Maybe by the end of the ride, you’ll realize you have tons of other things in common and bury the hatchet once and for all. No pressure, but you know I’d love for you two to be friends. I adore you both so much.”
“Love you, too, Squirt,” I say, my chest filling with a twisty, guilty feeling that I do my best to push away.
I’m not lying to Evie; I’m sparing her unnecessary drama. Spilling my emotional guts to my little sister about my crush on her best friend would only make things weird. I’m too old to have a crush, especially on a woman who can’t stand me. Falling for the girl who stomps on your foot at recess isn’t a good look in elementary school. At thirty-two, it’s pathetic and possibly pathological.
Or maybe it’s just an unexplored kink. Maybe you secretly want a bossy woman in three-inch heels to walk all over you.
I wrinkle my nose at the thought. I most certainly do not want that.
Though Harlow does look damned good in heels…
But she looks just as good in socked feet, a fact she proves as she pushes away from the table and stands with a weary sigh. “I also love you, Evie. And I love being able to nap on a trip without worrying a stranger is going to steal my purse or take pictures up my skirt while I’m unconscious. So yes, Derrick, I will accept your generous offer of a ride to Shufflebottoms’. What time should I be ready?”