Is there a way to combat nervous anticipation? If there is, I wish to God somebody would clue me in on it. Meeting Harlow without knowing why she wants to meet is brutal. Knowing she must have some agenda and not being in control of the outcome has reduced me to a nervous wreck. I read somewhere that a calm mind promotes inner strength, but hell if I can stay calm. There are too many variables that can affect this get-together. Her health is the biggest one, and it scares me to death if I’m going to be truthful. Maybe she has good news, and she’s about to tell me that she’s found a donor? Hope blossoms in my chest before rationality takes a hold and squashes it back down. It would be more likely that the opposite ws about to happen, and do I really want to hear it? Can I hear it?
I’ve tortured myself with researching her condition every day since seeing her last. There isn’t a website or medical forum I’ve left unexplored. There’s no escaping that Harlow needs a donor’s heart, and I’ve poured over all the information accessible to me, hoping I could find something to ease the anxiety—a statistic, anything I can grasp onto that offers hope. I found the statistics I was looking for. I challenged them, looked for evidence that they were wrong, but was only left feeling more inept for it. The odds of Harlow first finding a donor with a compatible blood type, and then her body accepting that heart, are less than five percent. It’s a horrifying figure, given that it assumes Harlow is at the top of the donor register and she’s not.
Get a grip, Ellis.
I pull a black t-shirt over my head, followed by my dark gray sweater and push my cell and wallet into the back pocket of my jeans. I quickly take a glance at my appearance in the mirror. Insomnia has been kicking my ass, and I look like hell, but at least I’ve shaved. I dip my fingers into the pot of styling wax resting on the vanity and rub the stuff haphazardly through my hair before quickly making my way out of my bathroom. I walk through the bedroom (which also happens to be my living room and kitchen) and grab my keys from the hook as I exit through the front door of my studio apartment. The whole journey takes less than twenty strides. Still, this place feels positively huge given the square footage of my last permanent residence.
I take the steps in the hall two at a time, dropping heavily onto each one until I’m on the ground floor and opening the hefty scratched-up metal door that leads from the back of the garage workshop I live above. The smell of motor oil hits me square in the chest, its consistent existence oddly soothing. I walk around the building to the back where the customers drive in and leave their cars. My bike rests in the far corner of the lot. I haven’t gotten around to buying a car yet, and Manny, the guy who owns the garage, sold me an old Triumph Bonneville America in exchange for labor. It had been his, but his wife refuses to let him drive it now that they have children, much to his chagrin.
I’ve been helping out when I have free time away from my mind-numbingly boring job, but beggars can’t be choosers—or maybe that should be felons can’t be choosers? Manny’s a nice guy, he’s not prejudiced about a person’s past. There are not too many people willing to give a guy a break when they find out he’s just done a stretch inside for killing a man. He’s the older brother of a friend from Morrison. Santi had given me Manny’s number and told me he’d help me out with work if I needed it on the outside. It was startling how quickly I’d realized I needed to take him up on that offer.
The drive over to Joe Van Gough’s takes me forty minutes, which is roughly enough time for me to run through every plausible reason Harlow could have for wanting to meet up. I kick my bike stand out, shake out my shoulders and make my way to the door, trying to portray a coolness I in no way feel.
I’ve wanted to call Harlow every day since we exchanged numbers, and frankly, I’m amazed that she was the one to contact me. I would have done it a million times by now if I’d known what to say to her. Instead, I’ve been casually driving past her work every day, hoping to catch sight of her. It’s my way of making sure she’s still okay, without bothering her. At least this way I can still love her from afar. I hadn’t actually thought about how creepy that might seem until now. It’s not like I’m stalking her or anything. I just wanted to put my mind at rest that she’s okay. The days that I catch her walking from the building or pulling out in her car are the ones when I sleep better at night.
I pull the door open and step inside the coffee shop. I haven’t been in this place before, and I’m hit with a waft of hot air as I pass over the threshold. My nose is invaded with the pungent and almost overwhelming perfume of fresh coffee. I look around scanning the tables, and my eyes immediately catch on the small blonde in the corner staring straight at me. Her presence is like a homing beacon, always has been. I smile, my nerves easing that she is actually here, and raise my hand in a self-conscious sort of wave. I make my way around the tables to where she’s sitting, trying to gauge her mood and plan my greeting. Her face is completely impassive until I reach her and the tiniest of frowns creases her forehead. It almost causes me to pause, but then she smiles and mouths hello, urging me on.
All my game is gone—not that I had much to begin with—and standing in front of her has shrunk me from the man I am to the boys I was. To prove that point, the most obstinate greeting ever played out ensues. I automatically lean in to kiss her cheek in greeting. She reads me wrong and gives me a very awkward shoulder clinch like she was maybe going to hug me then changed her mind at the last moment. We’re doing a strange kind of robotic dance, trying to anticipate the other’s movements and it’s uncomfortable as hell.
“Oh, my god I’m just going to sit down,” she says in a high-pitched squeaky voice.
I straighten my posture, looking down at her peering back up at me and I can’t help myself—I grin.
“Well, that was all kinds of awkward.”
“It really was, wasn’t it? I don’t even know what I was attempting,” she confesses before taking a sip of her drink to regain her composure.
I pull the seat opposite out and drop myself down into it, not breaking eye contact. Her lips are still twitching, and her eyes are sparkling, I notice. That has to be a good sign, I hope.
“How are you?” we both ask at the same time.
“Okay, you first,” I tell her, sweeping my hand out in front of us, gesturing for her to go ahead.
“I’m good, thanks, Ellis.” There’s a false cheeriness to her voice that contradicts her answer, and even if there wasn’t I’d have known she was talking bull. She was always a lousy liar. I suppose if this is the tact she wants to take I should indulge her.
“That’s good to hear.”
“You know what,” she says before taking another sip from her cup. “That’s not entirely accurate.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end; I wasn’t expecting her to call herself out. I hold my breath in preparation for whatever she’s about to hit me with.
“I’ve been kind of distracted lately, and well, honestly, I’m blaming you.”
Now that’s definitely not what I was anticipating, but she doesn’t sound annoyed, and her body language is still open and positive.
“You’re blaming me for you being distracted?”
“Yep. You see I’m not big on surprises anymore. Go figure, right?” She cocks an eyebrow, staring pointedly at me.
I lean back, crossing my ankle over my knee, and she takes the opportunity to slowly scan me from top to toe. I clear my throat to mask my amusement at her lack of subtly, and an eruption of deep pink pigment blooms instantly over her cheeks. I love that I can still do that to her. My pulse kicks up a notch, my body reacting to hers like they’re somehow still in sync.
“Seeing you has kind of messed me up.”
The warmth spreading through me is extinguished in that one sentence. I drop my foot back down to the floor, lean forward and place my hands over hers nursing the coffee cup she’s holding between us. The small contact sends a huge blast of adrenaline through my system.
“Harlow, I’m so sorry, I never meant for—”
“Stop.” Her hands slide from under my own as she swipes an invisible hair behind her ear, then settles them under her thighs. She’s literally sitting on her hands to keep them out of my reach. Wow, that stings.
“I’m not looking for an apology, I’m just being honest with you. We used to be good at it—it was easy—do you remember? I’ve been kind of a mess, and I think it’s because I wanted to pretend that you weren’t around, you know? Just carry on like the other month never happened. But it did happen, and I can’t stop overanalyzing it. The more I tell myself that I don’t miss you, that more I kind of do? I don’t know, I guess I’m not making much sense. What I’m trying to say—and failing miserably—is that I miss you, Ellis. I’ve missed having you in my life, as problematic and screwed up as that is. I thought I was done with feeling like this years ago, but apparently not.”
The world falls away at her admission. The soft coffee house jazz is suddenly muted, the art covering the walls blurs together, and the only thing in focus now is Harlow.
“There hasn’t been a day that we’ve been apart that I haven’t missed you too. It might not be how or what you want to feel, but I don’t want you to beat yourself up over it.”
“Yeah, well that’s easier said than done.”
Don’t I know it! I pray every night that I might somehow wake up with no memory of her, my slate completely wiped. How sweet it would be to not be tortured by an overbearing, continuous sense of longing. It’s the little things that get me—like knowing the way it feels to wake up beside her. Not feeling her soft sleepy breath against my skin, or having her crazy hair all up in my face—that’s the stuff that hurts the most. I can’t escape my memories no matter how hard I try, and the good ones are more painful than the bad.
“You wanna get out of here?” I ask on a whim. Everything feels so weighted between us. “How about we go get some air? We could try spending some time together without focusing on the baggage.”
Her nose crinkles from the way her brows knit tightly together.
“You think we could do that? Spend time without letting our past get in the way?”
Probably not, but I don’t say that, of course. I nod instead. “I’m willing to try if you are.”
The chair scrapes across the tile as I push it back and stand, holding out my hand to her. I want to tell her to take a chance and grab hold. I can’t promise that I can make her feel better, but God if she’ll just let me, I’ll try.
She’s frozen in place, looking at my hand and making no effort to take it. The pause feels embarrassingly long. Should I withdraw? Sit back down? Why isn’t she doing anything?
“Don’t die wondering, right?”
Her words are spoken in a soft whisper that sounds almost contrite. I’m not sure if they’re meant for her or for me, but she takes my hand anyway. Her fingers push through mine, her soft, warm palm flattening against my much larger rougher one. Our hands fit together effortlessly like they, at least, remember how to exist together.
“Where would you like to go?” I ask, pulling her in step with me as I head for the door.
“I thought you had somewhere in mind—you’re the one who suggested getting out of here!”
“And that’s what we’re doing, getting out.” I grin as I reach over and hold the door for her. “But the next part is up to you.”
The door is still slightly ajar, and I hear Harlow say in a low motherly tone, “Okay, mister, come and meet my friend, Ellis.”
I’m surprised as hell that we’ve ended up at her house. We walked around Durham until Harlow was too tired to go any further, which was way sooner than I’d imagined. Then she suggested I come and meet her and Martin’s illegitimate child. It took me a while to realize she was referring to her dog.
The sound of paws clattering over hardwood in a scurried frenzy is preceded by a stubby mass of wrinkled white and tan skin, and a downright squashed snout. It looks like someone’s opened a door into the poor dog’s face.
“He’s a bulldog?”
“Yeah,” Harlow answers, following him into the lounge. His little legs are sliding out in all directions as he tries to move across the floor with all the grace of a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest. The poor little fella can’t walk for shit on this floor.
He finally reaches me, and I’m waiting for him to fuss around my feet, but he lazily takes a quick sniff around my ankles before collapsing down next to me like he’s just run a marathon.
“What’s his name?” I ask rubbing his head. His skin moves and droops over his eyes, but he doesn’t seem to mind it.
“Collin,” she says affectionately, looking at him collapsed beside me. The droopy part of his mouth is splayed over my left foot.
“You named your dog Collin? What kind of name is that for a dog?” I tease.
“The best kind, thank you very much!”
He’s one of those pets you’d describe as ugly cute. Like, he’s so ugly that it’s endearing. He definitely looks like more of a guy’s dog. If you tried stuffing him into a purse to carry around town like celebs do, you’d throw your back and shoulder out for sure. What he lacks in height he sure makes up for in girth.
“Hey, come here, mister,” Harlow calls. He lifts his head and looks at her for a moment before deciding it’d be way too much work to get back up. He does the doggy version of a “you gotta be kidding me” look and rests his head back down.
“I think he likes me more than you,” I muse.
“What, no way! He’s only known you for twenty seconds. Come here, Collin, come on.”
Collin doesn’t move.
“Aww, you want to stay with me, don’t ya, boy?” I give his head another little rub, and he lets out a grunt of pleasure, followed by enough wind to gas out an entire football stadium.
“Jesus Christ, what do you feed him?” My eyes literally begin to water as I cup my hands over my nose to guard against the stench.
Harlow’s face splits into a big grin. It’s only seconds before she’s in stitches. Her arms are wrapped around her waist; her chest bent forward, and head tilted back. She always used to say she hated her laugh, but every time I hear her bark out in abandonment and snort adorably I feel myself fall a little more in love with her.
Moments like this make me wonder if all that’s ever happened is nothing but a lie, and this is how were meant to be.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “Quickly, open that window before we both pass out.”
The infectious guffaw she can’t seem to control conveys more energy and pure unadulterated joy than I’ve witnessed from her since reconnecting a couple of months ago. I’m futile in my attempts to keep my nose shielded, and despite my best efforts to hold it in my own laughter explodes from my pursed lips.
“It smells so bad! Seriously, this can’t be normal.” I’m genuinely baffled as to how such a small creature can produce anything like this.
“Ellis, the window!” Harlow giggles hoarsely, shooing me into action.
I don’t make it to the window, though. The sound of a door slamming closed jolts me. I turn to see who it is and all signs of laughter die in my throat as my heart literally stutters and sinks deep within the cavern of my chest. I stand tall, snapped into place by my own cowardice.
“Ellis?” Dianne proclaims, stunned.
“Mom!” Harlow gawps.
Not now, I think to myself. Not like this. I don’t want the memory of today—the first good day we’ve had—tainted by what’s about to happen. I knew I’d have to confront Harlow’s mom eventually, but selfishly I wanted more time.
“Hello, Dianne.”