V.
I found Harlow in the kitchen. She was sitting on one of the elevated wooden stools at the breakfast bar, devouring a freshly baked pistachio cupcake, jamming out to something on her iPhone. When she caught sight of me, she slipped off her earbuds and pushed the tray of cupcakes toward me. “Want one?”
I sat down beside her and grabbed a cupcake. I took a large bite. The nutty pistachio taste mixed with the sweet buttercream of the icing. Perfection. “These are so freaking good.”
“I know,” Harlow said brightly.
“Is Quinn still thinking about renaming her band Cupcakes on Crack in your honor?”
The tips of Harlow’s ears reddened. Harlow never blushed in her cheeks. Only in her ears. “I think so.” She tapped her fingers against the rose-colored quartz of the breakfast bar. Her black fingernail polish was starting to chip. “But why are we talking about that when”—she thumbed toward the living room—“this is happening?”
I shrugged. “I dunno. That”—I imitated her thumbing gesture—“is way overwhelming. Plus, I was trying to seem interested.”
Harlow sometimes accused me of not being interested or invested in anything that had to do with Quinn. To be honest, Quinn’s band was still a bit of a sore subject between Harlow and me. Before Quinn, Harlow and I had been toying around with a music project. I don’t know if you could call it a band exactly.
I wrote the music. And the two of us came up with lyrics, and then Harlow sang them while I played the piano. It was sort of jazzy—sort of cabaret with a punk edge. We would go to the thrift store and find ridiculous outfits to wear while performing—vintage dresses and pumps, leopard-print boas, cloche hats.
We never performed for anyone except ourselves, and accidentally my mother a few times. But we’d had plans to maybe enter our school’s talent show or a local battle of the bands competition. But then Harlow met Quinn. And Quinn was the lead singer in a newly formed band. A real band. One that performed at real venues and had a real, if small, fan base.
Harlow suddenly seemed embarrassed of our little project. She started making excuses about why she didn’t have time to practice and kept dodging my invitations to come over and brainstorm lyrics to a new melody I’d come up with. I quickly got the message and dropped it. I’ve never been good at confronting people. Especially when I’m afraid of the answer.
On the afternoons when Harlow was busy hanging out with Quinn and Quinn’s friends, I sometimes would take out one of the vintage costumes we’d found at the thrift store, put it on, and play my heart out on the piano. That helped me to feel less lonely.
“I miss it,” I blurted out.
“What?” said Harlow.
“Everything.”
Harlow licked some of the frosting off her cupcake. She glanced down at her fingers. “I know. Me too.”
“Do you?” I pressed.
She nodded, and somehow that was enough for now.
I fiddled with the wrapper on my cupcake. “He wants me to go to Oak Falls with him.”
“I know. I overheard.”
I gave her a questioning look and pointed at the earbuds.
“They aren’t completely noise-canceling,” she said sheepishly.
I dipped my finger into the icing and licked it. “You’ve been eavesdropping?”
“Obviously. I mean, I know he’s your dad. Or maybe your dad. But he was Julian Oliver first. That’s kind of a big freaking deal.”
I laughed a little. “Yeah. I guess it is a big freaking deal. So should I go?”
She sighed. “Honestly, Tal. I don’t know. I have a million questions. Like I’m sure you do.”
I set my half-eaten cupcake to the side and rested my elbows against the kitchen counter. “Yeah. But maybe this is my chance to get answers.”
Harlow touched my wrist. “Don’t you think you should at least call your mom?”
“She’d flip out.”
“Exactly.”
“But what if she’s flipping out for the wrong reasons?”
Harlow took her hand away and leaned back so she could study me. “What do you mean?”
“Maybe the situation between them is complicated. I guess I’ve built up this big narrative in my head that he’s”—I thumbed toward the living room again—“this big asshole that left her. And maybe that’s true. But maybe it isn’t. The truth of it is that I don’t know anything.”
“Right. But—”
I cut her off. “And don’t you think it’s more than a little weird that she’s kept this from me my entire life?”
“Yeah. But I’m sure she has her reasons. I trust your mom. What I don’t know is if we can trust him.”
I grabbed the cupcake and took another bite. “It’s not like he’s going to ax-murder me or something.”
“Right.” Harlow looked for a moment like she was actually considering the likelihood of that. “I’d sure hope not. But there are a million other dangers involved in going off on a trip with a strange man besides getting ax-murdered.”
“Is he a strange man?”
“Yes,” Harlow said emphatically. “I know you think he’s your—”
“He’s already admitted he is!”
“Yeah,” Harlow pointed out. “He’s admitted it, but your mom has never told you that.”
“Exactly. And isn’t that fucked up? For fuck’s sake, she told me my dad was dead. Dead, Harlow. That’s a pretty traumatic thing to tell a little girl, especially if it isn’t true.”
“Maybe,” Harlow said slowly.
“Harlow. Come on.”
“Okay. It’s pretty messed up. But only if he is, in fact, your father. And we don’t know that for sure.”
“Should I demand we get a DNA test right now? Should I march in there and swab out some of his saliva?”
She rolled her eyes, exasperated. “I wasn’t saying that.”
“So what were you saying?”
“That you should call your mom.”
“But she’s going to tell me not to go.”
“Exactly.”
We stared at each other for a few moments.
“So I have an idea,” I finally said.
“Taliah,” she groaned. “Please. Not one of your ideas.”
“Hear me out.”
She licked frosting off her thumbnail.
“Why don’t you and I both go with him to Oak Falls.”
“Taliah,” she repeated sternly.
“And that way, you’ll know I’m safe.”
She frowned. “It doesn’t work like that. Plus, I made plans with Quinn tonight.”
I matched her frown. “You can reschedule with Quinn.”
Harlow gave me a helpless look. “I just don’t know, Tal.”
“Okay. How about you think about it this way? Push everything else aside and focus on the fact that Julian Oliver, famous front man of an iconic rock band, is sitting in my living room asking us to take a road trip with him. Forget the other details. You’d say yes to that.”
“Asking you.”
“Semantics,” I said.
“Road trip to Oak Falls, Indiana.”
“So?” I said, and repeated, “Semantics.”
“I don’t think that word means what you think it means.”
“Semantics,” I said, a big stupid grin spreading across my face. “Come on, Har. This summer has been so boring so far. Let’s do something fun.”
She frowned again. “I don’t think it’s been boring.”
I groaned. “That’s because you have a hot girlfriend. But me? Not so much action happening.”
Harlow made a face.
“I’m kidding. But seriously, come on. Let’s do something memorable. Me and you.”
“And him,” Harlow said, glancing toward the living room.
“Yeah. And him. The famous freaking rock star.”
“That we don’t know.”
“Right. Which is the point of the aforementioned trip,” I argued. “Plus,” I added, hoping to play to Harlow’s sentimental side, “it will give me a chance to meet my grandparents. I’ve never met any of my grandparents.”
Harlow looked uncertain. “That’s because they still live in Jordan.”
“Lived,” I corrected her. “Mom’s dad died before she even came to the US. Her mom died a few years later.”
“Right.”
“So this would be really special. It’s a chance to meet my grandfather before he passes.” I watched her facial features wrinkle in thought. “And to meet my grandma. Maybe she’s really cool. Maybe I could actually forge a relationship with one of my four grandparents. Twenty-five percent isn’t great, but it’s something.”
Harlow took a deep breath, pulled out her phone, and texted something quickly. I could tell she was softening.
“And,” I continued, piling it on, “this is my chance to really learn what went down with my parents, you know? This is my history, Harlow. Don’t you think I deserve to know it?”
Her eyebrows knitted together, her eyes still glued to her phone screen.
“Is that a yes?” I pressed.
“Okay, fine. But when we get there, you call your mom.”
I grinned. “Deal.”