Even when I’m jabbing my finger at Vince and shouting, I still look sort of cute. And absolutely harmless.
The puking part is, admittedly, super gross, but most of the clips cut out right after. And now that I’ve seen for myself how Vince’s fiancée was smirking at me while I was giving him a piece of my mind, I don’t feel so bad about baptizing her in my drunk girl shame.
She was clearly enjoying my meltdown and her perceived sense of superiority.
“What a wretched little beastie,” Harlow says, watching the video over my shoulder.
“Which one?” I ask, taking another sip of my coffee.
“Both,” she replies, settling into the chair beside me in her black silk robe, looking elegant even first thing in the morning. “So how freaked out are you this morning? On a scale of one to ten? One is completely chill, ten is considering plastic surgery to change your face and moving to Mexico.”
I ponder that for a moment. “About a four, I think. Maybe a five if I end up losing my job with the team.”
“You won’t. Derrick will go to bat for you. You know he will, even if he’s pissed off.”
I shut my laptop with a sigh. “Yeah. Maybe. But I did tell him to butt out of my life last night, so…”
“I heard that. And that you’re going to be your true, authentic self. Sounds pretty awesome.”
I glance over to see a soft, vulnerable smile on her face, the one that only comes out when we’re alone and my guarded best friend feels safe lowering her defenses.
“Thanks,” I say, returning the grin. “Now I just have to figure out who that is.”
“You know,” she says with way more confidence than I feel. “You’ve got this, girl. No doubt in my mind. And it’s high time Derrick got his own life and stayed the hell out of yours.”
“He has a life,” I say, instinctively coming to his defense, the way I always do, even though I’m still angry about the way he barged over here last night. “He’s busy all the time with the team and he drives down to New Jersey every Thursday to take Dad to his physical therapy appointment because he won’t go if he doesn’t.”
My dad had a stroke eighteen months ago, most likely brought on by the heavy drinking he did when Derrick and I were kids. He’s been sober for almost ten years, but the damage was already done.
He did a decent job of going to physical therapy at first, but once he recovered enough to get around the house and handle basic day-to-day activities, he started skipping his sessions. So, he’s still on disability, still unable to return to work at the marina repairing boats and being on the water he loves, and still deeply depressed—and pissed—about all the above.
As much as I hoped things might be different, Dad isn’t one of those people who had a brush with death and came out the other side a kinder, gentler person. If anything, he’s even crankier now than he used to be.
Harlow grunts and takes another sip of her coffee. “Okay. Whatever you say. I’m just glad you finally put your foot down.” She reaches over, stealing a piece of my pancake off my plate and popping it into her mouth before she asks in an uncharacteristically anxious voice, “So this thing with Ian… Are we really going to let him be our love guru? In the cold light of morning, does that still seem like a good idea?”
I nibble my bottom lip, debating whether to tell Harlow that I think I might have a crush on Ian. And that I might have flirted with him a little via text last night…
In the end, I decide letting anyone, even my best friend, in on my feelings will only add to my stress. But that doesn’t mean I can’t enlist her help. My master plan is only half formed, but a makeover—an authentic makeover, with no Lycra involved—is absolutely in order and who better to help with that than the most fashionable woman I know?
“I do,” I say, “but I think we should also plan on helping ourselves. You up for taking Jess and me shopping later today for a few date-ready outfits?”
Harlow’s eyes light up with a feverish joy only her fellow shopaholic fashion hunters can understand. “I’ll wake her now. We ride at dawn! Or close to dawn since the sun is already up.” She stuffs the last of my pancake in her mouth and claps her hands like a kid who just found a princess chest full of dresses under the tree on Christmas morning. “This is going to be the best day ever! I’ve been waiting to get my hands on your delicious bodies for years. I’m going to make you both look so fucking incredible the men of New York will hurl themselves at your feet.”
“The way you put that was a little creepy,” I say with a laugh as she bounces out of her chair. “But I’m down, as long as we can find things that are comfortable, too. You know I can’t deal with anything that’s too tight or stiff or buttons around my neck. My neck must be free at all times.”
“Yes, yes, my pet, never fear, I’ll fairy godmother you with a mind to your comfort and button phobia.” She waves a hand over her shoulder as she hurries toward her room, stopping on the way to knock on Jess’s door and call out, “Come out, come out, it’s time to go shopping!”
A beat later Jess’s mumbled voice drifts from within. “Not a chance in hell.”
“Come on. You can’t rock seduction lessons without a seductive outfit,” Harlow says, before adding in a wheedling tone, “And if you’re a good little shopper, I’ll take you to that vintage arcade you like after lunch.”
A moment later, Jess’s door opens a crack, and she squints out at Harlow. “Really? And we’ll stay more than ten minutes?”
“Twenty minutes,” Harlow promises. “And I won’t make fun of any of the games while we’re there.”
“Thirty minutes and you have to play, too,” Jess counters. “And whatever you make me buy, it has to be something I can wear without a bra. I’m not doing a bra, not for all the sex in Manhattan.”
“I can work with that,” Harlow says, a devious grin on her face that would make me nervous if I were Jess.
But Jess doesn’t have her glasses on, so she probably can’t see the way Harlow’s eyes are shooting “wicked scheme” sparks. “Okay, cool. I’ll be ready in ten minutes. Please put a large amount of coffee in my to-go mug. I barely slept last night. I was too busy having stress dreams about my new promotion.”
“Don’t have stress dreams!” I say, rising from my chair. “You’re going to be great. And I’ll get that coffee warmed up for you as soon as I’m dressed.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re out the door, leaving Cameron, who Harlow has dubbed “decently fashionable for a guy” alone to work on a recipe for a new appetizer he’s pitching to the executive chef at the restaurant tonight.
Harlow drags us past all the chain stores near the Canal Street subway station, heading uptown, then turning left, toward the upscale designer stores that line Christopher Street and the other trendy areas of the West Village.
“I have a budget of three hundred dollars total,” I warn her. “And that’s if I make my lunch every day next week instead of hitting the taco truck.”
“Tacos,” Jess murmurs. “Oh my God, that sounds so good right now.”