Harlan
SIX MONTHS LATER
I lookat my phone for the thousandth time since arriving at the airport. Penelope’s flight should have landed close to an hour ago. I’m buzzing with excitement at seeing my best friend for the first time in months. The move to London has been shit. I’m not sleeping well. I’m not sleeping much at all. Leaving my flat is a chore. I’m hoping seeing Pen will help give me some perspective. Lust & Lace is rolling out a new line, so she is coming to stay for a few months to work on the project with me. The distraction is needed because my life has been a depressing, pathetic mess since I arrived in October.
Shawn assures me that he’s still working on the paperwork for the work visa. My application is under “administrative review,” whatever the fuck that means. I’m not even sure going back to the States is good for me at this point. I’m hardly capableof making decisions for myself these days. I’m barely hanging on by a thread.
“Hey, bestie!” I hear Penelope’s voice before I see her short frame weaving through other travelers. She launches herself into my arms, and I almost sob with relief. “Harlan, what’s wrong?” She pushes back to look at my face, holding me firmly by the shoulders. “You look like shit.” The fact that she’s here brings me so much relief, so I ignore the jab. It’s true. The dark circles under my eyes are permanent. I don’t think I realized how much I’ve missed her until this very moment.
“I don’t sleep well.” I hug her again, inhaling the sweet scent of her shampoo. She embraces me back, squeezing me so tight that it’s almost difficult to breathe, but I can’t be arsed to care. It feels so fucking good to have some physical contact with another human, especially my favorite one.
“Let’s snuggle in bed tonight while you tell me all about London.” Penelope hands me her luggage and takes my other hand to pull me toward the exit. The walk to the short-term parking is spent in silence, so I stay focused on the contact of her hand in mine.
As we start to drive, I can feel her scrutinizing gaze on me. “Just say it, Pen.” If anyone can see through me, it’s Penny. I feel like there’s a neon sign over my head that screams ‘I’m a hot fucking mess.’ Hot mess is an understatement, but you get the point.
“Have you started seeing a therapist yet? It’s been six months. I know there’s no timeline on grief, but you can’t let it control your life like this. You’ve lost too much weight. I’m also concerned about how often you’re drinking.” Her voice is soft and hesitant. It’s not the first time she’s mentioned my drinking, and I’m not sure we’ve had a single conversation that she hasn’t pestered me about therapy.
“I’m fine. It’s just taking me a bit to adjust.” I lived with Millie for a month before I found a flat of my own. It’s been great being close to my sister, but living under the same roof for too long would have been detrimental to both of us. She bullies her way into my flat a couple of times a month, claiming that she wants to have dinner to catch up. I’m acutely aware that she just wants to make sure I’m still alive. To be clear, I’m not going to hurt myself. I’m just not great about taking care of myself. My sister’s visits are some of the only human interactions I have outside of work, so I allow it, if begrudgingly.
I actually adore our London office. The team that works there is full of brilliant ideas, and the space is open and welcoming. All of the designers have tried hard to engage with me, despite how repellent my attitude has been. It would make it so easy to collaborate and connect with people if I weren’t so out of sorts. Instead, I do enough to ensure I keep my job, and leave. I know Shawn is running out of patience.
I haven’t had any contact with Darío since the morning I left, and that loss sits heavy in my chest. I fell asleep in his arms. It was the first time I had slept well since before the call about my visa. He woke me gently when Penelope called. His voice was raspy and raw, as though he’d been crying all night. I couldn’t meet his eyes, for fear of what I would see in them. I wouldn’t let him walk me out of the house—I knew I wouldn’t be able to get in the car if he was standing there. He hugged me one last time in the dark foyer, squeezing me tight. With my cheek pressed against his neck, I felt his breath catch on his words as he choked back a sob. Penelope had to drag me out of the house, and I cried the entire way to the airport. It was not a good look for me.
I don’t think I stopped crying until I fell asleep on my sister’s sofa out of sheer exhaustion. I spent several days completely catatonic on that sofa until Millie threatened to have me committed to the hospital. I showered and pretended to eat thefood she gave me. We went through that cycle for another week before she rang our parents. That was the only motivation to get me out to look for a place of my own. I wasn’t even close to ready to face my parents and see their disappointment clearly written on their faces.
“Have you seen him?” I know I shouldn’t ask, but we go through this every time we speak. In the beginning, I made her promise not to tell me anything about him, no matter how much I pressed. I begged her to ask him to block me on all of his socials because I couldn’t stop myself from obsessively looking at his pages, both public and private. I was a fiend seeking any bit of information I could get about him. There was nothing, of course. I waited for the day I disappeared from his profiles. It’s possible that I’m gone now, but he granted my request, so I can’t see anything.
“Do you really want me to answer that?” I pull onto my street and slow down to park. “Oh, it’s nice here, Lan!” I was very lucky to find the place I did. It’s quiet and very close to the office, though I’ve been working from home a lot more often than I ever did in New York.
We don’t continue the conversation until we’ve made it inside. Penelope doesn’t hesitate to start exploring. When she reaches the fireplace in the sitting room, she takes in the framed photos on the mantel. There are three pictures of me and Darío. One is from a game his team won at home; I had his hat on backward with my legs wrapped around his waist while we kissed. It was plastered across several newspapers and celebrity gossip sites, but I’ve always loved it. Another was at a gala for L&L. He was in a tux that night, and I was dressed in wide-leg silver dress pants and a long-sleeved black lace top that didn’t quite cover my navel. The third is of us on a beach in Miami, lying out in the sun, smiling at each other instead of the camera. I relive those days too frequently, often with a drink in my hand.
I see pity all over my best friend’s face. “Don’t say a word,” I mumble. Iknowit’s pathetic, butI’mpathetic, so there’s nothing to see here. Let’s keep it moving. “You didn’t answer my question.” I level her with a glare, but she ignores it.
“You don’t want me to answer your question, Harlan. You think you do, but we both know you don’t want to know.” She turns to face me and holds my gaze, her blue eyes set in challenge. “What is it you want to hear? That he’s fucking miserable and crying every day? Or maybe that he’s moved on and is dating someone new? That he’s fucking his way through every twink in Brooklyn? Which of those would bring you peace?”
“I don’t know,” I whine. “I justmisshim so much, the word miss doesn’t seem serious enough. It feels like none of it mattered to him, you know? How can he just cut all communication and be ok?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I know they’re false. I know it mattered to him. That I mattered to him. I tossed all of that in the bin when I sucked off that guy in the bathroom. The best—or more accurately, the worst—part is, I can’t even recall what that guy looked like. He was so insignificant to me, and yet, he played a role in dismantling my life. Not that it’s his fault. It wasn’t his job to keep me faithful. It was my own.
“Harlan, you broke his heart. Of course he wasn’t ok. You mattered to him. You still matter to him. But you can’t let this guilt, or grief, or whatever the fuck it is, keep dragging you down. How he’s doing shouldn’t dictate how you’re doing. You need to do better foryou.” She levels me withthe look. The one that says I’m an idiot. And maybe I am. I head to the kitchen to pour us both some wine. After handing her a glass, I settle on the sofa before I pull Penelope down next to me.
“I feel crazy, Pen. I know this whole situation is my fault, but I hate that he won’t talk to me. I have gone to text him so manytimes, but I haven’t sent any.” I’ve written him letters and emails that I’ve erased, left in drafts, deleted, or set on fire, depending on the day. “Have you seen him at all?”
Suddenly, she’s fascinated with her wine glass. I stare at her expectantly. “Harlan, don’t make me do this.” Her avoidance of the topic is really starting to grate on my nerves. I just want to know what she knows. I want to inhale every scrap of information I can about Darío, even if it does nothing but ensure the infected space that held my heart continues to ooze out and taint everything around me.
“Penelope Rose Salvatore.” I try another glare in her direction, and she finally meets my eye. I see the hesitation there, and I know whatever she’s about to tell me is going to hurt. I welcome the pain, because at least it dulls the sadness for a bit.
“Don’t use my full name.” She purses her full lips. “Fine, yes, I saw him. A few weeks ago at the club.”
“And?” I prompt when she doesn’t continue. Talking shouldn’t be this complicated.
“And, I was with Wes, Ezra, and a few other people from the office. We had a ton of meetings with the marketing team that day. We decided to go out dancing for a bit to blow off some steam. You know what it’s like when Marley is working on a project. She’s unbearable, honestly.” I’m never going back to Brooklyn at this rate because I swear I’m going to murder her.
“You know I don’t give a single fuck about Marley and the marketing team. Who was he with?” My skin prickles, and an uncomfortable heat settles in my stomach.
“He was with AJ, Jules, and a few other people.” My agitation only grows as I have to prompt her to continue with a gesture of my hand.
“What aren’t you telling me, Penelope?” I’m out of patience at this point, and I realize I’ve raised my voice, but I don’t care.
“Promise me you won’t freak out? Because honestly, I don’t want to tell you shit with how you’ve been for the last six months, but I can’t lie to you.” She pivots to face me on the sofa, taking my free hand in hers. I’m vibrating with dread and curiosity.
