Myron (club promoter): girlfriend
Shawn (podcast guy): talks too much
Mitch (Bible study): too holy
I shook my head as I made my way through the list. The only uncrossed name left had just turned himself into a voicemail.
I tapped the screen and added a note next to Kylil’s name.
Kylil (picsgram): baby mama said no
I flopped sideways on the couch, clutching my phone like something was going to change. My eyes gazed at the beautiful Black faces on my bookshelves. Every book was nothing but Black romance from top to bottom. I could point to a hundred men on those shelves who would’ve hopped on a flight for me tomorrow without even blinking. Fictional men were so much better than the real ones.
The ring light suddenly buzzed louder, reminding me I still had content to record and post tonight. Even in my distress, the show had to go on. I sat upright, fidgeted with my crop top, and perched myself on the edge of the couch. Leaning over, I clipped my phone into the tripod that sat in front of the coffee table.I grabbed the little remote I used to record, took a breath, and plastered on mylife isn’t falling apartsmile.
“Hey, Harlings.” I started with my usual greeting and wave at the camera with my lavender nails. “Welcome back to my corner of the internet, where we only read books with a whole lot of seasoning. Amen?” I gave the camera a church nod. “Amen.” I exhaled, and my voice instantly slipped into the calm, cool, breezy tone I used when doing content.
“Valentine’s Day is coming up, and since I’ll be lying on the beach with my man,” I continued, “and some of y’all already been in DMs looking for book recs, I got you. But I’m warning you. These might make you text your favorite ninja and work it out.” I picked up the stack of books I’d pulled from the shelf earlier, holding up the first one.
“This one right here?Thorns and Allby Cyn. Ten out of ten.”
I went through the recs on autopilot. Each book was a testament to Black love and how we deserved to be chosen without struggle. Most of my recommendations, like usual, featured plus-sized heroines who reminded me of myself. My mouth did the work, but my brain was on a beach in Zanzibar, drinking some type of coconut alcoholic beverage.
“Remember,” I said, wrapping it up, “even if your love life is raggedy this Valentine’s Day, your bookshelf doesn’t have to be. Bye, Harlings.” I blew a kiss and hit the stop recording button. As soon as the little red light went off, my smile faded.
“Okay. That’s done.” I tossed the remote on the table, reached over, and turned off the ring light. I could get that video edited on the plane and posted sometime tomorrow. My phone buzzed, and for half a second, I thought maybe it was Kylil calling back to say his baby mama found somebody else to harass and he was free. I didn’t give a rat’s ass if he was single or not. This was business. I snatched the phone from the tripod and tapped on the screen. It wasn’t Kylil. No, it was my airline app.
Reminder:Your flight departs tomorrow at 8:10 AM.
I’m aware.Swiping out of it in desperation mode, I opened Safari before my brain could stop me and typedrent a boyfriend for vacation near mein the search engine. As soon as the page loaded, I immediately regretted my decision. Every site I clicked on looked like a damn escort service from a 2006 Lifetime movie.
“Absolutely not,” I said out loud. “I am not about to become a Dateline episode. Missing in Zanzibar.” I swiped the tab closed and tried another search. This time, I typed professional plus one service. The sites that came up this time were slightly less sketchy, but they all wanted background checks, consultations, deposits, and I needed somebody at Azalea Airport by 6:00 a.m. tomorrow, not next month.
“Okay, God, it’s me, Harlowe Harris. I know you are tired of hearing from me, but God. I need you to get me out of this mess I put myself in.” I gestured around the room. “I talk about Black love for a living. I boost Black indie authors all day. I tell these girls they deserve softness and good sex and men who don’t make them beg. And now, when I finally get a Black love brand deal that is supposed to be my reward for that, I don’t have a Black love of my own.” I blew out a breath. “Lord, I’m not asking for my husband tonight, unless you want to send him, but I just need a plus one with a valid passport, decent teeth, and who can pretend to like me for four days so I don’t lose this opportunity. I will be in church first thing next Sunday morning. That’s it. That’s the prayer. Amen.”
As if right on cue, my doorbell rang, and I jumped. I stared at the door as if it was a ghost on the other end.God doesn’t answer prayers that fast,right?
“God,” I said half laughing, half terrified, “don’t play with my emotions now.”
I slid off the couch, wiped the tears that had tried to fall from my eyes, and made my way toward the door. I pulled my shorts down from where they had ridden up between my thighs. Forget the fact that I hadn’t even finished my flip over sew-in yet. I stood on my tiptoes and glanced out the peephole. The only thing I could see was a beautiful bouquet of red roses and white daisies, and I knew instantly it was my best friend. He was the only man who showed up at my house with this same bouquet around February fourteenth. If this was God answering my prayers, then He definitely had jokes. Because there was no way Hasheem Hart was the answer to this mess.
I didn’t doValentine’s Day. Never had. To me, it was just a holiday full of pink shit and overpriced candy. A holiday just to prove you loved somebody was stupid. I never saw the point of making an entire production out of something you should do every day. If I loved someone, they knew it. They didn’t need some fake ass holiday to confirm it. And yet, every February, I still ended up in someone’s florist shop buying flowers for the two women I’d never let go without feeling loved, my mom and my best friend, Harlowe.
“Last stop and then the bed,” I said to myself as I pulled into the empty parking space in front of Harlowe’s townhouse. I was fresh off a twenty-four-hour shift at the station, still smelling like smoke and cheap coffee. I’d put out two house fires, rescueda baby from a locked car, and helped a kid who thought his monster truck was on fire. My body wanted my bed, but I had to stop here first. It was non-negotiable. Harlowe was going on a work trip tomorrow, and I wasn’t going to let her go without her gift.
I killed the engine to the car and ignored my phone lighting up in the cup holder. I needed a few quiet minutes to exhale. I was sure it was either the group chat from the guys at the house or someone in my family asking me to fix something broken, give them money, a ride, or advice. I was always the dependable one. The one everybody needed. It had taken me all thirty-three years of my life to realize that being needed wasn’t the same thing as being loved.
I silenced my phone and slid it into my pocket. I didn’t feel like entertaining. Didn’t owe anyone an explanation why I was burned out on helping. I grabbed the bouquet of roses and daisies from the passenger seat, then reached under the driver’s seat for the piece I kept there. I tucked it under my waistband and exited the car to fulfill a tradition, one I’d started by accident back in high school when she was dating my big brother, Marcus, and he forgot Valentine’s Day, like he forgot everything else.
She loved the holiday, so I stepped in. I bought her a single rose from the local corner store because I hated seeing her disappointed. Somehow, fifteen years later, I was still bringing her flowers. She called it a “best friend thing,” but I was just big on making sure my people were taken care of. It was the way Ma Dukes had raised me.
I walked up the path, my eyes darting around, checking my surroundings. I wasn’t worried about no shit popping off out here where Harlowe stayed, but when you grew up in the hood, you learned to never let a motherfucker catch you slipping.Same quiet ass uppity neighborhood. I shook my headas I straightened my hoodie and rang her doorbell. She usually answered in a rush because she knew I hated waiting. But today? She wasn’t moving as fast. I looked around, confused. She knew I was coming. I’d texted her this morning to make sure she’d be home. I rang the doorbell again and shifted the flowers to my other hand, preparing to knock.
“Hashy! I’m sorry I took so long.” The door finally flew open, and my eyes flew to Harlowe. She looked tired, like she’d been spiraling for hours. She definitely didn’t look like she was due to be on a plane to Zanzibar in the morning. I gazed at her in confusion. Her hair was half done. She had braids on one side and bundles on the other, like she’d gotten distracted mid-install. The crop top and little shorts she had on barely covered anything.
Harlowe was top heavy, always had been.
She had big ass titties for days. In high school, she’d been thin and petite, but somewhere between then and now, she’d grown a bunch of curves that all seemed to suit her. Best friend or not, I wasn’t blind. My vision worked just fine. Even under all the chaos, Harlowe was still fine as hell, but the way her face was scrunched up told me something was off. Hell, she even had on mismatched damn socks.
