I tell her about the Christmas day proposal. How I said yes because, at the time, I thought I was genuinely happy.
And then I tell her about everything that followed: the way Cal called me into the living room and ended it with a ten-minute monologue about “personal growth” and “life trajectories” and how he’d “never meant to hurt me.”
I donottell her how I sat in the stairwell afterwards, staring at the brass numbers on his door, hoping he’d come out and say it was all a mistake and that he loved me and that I could move back in.
Some things even I can’t say out loud.
Harlee listens without interruption. And there’s something so healing about laying it all out there.
To afriend.
“Girl, that’s insane,” she finally says, shaking her head hard enough to send a stray curl bouncing against her cheek. “Hesounds like a real piece of work. I mean, who proposes to someone just to turn around and evict them three weeks later?”
“Yeah, the red flags are basically on fire in retrospect,” I say, giving her a weak smile. “But I was in love, you know? You ignore things when you’re in love.”
“Amen,” she says. “I once dated a guy who told me he was allergic to peanut butter just so he wouldn’t have to eat my cookies. I found out a year later—when we were at his nephew’s birthday party—that he only said that to get out of eating them because I was a bad baker. Like, just say my cookies suck! Don’t make up a fake allergy.”
My eyes go wide. “Did you ever confront him?”
“Oh, honey, I dumped a whole jar of Jif in his brand-new car the day I found out. I believe in consequences.” She winks, then pops the last quarter of her sandwich in her mouth like she’s closing a case.
I burst out laughing. “That’siconic.”
We sit in silence for a few moments, the city humming just outside the window. People rush past, heads down, scarves tight, refusing eye contact. New York in February is like that—everyone wants to just get where they’re going with minimum exposure to the elements, or to each other.
“Have you ever been to PCB?” she asks, and at first I think I misheard her, thinking she’s talking about some kind of new party drug or something.
I furrow my brow. “PCB?”
“Panama City Beach! You know, the Redneck Riviera. Girls’ trip capital of the world,” Harlee says, chip poised midair. “You ever do spring break in college?”
I think back to my college days but shake my head. “I was invited to Panama City Beach a few times, but I’ve never actually been. I don’t really do the whole party scene.”
“Oh.” She waves me off. “Me neither. But there are a few good spots there that are nice. My friends and I do a girls’ trip to PCB every year. We’re actually headed there next week.”
I must make a face, because Harlee drops the chip and leans forward, suddenly in full Southern hospitality mode. “You should come with us,” she says. “We’re renting a little condo right on the beach. Two of the girls had to drop out, so there’s plenty of room. You could probably use a little escape, couldn’t you?”
I want to say yes. I want to say, “Sure, I’ll go.” But even imagining it makes me tired. The logistics alone: taking time off work, buying a plane ticket, picking out a swimsuit in the middle of winter.
Plus, I’m just now getting used to being alone—really, truly alone. I still feel fragile, like I’m living in a new skin I haven’t quite grown into yet.
“That’s really nice of you to offer,” I say. “But I just got settled in my new apartment; I don’t want to run away from my problems. Plus, I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
Harlee waves a dismissive hand. “Brittany, if you’re not running away from your problems at least twice a year, you’re living life wrong. And as your new friend, it is my job to drag you on reckless adventures, even if you only come for a day. You can leave your problems in New York and just be a hot mess in Florida instead.”
I almost say no again, but the words get tangled in my mouth. Because the truth is, I can almost see it—the open sky, the sea air, the freedom of being miles away from anything that reminds me of Cal.
Before I can organize a polite refusal, Harlee is already on her phone, fingers flying. “We can all split the cost of the rental, and I’ll even let you pick the music for the drive from the airport. As long as it’s not country. I get enough of that at home.”
“I thought all you Southerners loved country music?”
“Absolutely not. You haven’t experienced true suffering until you’ve been stuck in a car with five drunk girls screaming Shania Twain for two hours.”
I snort, and it feels so good to laugh that I almost forget to be sad. “I’ll think about it,” I promise, and Harlee seems to accept this as a binding contract.
She grins. “That’s all I ask. And hey, if you need backup, I’ll help you come up with an excuse to use for work. I’m very persuasive.”
We laugh and finish our lunch. When we finally rise and bundle ourselves back into scarves and coats, it’s with a kind of reluctant resignation. We toss our baskets in the bin, duck back out onto the sidewalk, and the city hits me in the face again—bright, noisy, cold. The wind catches underneath my scarf, stinging my cheeks. I jam my hands into my coat pockets and let Harlee set the pace beside me, her heeled boots clicking on the salt-and-grit-strewn pavement.
