“Ah,” he utters, understanding. “Strict cellphone policy.”
I’ve never once talked to him about Leon’s Gym, but it’s classic Harry. The man knows this city better than almost everyone.
Harry introduced me to some of my favorite coffee places. He knows all the different art exhibits around the city. Of course, he knows Fujimori’s because of his step-mum, and all the other shadowy corners of this place.
Yet, he always smiles as he talks about a spot or an event. He’s a walking, traveling advertisement, the New Yorker with a big heart who likes showing people around.
Harry is endearing in a way that should almost rub you wrong. Except, he speaks in such a frank yet compassionate manner, you can’t help but listen.
There are scars on his wrists. Rough passages in his life that tell of a time when he didn’t see in technicolor. He’s honest and open about his struggles with anxiety and depression.
I know he’d do exactly what Adeline just did for me—act as a nonjudgmental sounding board if I’d let him.
“You all right?” I ask him, the locker room door swinging shut.
“Oh, just cheery,” he says, his voice full of a smile. “Look, I know it’s last minute, but I’ve finally convinced my brother that he doesn’t need to be a complete wankstain on his birthday. He’s agreed to do drinks, but because Hadrian is Hadrian, he wants to do it on a Wednesday evening. I think it’d be really nice if you could come.”
It’s this final sentence that tells me all I need to know.
“He told you about Fujimori’s?” I rifle through my gym bag.
I prefer going home to shower, so I toss on my clean sweatpants. I haven’t worn shorts since Adeline let me borrow her pair. I’m still not sure how I feel about Luis’s excitement at seeing the ugly, pink scar running down my thigh.
Harry’s hesitation is confirmation. Hadrian is a right arrogant prick most of the time, but his older brother is one of the few who continually sees the good in him.
“I’m not so sure he’ll want me at his drinks.” I’ve been in the city a while now, and Hadrian’s never once celebrated his birthday. Or maybe I’ve just never been invited.
“He’ll want you there,” Harry says with steady conviction.
I finish tugging on my pants and plop onto the wooden bench. Damn Harry for his cheerful goodwill that acts like a harmonizing drug.
“Isolde, I can’t ever excuse when my brother acts like an asshole. But I also know better than anyone that most of the time it’s a defense mechanism.”
“Defense mechanism?”
“He’s worried about you, kid.”
Harry’s not even thirty yet, but he’s got a grandfatherly way about him.
“Come to drinks,” he presses, knowing he’s got an advantage.
I’m still wearing my sweaty T-shirt. It dawns on me I’ll have to look nice, and honestly I’m not sure if I can do that. I don’t really know how. As if my scar can hear my inner thoughts, it starts to tingle.Hide, it seems to say.
But it’s up against Harrison Hallow.
“It’s going to be low-key. Nothing fancy.”
“Nothing fancy?”
Harry laughs, hearing the doubt. “Oh, trust me, Hadrian loves a good dive bar. Can I send you the details?”
He officially pushes past my resolve. “Yeah, all right.”
“No gifts, unless they are tequila shots,” Harry jokes. “Call me if you want to talk and not because you want to cancel. Love you, kid!”
It’s his signature sign-off. The call disconnects, and I see a message from Russ.
Russet: Cookies, yes or no???
