on the street? Tell me they’re not trying to be funny.”
Harlow’s suppresses a smile. “I wondered if you’d have a stroke, checking out the new neighbors.”
“I thought I might’ve, and that’s why I was seeing a bunch of glow in the dark Muppets walking around.”
These new hipster guys, they seem to like neon colors. But you know what? That got a laugh. Harlow Chase forgot to hate me long enough to laugh.
But then she remembers.
“What are you doing here?” she says, her tone hard again, sharp. Like a weapon.
I don’t flinch. “I’m here to see you.”
“Well, get out.”
“No.”
We stare at each other across the bar, Harlow raising her chin up the way she does, the blue glow from her phone illuminating her face, giving her away. She’s upset. I look right back at her, steadily, and I don’t know what happens; maybe she can see what I’m feeling in my face, that I just want to fix it, to help, that it’s still me, it’s still her Marcus. There’s that same thing that happened back by the bridge, that same way the air changed, the sound changed, like the world slid sideways and snapped back into place, where it should have been all along. Me and her. Together. I want to reach out and touch her but I hold myself back, just savor the feel of this thing between us.
“What’s wrong, Lo?” I ask her.
“Besides the fact that you won’t get out of my bar?” she says. “None of your business.”
“We can disagree about that,” I say, leaning over the bar. The closer I get to her, the stronger I feel, and I think about hopping over, picking her up, burying my face in her neck. Goddamn. “But I can still help.”
She works her jaw, and I can tell she’s grinding her teeth. “I don’t want your help,” she finally says.
“You need it, though.”
“How the hell would you know?”
I study her for another second, give her a look, like come on, you know the answer to that. “You don’t look like that unless you need help,” I tell her. “Because you hate needing help.”
She’s stung that I know this, that I can still read her face. And I have to admit it isn’t fair.
“Fuck you,” she says softly.
I glare at her. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to stand here until you cave?”
Harlow looks at me, her lips pursed, and then she sighs. She knows I really will just stand here until she tells me. She used to call me her pit bull, I was so stubborn. Still am.
And she’s still smarter than me. Knows when to pick her battles.
“The septic tank at the house is apparently busted,” she says, her tone flat. “Septic tanks are also apparently expensive.”
And she turns to wipe down a part of the bar that’s already clean, not wanting to have to look me in the eye any longer, as though the conversation is over, which tells me all I need to know.
“You don’t have the money?” I ask.
She stops, freezes, like that hurt her. Then she looks back at me, standing up as tall and straight as she can, so I can see how she’s kept her body up, her skin luminescent in the low light. I feel like an asshole for noticing, but I think most men would. Then again, most men are assholes.
“I have the money,” she says, and she’s gone full ice queen.
“But?” I say.
“But I was going to spend it on something else,” she spits out. “You know, like people do with money.”
“What were you going to spend it on?”
“Jesus Christ, Marcus, can’t you just leave me alone?”
“I should tell you, Lo, that’s the one thing I’ll never do again,” I say.
She stops.
Those big blue eyes lock on me while the rest of her just…stops. I can tell she’s holding her breath. Waiting. Not sure of what to say, what to think, what to feel. She blinks and it looks like there’s water in her eyes, and I know I got through to her, said the thing she wanted me to say, and maybe also the thing she never wanted to hear. Maybe it will always be this way with us now, the thing
Harlow’s suppresses a smile. “I wondered if you’d have a stroke, checking out the new neighbors.”
“I thought I might’ve, and that’s why I was seeing a bunch of glow in the dark Muppets walking around.”
These new hipster guys, they seem to like neon colors. But you know what? That got a laugh. Harlow Chase forgot to hate me long enough to laugh.
But then she remembers.
“What are you doing here?” she says, her tone hard again, sharp. Like a weapon.
I don’t flinch. “I’m here to see you.”
“Well, get out.”
“No.”
We stare at each other across the bar, Harlow raising her chin up the way she does, the blue glow from her phone illuminating her face, giving her away. She’s upset. I look right back at her, steadily, and I don’t know what happens; maybe she can see what I’m feeling in my face, that I just want to fix it, to help, that it’s still me, it’s still her Marcus. There’s that same thing that happened back by the bridge, that same way the air changed, the sound changed, like the world slid sideways and snapped back into place, where it should have been all along. Me and her. Together. I want to reach out and touch her but I hold myself back, just savor the feel of this thing between us.
“What’s wrong, Lo?” I ask her.
“Besides the fact that you won’t get out of my bar?” she says. “None of your business.”
“We can disagree about that,” I say, leaning over the bar. The closer I get to her, the stronger I feel, and I think about hopping over, picking her up, burying my face in her neck. Goddamn. “But I can still help.”
She works her jaw, and I can tell she’s grinding her teeth. “I don’t want your help,” she finally says.
“You need it, though.”
“How the hell would you know?”
I study her for another second, give her a look, like come on, you know the answer to that. “You don’t look like that unless you need help,” I tell her. “Because you hate needing help.”
She’s stung that I know this, that I can still read her face. And I have to admit it isn’t fair.
“Fuck you,” she says softly.
I glare at her. “Are you going to tell me, or do I have to stand here until you cave?”
Harlow looks at me, her lips pursed, and then she sighs. She knows I really will just stand here until she tells me. She used to call me her pit bull, I was so stubborn. Still am.
And she’s still smarter than me. Knows when to pick her battles.
“The septic tank at the house is apparently busted,” she says, her tone flat. “Septic tanks are also apparently expensive.”
And she turns to wipe down a part of the bar that’s already clean, not wanting to have to look me in the eye any longer, as though the conversation is over, which tells me all I need to know.
“You don’t have the money?” I ask.
She stops, freezes, like that hurt her. Then she looks back at me, standing up as tall and straight as she can, so I can see how she’s kept her body up, her skin luminescent in the low light. I feel like an asshole for noticing, but I think most men would. Then again, most men are assholes.
“I have the money,” she says, and she’s gone full ice queen.
“But?” I say.
“But I was going to spend it on something else,” she spits out. “You know, like people do with money.”
“What were you going to spend it on?”
“Jesus Christ, Marcus, can’t you just leave me alone?”
“I should tell you, Lo, that’s the one thing I’ll never do again,” I say.
She stops.
Those big blue eyes lock on me while the rest of her just…stops. I can tell she’s holding her breath. Waiting. Not sure of what to say, what to think, what to feel. She blinks and it looks like there’s water in her eyes, and I know I got through to her, said the thing she wanted me to say, and maybe also the thing she never wanted to hear. Maybe it will always be this way with us now, the thing
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