by Max Monroe
“Holy hell… again? Are you ever coming home?” I muttered into the receiver as I hopped onto the L train and headed toward my mother’s apartment.
“Is it bad that I have no idea?” Amanda giggled. “All I know is that I want to spend more time with him.”
It was official, folks. My best friend was in love with Mateo Cruz. Although the fact that she was now on her second extension of her European PR trip, it didn’t exactly come as a surprise.
“You’re totally hooked,” I said, and honestly, I felt nothing but happiness for her. “You’re in l-o-v-e love with him, and you’re going to marry him and have all of his adorable Spanish babies.”
“And what’s going to happen with you and Scott?” she asked. “With as much time as you seem to spend together, pretty sure you’re on the path toward an actual rela—”
“Don’t say it,” I demanded. “We’re literally just friends.”
“Who have sex,” she added and I grinned.
“Well, yeah, that, too.”
“You know what I think?’ she asked but didn’t give me any time to respond. “I think it sounds like someone has a case of avoidance…” she singsonged into my ear.
“Uh-oh…” I muttered in the receiver and started making crackling and whooshing sounds. “Amanda? Hello?”
“Harlow, don’t you dare act like you’re losing cell service right now!”
“Amanda? Hellooo?”
“Frances Harlow Paige!” she shouted, but her use of my first name did the complete opposite of her intention, only making it easier for me to tap the little red phone icon and end the call.
I received a text message from her no less than thirty seconds later.
Amanda: Oh, hey, asshole…Call me back when you get some balls and admit to yourself that you’re actually starting to really like Dr. Erotic.
Goddamn her. I started to type out a sarcastic text in response, but before my fingers hit the keypad, I stopped myself. No way in hell was I taking the bait on this one. Plus, I didn’t have time to talk about Scott with Amanda. My day was already fully booked, most likely with my mother’s inquisition.
As I hopped off the subway, I decided I’d deal with Amanda later, but for now, I’d use the five-block walk to my mother’s apartment to mentally prepare myself for her nosy and often overenthusiastic questions.
Lord knows, I’d need it.
My father and Nicole’s blossoming relationship was still growing by the day, and ever since he’d laid eyes on his lady love, he’d been way too eager with text messages and phone calls and oversharing of his happy, lovey-dovey feelings.
Dad: Nicole agreed to another date with me!
Dad: Nicole is so funny, Low. And beautiful. God, she’s beautiful.
Dad: Just out of curiosity, what is the average number of dates someone goes on before taking things to the “next level”?
And so on.
And there was no doubt in my mind that oversharing had most likely spilled over into my life, meaning he’d probably kept my mother and Jean-Pierre in the loop on everything, including Scott.
“Harlow!” my mother greeted the instant she opened the door to her apartment. “I’m going to overlook the fact that I’m a little peeved at you for waiting so long to visit and focus on the fact that you’re actually here.”
It was Saturday morning, and with the giant smile and giddy steps of my mother’s bare feet, it appeared I’d be spending the majority of the day with her and Jean-Pierre.
“I just saw you a few weeks ago, Mom,” I retorted with a knowing smile, and she rolled her eyes in response. “And,” I continued, “I talk to you on the phone nearly every day.”
“I don’t want to hear your excuses,” she said and ushered me inside her and Jean-Pierre’s loft style apartment. “I will only accept you promising to stop by for lunch at least once a week.”
“Fine,” I agreed and shrugged out of my jacket. “Lunch once a week.”
“At least once a week.”
“Do you want me to just move back home?” I teased. “I can quit my job at Gossip and mooch off of you and Jean-Pierre.”
She smiled wide and nodded. “Yes, please.”
I laughed. “You’re so weird.”
“Just consider it,” she said, and I followed her lead through the entryway and into the living room. “We can have coffee together every morning while Jean-Pierre cooks us breakfast.”
Crazily enough, my mother was one hundred percent serious. She’d love for me to be living back home, and my stepfather wouldn’t bat an eye over it either. He was a good man and did, in fact, do most of the cooking in their relationship. His European flair for food ensured everything cooked inside their kitchen was nothing less than delicious.
The aroma of fresh bread wafting past my nose was proof of that. I glanced around the living room and toward the kitchen to find Jean-Pierre standing at the counter chopping up fresh pineapple.
“Harlow!” he greeted with a huge grin. “How are you?”
“I’m good, but I’m confused why you’re cooking,” I questioned and glanced between the two of them. “I thought we were going out to lunch?”
“We are,” my mom answered with a soft smile. “But I know you’re terrible about eating breakfast in the morning, so I figured we’d have a little breakfast first, and then, we can eat a light lunch at Hot House in a few hours.”
“So, basically, you’re trying to extend this lunch into a twelve-hour ordeal?”
“Yep,” she answered with a proud smile.
“I should’ve known when you tried to get me here at nine this morning and wouldn’t budge past ten thirty.”
She smirked. “What can I say? I’ve missed my little Harlow.”
“What have my favorite girls been gabbing about since you stepped in the door?” Jean-Pierre asked as he set the fruit onto a platter.
“Oh, you know, the usual,” I said with an annoyed sigh. “Mom is trying to get me to move back in with you guys, and I’m trying to explain to her that I’m too old to move back home,” I teased, and my mom laughed in response.
“She’ll never stop asking until you do it,” he responded through a chuckle, and my mother flashed a glare in his direction, which only made him laugh more. “Don’t shoot the messenger,” he added with a cheeky grin. “I’m merely telling her the truth. And you know that I’d love for Harlow to come live with us again.”
“See?” My mother’s eyes met mine. “Even your stepfather thinks it’s a good idea.”
“That’s because he knows it would make you happy, and we both know that man lives to make you happy.”
“You’re right,” he chimed in and glanced at my mother with his heart in his eyes. “Your mother is my world.”
She giggled as she walked toward him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. “Love you,” she whispered and he grinned.
While they had their typical little lovey-dovey moment in the kitchen, I walked around their apartment, taking in the place I used to call my full-time home.
Their SoHo pad was gorgeous, and extremely spacious for New York City’s standards, and it had always been a place I adored. Large, floor-to-ceiling windows highlighted the open floor plan, and the space was filled with midcentury modern décor and various paintings they’d collected over the years.
It was one hundred percent my mother and her European husband.
She’d always been a painter at heart, and after she’d divorced my father, she’d run a gallery in Manhattan. And it was where she’d met Jean-Pierre. He loved art and she sold art and, well, the rest was history.
Her eccentricity and his open-mindedness about life had connected them, and it was their love of art that had started the foundation of their relationship. Hell, the entire wall above the sleek, white sectional sofa showcased over fifty vintage paintings from various artists they loved, including a few of my mother’s paintings.
As I continued to look around their home, my fingers found a sm
all marble nude sculpture of a shapely woman and traced the clean lines of her stone figure.
Art was life for them. It was in their blood.
And I often found myself a little envious that they’d created a life for themselves that revolved around their passion.
Deep down, I wanted that kind of life for myself. The kind of life that didn’t revolve around writing gossip columns, but doing something that gave me purpose.
Medicine.
I internally scoffed at my brain’s detour toward my past aspirations. Sure, becoming a pediatrician had been my original life goal, but the time to accomplish that had long since passed.
God, how had my life gotten so off track from where I’d originally thought it would go?
Brent, my mind whispered, and I sighed internally. I hated blaming my life’s choices on someone else. My ex hadn’t exactly helped me achieve what I’d wanted out of life, but ultimately, I’d been the one to make the decision not to go to medical school right after graduation. I’d been the one who’d given up the internship opportunity that would have most likely set me up for a successful path into med school, not to mention an even more successful career as a physician. Now I spent most of my time blathering about which male celebrity gave the best oral based on his eye color and a random groupie named Candy.
Fucking hell, I hated dwelling on the past.
“Breakfast is ready, Harlow,” my mother yelled, thankfully pulling me from my depressing thoughts. “Come sit down and eat,” she said as she finished setting the dining room table with white plates.
Grateful for the reprieve from my internal monologue, I made my way to the table and sat down beside my mom and watched as Jean-Pierre set the last plate of food onto the table.
“I hope you’re hungry,” he said with a grin and sat down across from me.
My eyes turned into saucers as they took in the numerous platters of delicious food sitting in front of me—fresh croissants and strawberry jam, crepes with bananas and Nutella and homemade whipped cream, and enough cut-up fruit to feed an army.
Jesus Christ. Between breakfast here and lunch at Hot House, I wasn’t finishing off this day without packing on a few extra pounds.
“Holy moly, this is a lot of food. Do you think maybe we should skip lunch at Hot House?”
“Nope,” my mother responded without hesitation, and before I could stop her, she grabbed my plate and started filling it up with a more than healthy serving of everything.
“Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. That’s enough, crazy food lady.” I took my plate from her busy hands before she could dish out crepe number three for me. “I’d like to be able to get into my apartment tonight without needing a crane to get my ass into the elevator.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, sweetheart.” She scoffed. “You’re nearly too thin as it is. A few extra pounds would do you good.”
I sighed, and Jean-Pierre grinned at me from across the table.
“So, what’s new with you, Harlow?” he asked in an attempt to steer the conversation away from my mother trying to overfeed me.
“Not too much.” I shrugged. “I saw Kinky Boots with Dad a few weeks ago.”
“Was that the show he met Nicole at?” my mother asked.
“Yep.” I took a bite of Nutella and whipped cream and crepe goodness and moaned out loud. “Jesus, these are good. My compliments to the chef,” I said with a raise of my fork toward Jean-Pierre, and he grinned.
“Thank you. I’m happy you like them.”
“Do you want another, sweetheart?” my mom asked, and I rolled my eyes.
“Uh, no. I think I’m still good with the one and half I have left on my plate.”
“Tell me more about Scott,” my mother demanded, and my brow furrowed in confusion.
“Scott?”
“Yes.” She nodded. “Your father told me a little bit about him, but I want all of the juicy details.”
“There are no juicy details.”
Well, I guess there were some juicy details…
I mean, we’d been hanging out a lot lately and obviously having sex on the regular. There was no denying that sex with Scott was off the charts, but no fucking way was I going to tell my mother about that. She might’ve been quirky as hell and oftentimes too open-minded, but I had boundaries I refused to cross.
“We’re just friends,” I said, and the instant the words left my lips, they felt like total bullshit, not to mention the pointed look my mom flashed in my direction basically called me on that very fact.
“What?” I questioned. “We’re just friends. Nothing more.”
Well, friends who had a lot of sex. Friends who spent a lot of time together. But, yeah, other than that, we were friends. Scott and I were just friends…right?
She pointed her fork in my direction. “I don’t believe you.”
“You know I don’t do long-term relationships.”
She sighed. “I think you say you don’t do them, but deep down, one day, you will when you find the right guy.”
“I wouldn’t hold your breath on that one.”
She rolled her eyes. “You get your stubbornness from your father.”
Jean-Pierre chuckled, and my mother glanced at him in confusion.
“What?” she asked, and he just grinned.
“She actually gets her stubbornness from you.”
“No, she doesn’t.”
“Yeah.” He nodded, and his eyes shone with amusement. “She definitely does.”
Before I could start on crepe number two, my cell phone chimed in my pocket with a message. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen to find a text from Scott.
Scott: What’s your address?
Me: Not telling you.
Somehow, we’d gotten started playing this game where I refused to tell him where I lived. I wasn’t sure why I was holding on so strong, but I think it was mostly the fact that he’d shown an early interest in stalking.
Or that stubbornness your mom and Jean-Pierre are talking about.
Scott: What if I wanted to send you flowers?
Me: I don’t want flowers.
Scott: What if I wanted to send you balloons or a teddy bear or one of those cute boxes of chocolates?
Me: I don’t want any of those either.
Scott: What if I wanted to send you pancakes?
Me: I don’t need pancakes today. I’m currently eating crepes with Nutella and whipped cream at my mom’s place.
Scott: What about tomorrow? I bet you’ll want pancakes tomorrow…
The tricky bastard. He was trying to play dirty.
Me: Probably not. I’ll probably have leftover crepes to tide me over. :)
Take that, buddy.
Which it was actually the truth. No doubt, my mother had probably already packed up a to-go box for me before we even sat down to eat.
Scott: You’re impossible. Can I see you today?
Me: Are you in need of the sex?
Scott: I always need the sex.
“Are you in need of the sex?” My mother’s voice pulled my attention from my phone, and I hadn’t even realized she’d been reading the entire conversation.
Holy hell.
“Why are you reading my text messages?” I asked. She was less than concerned with the fact that she was a little sneaky eavesdropper.
And she ignored my question completely. “Just friends, huh?” She grinned. “It looks like a little more than just friends to me…”
“Fine,” I said on an exasperated sigh. “We’re friends with benefits. You know, where we’re friends and we do the sex, but we’re not committed to one another.”
“So, technically, you could have sex with someone else if you wanted to?”
“Yes,” I answered, even though the idea of having sex with someone who wasn’t Scott sounded about as appealing as going on another first date with Barron the Bore.
“And so could he?”
Oh God. Scott having sex with someone else?
I hated
how much I hated that thought.
“Uh…” I swallowed the discomfort down and forced the word, “Yes,” from my lips.
She quirked a brow. “And you’d be okay with that?”
No.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure about that, Harlow?”
“Uh-huh,” I muttered and shoved another bite of food into my mouth before she could shoot another uncomfortable question my way. Avoidance felt like the very best tactic in this scenario. Especially since I had no fucking clue what was going on inside my own head.
I didn’t want a long-term relationship. I didn’t want to be tied down to anyone. And I definitely shouldn’t have cared about the fact that, technically, Scott could have sex with someone else. Anytime he wanted, actually.
He probably is. He knows every fucking vagina in the city.
But what I should’ve been okay with, and what I felt actually okay with, were two very different things.
What in the hell was happening to me?
I had to get away from the relationship inquisition that was my mother before I had a fucking panic attack. “I’m stuffed,” I muttered and slid my chair out from under the table and stood. “What time are we eating at Hot House?”
“Reservations are at one,” Jean-Pierre answered.
“Then I’m definitely going to need to nap off these crepes if there’s any hope of getting my appetite back by then.” I patted my stomach and grinned.
“I think someone is trying to avoid the whole Scott and friends with benefits topic…” my mother singsonged, and I rolled my eyes.
“Obviously.”
She laughed at my response, and, after I’d taken my dirty dishes into the kitchen, I made my way back into the living room. I slipped my shoes off, plopped my lazy ass onto their cozy sofa, and flipped on the television while I finished out a quick text conversation with Scott. He wanted to meet up at some point today, which I was more than open to, but when he sent the last message of How about your apartment? I chose to send back I’m ignoring you now.