by Lee, India
~
Tyler stepped into the restaurant, scanning the small space for both Sophie and her grandfather. Behind the counter, her grandfather was cheerily preparing dishes with the chefs, looking brighter than he had earlier that morning. Jana was working as well, stomping her tattooed body across the floor of the restaurant. She glanced at Tyler, once again without recognition, as she continued on her way.
And like the ray of sunshine that she was, Sophie emerged from the back – at the booth that they had been sitting the night before. Her hair was back in that same little knot and she was dressed again in her forest green apron and uniform. She spotted him immediately, giving him a smile as she glided past him and towards the kitchen to put in an order. Tyler had hoped she’d be over-the-moon excited to see him return, especially since he had told her he’d be leaving Vermont. He wanted to see her be crazy, fangirl excited that he was there again, that they could continue where they left off.
But then again, Tyler had been attracted to her calm, unassuming demeanor. He had liked the matter-of-fact way she carried on, with plenty of appreciation but little regard to how people thought she should react. Tyler stood there, watching her bend over the counter to shout orders into the kitchen. He couldn’t help but admire her figure – a rather perfect hourglass – and wonder how Mike had missed such a bombshell. Tyler didn’t have time to wonder for very long, because she had turned around to walk towards him.
Sophie reached into her apron, pulling out a couple ten-dollar bills. She slipped the bills into the front pocket of his button-down shirt, patting it lightly with a smile.
“We weren’t open this morning,” she said. “So that meal wasn’t for sale.”
“I’m sorry,” Tyler blushed, embarrassed that he had left any money at all. He wasn’t sure what he was thinking. He wondered if he had insulted her.
“And you didn’t even finish it,” Sophie chided.
“I know,” Tyler shook his head. “I’m really sorry. For paying for a meal I shouldn’t be paying for, for wasting your food. I’m just terrible.” He cracked a smile, allowing himself to admire her dewy skin and rosy cheeks as she smiled back.
“You’re not so bad,” she shrugged. “And the tart didn’t go to waste. I was really hungry this morning.”
“Oh, well then,” Tyler raised his eyebrows as Sophie threw her head back, laughing in that same unbridled way she had that morning. Tyler laughed with her, willing himself not to reach forward and push back the stray strands of hair that had fallen into her eyes.
“Would you like something now?” Sophie asked. Yes, Tyler thought, though he knew he couldn’t say what it was he wanted.
“Surprise me with something,” he said, following her to the counter. He took a seat, watching as she leaned forward on the counter, calling out an order again. Tyler couldn’t make out what she was ordering for him with half of the words being in what he assumed was some sort of kitchen code. He smiled, charmed by his surroundings and Sophie’s mere presence. She turned back to him, her eyes sparkling like a clear blue sky, her hair like a splash of sunshine, her warmth like something he wasn’t sure he had ever felt before.
Though he suspected she was probably not supposed to sit in the middle of a busy shift, she did, pulling herself up on a stool and allowing her knees to graze his. She reached forward, breaking through whatever was left of the strange haze that had been following Tyler around for so long, breaking through the smoky air of the kitchen. She brushed back a lock of hair that had fallen into his eyes, smoothing it before sitting up again and laughing that laugh of hers.
Tyler smiled, his heart beating freely without the restraints that he had put it in for so long. He had let it go the moment he asked Mike to turn around, the moment he had stepped into that restaurant once again. There was no sense in keeping it caged, he was never the type who could hold back his emotions, his feelings, his passion.
And yes, his heart had been wrong before. His heart had put him through pain he never wanted to feel again. But maybe it deserved another chance. Maybe, this time, it would get things right.
HARPER
THE GIRL WHO GREW UP
The Durt
July 9
We see plenty of Hollywood party girls go from the glittering 20-year-old stars of nightlife to chic 30-somethings who we forget are that old since they still look and act like teenagers. Their tabletop dancing still manages to be kind of cute and sexy. But then they turn into 40-somethings with too much Botox in their waxy foreheads, who leave the club at 3AM with their C-list daughters. And that’s when you know – they’re one of those. The ones who simply refuse to grow up. The former It girls who thought it’d still be cute to be perma-wasted at forty-six.
Sooo, raise your hand if you also thought Harper Gunn would be one of those.
Ha. See? We weren’t the only ones. But boy, has the girl proved us all wrong – and how!
Not too long ago, Harper was the wild child whom we spotted at some of New York’s hottest clubs at as young as sixteen. When we started seeing pictures of her smashed or halfway passed out on the front pages of Pop Dinner, we said, “Well, she never really had a chance.” Her father opened half of those clubs she frequented and less than thirty years ago, her mother had been one of the city’s most photographed party girls herself. And then there was that messy public divorce of theirs which saw Harper bouncing around homes for a little bit (and by homes we mean cushy Upper East Side townhouses, but still). We figured Harper was a lost cause.
But not so. Since leaving rehab four years ago, Harper has reinvented her life. She has written a New York Times bestseller on diet and detox and is one of Manhattan’s youngest but most beloved lifestyle gurus. Publications that once ridiculed the girl now gripe about how hard it is to get reservations at her newly opened restaurant, Agno – the raw vegan eatery in Flatiron that was recently awarded a glowing two stars from the New York Times.
Considering her name was featured on every nasty blog’s annual “Predicted Deaths For Next Year” entry, it’s pretty amazing that Harper is now known for promoting life, health and beauty – both inside and out.
Kudos, Harpie, we’re proud of you girl. You used to give the gossip world some pretty hilariously bad headlines but hey, turns out it’s pretty fun to see you on the good side.
Standing before the clear fridge, Harper pressed between her eyebrows with her ring finger, flattening whatever wrinkles were forming thanks to her frown. For beauty reasons, she made it a point not to frown but today, it couldn’t be helped.
Normally, she rose exactly ten minutes before her alarm but this morning, she had woken up right as it sounded. For her, that was odd. So was the fact that she’d spent ten minutes rifling through her walk-in closet for an outfit when for the past three years, she’d been setting one out on a padded hanger the night before, so she wouldn’t have to think about it in the morning.
While pulling on her yoga pants, she had faintly grinned to herself over her dream despite having forgotten what it was about. And upon ambling downstairs to her glittering glass and steel kitchen – which she’d designed every inch of herself – she had walked around aimlessly for a minute, opening her cupboard to look for the lemons that she kept in the fridge.
Something was just… weird. It wouldn’t sound all that peculiar to anyone else but to Harper, having something even a hair off about her morning was bothersome. Disturbing, even – mostly because every last minute and detail of the past thousand-plus days had gone exactly according to plan.
While routine generally bored her fellow twenty-four-year-olds to tears, Harper took comfort in it. After five straight years of flirting with arrest and overdose, routine was what kept her trouble-free and healthy and alive – even if it earned her the label of “a very old twenty-four,” as described by her best friend, Zoe. Considering the human wrecking ball she’d been between the ages of fifteen and twenty, she was more than okay with being called “a very old twenty-four.” It meant ma
turity and maturity was the only reason she could, at her young age, have a bestselling book about diet and detox under her belt as well as her raw vegan restaurant, Agno, the debut culinary venture that had recently earned two stars out of a possible four from the New York Times. Maturity and sobriety had been the main factors in her road to those successes.
And her famous last name probably did help. But considering how much it had initially hurt, Harper considered it a fair tradeoff.
The name Gunn was synonymous to food in New York, thanks to her father, Hudson, who had spent the past thirty years opening Manhattan’s most raved about hotspots. That, of course, included the famous West Village restaurant and lounge, Lilac. Having spent every weekend of her teenaged years at the celebrity-frequented spot, Harper had grown up around great chefs and good food.
And strong drinks.
Drink, Harper urged herself, staring into her usual but unappetizing glass of aloe vera juice, lemon, Spirulina and green tea extract. With a long silver spoon, she mixed together the components of her daily breakfast concoction. It was what she’d been forcing herself to down every morning for a year.
But today, the light clanking of the spoon flashed her back to Lilac – to being the only fifteen-year-old allowed in the place, swigging the same gin-based cocktails as the otherwise adult clientele. Then, her father had turned his head from more than a few displays of her questionable behavior. Following a messy public divorce from Harpers’ mother, Nadine, Hudson had suffered from extreme guilt and as a result, years of chronic parental judgment lapses. Thanks to those episodes, he had let teenaged Harper into Lilac on Friday nights. He had let her drink. He had let her claim to have spent weekends at her mother’s Upper West Side townhouse despite knowing that she’d actually been elsewhere. He’d also been too lenient about her consistent absences from school.
But most importantly, he’d let her go on that fateful trip to Los Angeles alone. Scheduled as just a four-day visit, he probably hadn’t anticipated it to change the entire course of Harper’s life.
Standing at her glass kitchen counter, Harper pressed between her eyebrows again, laughing at herself despite her frown. What is going on today? She had yet to even bring her drink to her lips and already, she could taste the lemon. Along with the phantom taste, she was also detecting a non-existent hint of almond. Cherry, too. And something else. Harper wet her lips, trying to identify the juniper flavor dancing on her tongue.
Shit.
Gin.
Gin, lemon, Maraschino liqueur and Crème de violette. Her taste buds were hallucinating the zing of her choice cocktail from the days of Lilac. Back in the day, she had favored the martini-like drink to such a point that some regulars had abandoned its formal name – the Aviation – and begun referring to it as The Harper. Which was kind of horrible considering she was only fifteen when she’d made the beverage her signature order.
Okay, no more tripping down memory lane, psycho, Harper scolded herself as she downed her aloe and Spirulina. Something was most certainly off about her day if her mind was delving into memories of the shameful past she had worked so hard to forget. Especially with such a busy schedule ahead.
It was Monday, which meant a private session with her Pilates instructor at 8AM, a 10AM shift at the organic food co-op, a noontime lunch with her publisher about her next book, a 4PM phone interview with a Los Angeles yoga magazine and an evening drop-by of Agno since the kitchen was transitioning into its seasonal summer menu. There were things to do and people to see, which meant no time for nostalgia – if her days as a child alcoholic could really be considered nostalgia.
“So sunny today,” Harper’s driver, Ron, remarked as she climbed into the backseat of her Audi, dressed head to toe in Lululemon with the rest of her day’s outfits zipped into garment bags and laid out in the trunk.
“Gorgeous,” Harper replied, smiling her thanks through the rearview mirror as Ron put on the usual music she preferred for weekday mornings – a playlist of downtempo electronic that always set the mood for her Pilates sessions.
This morning, however, it did nothing for her. In fact, it made her feel oddly tense – the opposite of its usual effect. Gazing out at the clear blue sky, Harper took in a deep breath, trying to remain calm and fight the strange feeling of a buzz in her head.
“Shoot,” Ron suddenly clucked. “We might be a minute late, Miss Gunn. I gotta take Ninth Avenue down,” he said, nodding at the construction obstructing their usual route to the Pilates studio.
“Oh. Okay,” Harper responded quietly, trying not to look completely horrified by the prospect of being late. She was never late. Being late was no longer her thing. Bad omens. Bad omens everywhere.
As the car crept down the odd traffic cluttering Ninth Avenue, Harper kept her eyes out the window, determined to soak in the summer sun and find the unflappably chipper zeal that she usually woke up with.
But her plan backfired when her eyes flew to the large iron and steel door at the very end of the block.
The Green Room – a club known for its rooftop pool, wild clientele and frequent celebrity catfights. Harper had discovered the place at sixteen, during a summer when Zoe visited from the West coast. It wound up the venue where she would hold her farewell party a year later, when she decided to move from New York to Los Angeles.
“So I can be near you,” Harper had said to Zoe, feeling only slightly guilty about the lie.
Fidgeting with the elastic foldover of her yoga pants, Harper stared at the unmarked façade of the club.
Once upon a time, it had been her second home – her first home being Lilac. By sixteen, her weekends and at least a few of her weekdays had consisted of Lilac followed by The Green Room and then some other spot or two in the Meatpacking District before the night got taken back to someone’s apartment.
Back then, Harper’s Mondays had followed a drastically different schedule. After rising between noon and 2PM, she and whichever friends she’d woken up around would smoke a joint and spend an hour deciding on which burger place to go to for a hangover fix. With day-old makeup caking her face, Harper would scarf down as many as two burgers since the combination of her metabolism and partying kept her slim. Then, sometime after her meal, she would shower and “put on her face,” as Zoe called it. By as early as 4PM, she would be drinking again.
It was a much looser schedule than the one she abided by now. Much looser, far less healthy and totally reckless – and somehow, it had managed to get even worse upon moving to Los Angeles.
“Darling. I think we should skip today or reschedule.”
Harper blinked, her focus suddenly adjusting as she knelt in front of her Pilates instructor, Elsa, the rail-thin yet ultra-toned forty-year-old whom she had known her whole life since her mother had taken private sessions with her during her modeling years. Harper frowned, hardly remembering when she’d gotten into the studio. It was as if she had blacked out.
“You’re off today. It’s driving me insane,” Elsa said. She had never been one to sugarcoat.
“Oh God, I’m sorry,” Harper apologized hastily, squeezing her eyes shut for a second and touching between her brows. “How long was I spacing for? I’ve been all… weird since the moment I woke up.”
“Did you drink last night?”
Harper’s eyebrows darted up with surprise. She blinked. “Um. No, I don’t drink anymore.”
“I know but you’re acting off enough for me to suspect a thing or two.”
“What? No, no, no.” Harper shook her head so adamantly that her tight topknot unwound. She gave a bit of a sigh as she gathered her long blonde hair into the kind of loose ponytail that she usually hated seeing on people. “No, I definitely did not drink. I promise. You would’ve read about it in the papers this morning if that happened.”
“You used to drink alone in your apartment. Where no one could see.”
“Elsa.” Harper shot a hard look. Sometimes she forgot that Elsa was one of her mother’s closest friends, t
hat she knew more about her than Harper was comfortable with. “Do you really think I had a drink last night?”
Elsa shrugged her sinewy shoulders.
“I wouldn’t,” Harper insisted, stern. “Life is entirely too good right now for me to screw it up with even one sip. I’m just having a weird morning,” she said. “Those happen sometimes,” she added, trying to convince herself of it as well.
Because it wasn’t just a weird morning.
Her head was light and foggy – but not unpleasantly so. There was a giggle trying to escape the back of her throat. She actually did feel kind of… tipsy. But it didn’t make sense. She hadn’t consumed any substances in the past four years let alone the last night. Last night, she’d been sitting among heirloom cucumbers and fennel on the rooftop vegetable garden of Agno, discussing the new menu options with her head chef and sous chef. She’d had a bottle of Perrier. She hadn’t even finished it.
“Maybe you’re coming down with the flu,” Elsa said though Harper could tell from her expression that she didn’t actually think so – she was merely giving her an out. “Why don’t you go spend the rest of your day with your mom? Let her take care of you. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming.”
Harper tried not to narrow her eyes at Elsa’s transparent suggestion. “I don’t need her to take care of me, Elsa, I’m fine now,” she said in a groan, finding herself suddenly resentful of the fact that her Pilates instructor doubled as a close family friend – one who knew more than her own friends about certain things. Embarrassing things. Like how completely dependent she was on her mother after rehab.
While she’d once hated tame activities like manicures, brunch, movie nights and whatever qualified as “girl time,” Harper had come out of treatment to find herself embarrassingly in need of all those things. She had always thought of herself as fiercely independent. She’d grown up without much attention from either parent – Hudson had been addicted to work and Nadine had always been out on the town, doing her best to regenerate the fame she’d enjoyed before getting pregnant with Harper at twenty-four. And home life aside, Harper had always preferred to attend parties solo. Her spontaneity thrived when she didn’t have to report to friends about where she was going and when she was leaving. She liked being free.