Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 302(@300wpm)
I regret calling her.
Should have figured this out on my own.
“She was in town for work,” I tell my mom, hoping she’ll let me finish the story without that expression on her face.
It’s distracting as fuck.
“What kind of work?”
I should have known she would ask.
“She’s a designer.” Close enough.
If I tell Mom that Harlow designed and created a dating app, that will launch one hundred more questions, which will lead to more questions, which will no doubt have her judging and deciding that I should stop speaking to Harlow—let alone fly to the city she lives in to surprise her.
I don’t elaborate and go on with my story.
“So we go sightseeing and have a blast, right? It’s been a really long time since I’ve done anything like that—I actually can’t remember ever bumming around town to have fun. Every time I do go somewhere, it’s always for work, and I can’t really go out in public and do whatever I want.” I can’t stop babbling. “This time I was wearing a disguise, and then she put one on, too, because she thought it was goofy and I was doing it to be cute—she had no idea I slapped on a mustache so no one would recognize me.”
Which barely worked.
Listen to me, oversharing to create a bit of sympathy on Harlow’s behalf so my mother won’t be too critical when I give her the actual reason I’m in Green Bay.
“What kind of disguise?”
“Hat, a mustache, and sunnies.”
Mom narrows her eyes. “You thought running around New York with a strange woman and wearing a hat and sunglasses was a good disguise?”
“Uh, yes?”
Mom’s blank expression is all she needs to say.
“It’s not easy to find disguises in the middle of New York City, Mother. I guess I could’ve gone out and gotten a wig, but wouldn’t that have drawn more attention to me?” I give my head a shake. “No harm, no foul—no one recognized me, and we had the most kick-ass day.”
Mom blinks.
I keep talking. “Harlow is just a really down-to-earth girl. She’s actually from the Midwest, too, and quite honestly, I can’t remember dating anyone from here. Not even in high school, I don’t think—I never had the time to commit to anyone.”
She isn’t convinced about the facts. “Didn’t you date that cheerleader in college?”
Why does everyone keep bringing her up?
“But that was college. It wasn’t serious, and I knew I wasn’t going to marry her.” She just wanted a husband to pay for everything and buy her expensive shit. I look at my mother. “You never liked her, admit it.”
“Her skin was orange.” She says it so matter-of-factly, I laugh.
“Fair enough, her skin was orange.”
“Now that you have me sitting in the grocery store parking lot—spit it out. Please explain to me how you ended up in Green Bay, Wisconsin.”
Valid question. “Oh, Harlow—that’s her name, Harlow—and I really hit it off.”
“Yes, you’ve already said that.”
Crap. I’m pretty fucking nervous. Confessing all this to my mom, one of the people I respect most in this entire world—alongside my father and my agent (who, I will admit, has his moments).
I trust him but only, like, 85 percent.
“I spent a bit of quality time with Harlow after we went sightseeing, and I feel like she’s the type of person I could find a good friendship with.”
Oh my God, why did I just say that?
Good friendship?
You do not fly to a city you have no affiliation with after having sex with a woman because you think you’ll find a good friendship with her.
“Andy, seriously?”
I mean it’s mostly true. I feel like Harlow is definitely the type of girl who would make an amazing friend and lover. For me to tell my mom we’re good friends is absolutely ridiculous because that’s not what I’m looking for, and my mother knows it. I am a midwestern boy through and through, born and raised, with Midwest values. A guy who wants to settle down, as crazy as his life is.
She knows it, and she’s been trying to protect me.
I feel like Mom is staring into my soul right now. She knows I had sex with Harlow; she can see it in my eyeballs as I look at her through the phone.
She definitely knows there’s more to this than what I’m telling her . . .
“Okay, so I might have fucked up the phrasing. I didn’t mean friends. I meant . . .” I meant . . .
“Landon, what are you trying to tell me? What are you doing in Green Bay?” my mother finally asks point blank. “Stop beating around the bush. My cart is just sitting inside, and the frozen pizza is probably unthawing.”
She called me Landon.
I can’t remember the last time she used my real name when addressing me, and that includes when I was little and would get into trouble, and she’d scream my entire name out the back door until I came running.