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Just before my parents tragically passed away, their business soared to new heights. They secured multimillion-dollar contracts, licensing their software to government entities and major corporations. In preparation for unforeseen circumstances, they had set up a trust for all of us. Now, all that remains of them are cherished memories, our childhood home, and a steadily growing bank account, a testament to their hard work and dedication.
My eyes burn into that empty chair where I had hoped Henry would be sitting since he also had to sign off on the paperwork. He chose not to do so in person. You won, Henry. I’m out of your life.
The lawyer taps his finger on the document before me. Bright pink sticker tabs mark each spot where my signature is required, almost mocking me with their simplicity. A child could follow these instructions; they seemed to taunt me, but my trembling fingers betray the inner turmoil I feel.
Harper whispers in my ear, her voice barely audible above the chaos in my mind. "It's okay. I'm here. I’ve got a bottle of Tequila in the car."
That comment is why everyone needs a bestie like Harper. Even when I feel hopeless, like I’m stranded on an island, she shines a light and brings the booze. She always sees the glass half full and fills it to the brim when it nears empty.
Suppressing a grin, I reply, “Drinking and driving is illegal, Harps.”
She rolls her eyes and flips her long blonde hair over her shoulder, “Obviously.” She points to herself, “Mother Teressa right here. That’s why I’ll be doing the drinking, and you’ll be doing the driving.”
A real laugh slips from my lips.
Oh, I remember that feeling. It’s been so long since I genuinely laughed. Her words provide a flicker of comfort, a reminder that I’m not alone. When you google ‘ride or die,’ a picture of Harper fills the search results.
The lawyer clears his throat and points to where I need to sign. Again.
I nod mechanically like a bobblehead on a dashboard, my gaze fixed on the paper before me. The fancy fountain pen I hold in my hand feels foreign, a tool of power and responsibility that I am unprepared to wield.
As the pen's tip touches the paper, the ink flows effortlessly, staining the page like black blood.
“Tequila is waiting to wash it all away, baby,” Harper whispers. Her hand slips under the table, resting on my bouncing leg.
“Shouldn’t my best friend be talking me out of becoming an alcoholic?” I begin the curve of the first letter of my name.
“Please, you have been an isolated cat lady for far too long. I successfully nagged you enough to move on and start over. It’s time to be wild. Go braless; shed your panties.”
"Jesus, Harper," I shush her. In case it’s not obvious, Harper is Mother Teresa's complete opposite.
"And I don't have any cats," I grumble as I sign my name.
"Thank the Lord for that," she leans closer, a sly grin on her face. That look has caused me years of embarrassment.
"It always starts with one pussy, then another enters the scene. You think it will be fun." She shakes her head, and I sink further into my seat. Please let it swallow me!
“Before you know it, you're stuck in an orgy with a bunch of pussies with long claws and bad attitudes. Don't even get me started about the hairballs; fake extensions never withstand that kind of endurance.”
I land a swift kick to her feet under the table. "Are we talking about cats or a bad date you had?" I whisper with a wry smile.
“Cats, of course. One muff is enough.” She glances down at her zipper and then winks at me.
I know what she is doing. It’s her superpower. Harper hates awkward or emotional air, so she makes everything funny, or her version of funny, which is often at my expense. That’s my fault, too, because the events that happened to me didn’t just affect me; they affected Harper as well. We all handled our grief in different ways. She claims to be fearless, but the truth is, she's filled with a deep fear of dying young and suddenly. That's why she lives her life to the fullest.
Opposites attract. They become best friends.
Harper is just what the doctor ordered. God put her in my life for a reason. The big man upstairs knew the shit I would have to overcome, so he sent me Harper, who would somehow make me laugh when all I wanted to do was cry.
I drop the pen with a ceremonial thump.
There, it’s done.
The weight of everything presses heavily upon me. A month ago, I was content to be alone, reading a good book to fall asleep to. Going to work and living on a fucked up false hope that Henry would glance at me. I worked, came home, and pressed repeat. It’s easy to repeat and harder to change the track. You might hate the next song, or you could love it—but you won’t know until you make the change.
I was a stark contrast from the girl Harper used to know. I built a shell around myself, but as Harper described it, sometimes you build a shell only to crack it open and emerge into a beautiful new creature.
I don’t feel beautiful. I feel more monstrous. Nothing but raw skin and broken bones.
