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"She baked the double fudge chocolate cake you love."
"Ooooh! Mama Fudge," she corrects me.
"Sure, Mama Fudge." That's what Harper called her after she tasted the chocolate cake and licked her fingers clean.
"I told her I needed a change and would be looking for a new job. She put her feelers out, and by the end of the week, she came back with a list of options."
"As sweet as that is, I'm highly offended."
"I hate the snow, Harper." Not this again. I've heard all of Harper's pros and none of the cons about that far north. Some of those pros include a hot man and a warm fire.
"Fine, let the sun bake your ass for a year. Then you'll be on the next flight to me.”
“You never know.” I shrug.
I may be moving out of my childhood home, but I'm not selling it. A house Henry had never stepped foot in again. He didn’t even come back for his clothes or keepsakes. He erased us all. My neighbor, Carol, will look after the house and check in from time to time. I refuse to lose that connection to my past. I’ll never sell it, and one day, I might return to it.
I'm not just a receptionist anymore either, thanks to Helena. She recognized that I was overqualified for the reception job and pulled some strings to get me a position that was a better fit. I'll now be working as a personal assistant to a CEO. The truth is, I enjoy organizing and making everything perfect, finding a rhythm in schedules. I'll bury myself in my boss's schedule and pretend like his problems are more important than mine.
It's a sad excuse of a coping mechanism, but it's the only way I can escape from the pain and loneliness that haunts me every day. My life is a mess, and work is the only place where I can pretend to have some control.
"I did splurge," I admit, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. This is my new chapter. My sea will not always be rough. I just have to keep my boat, my life, afloat for Harper, my parents, Peter, and yes, even Henry.
"No shit, Sherlock, and I support it one hundred percent. It's about time," Harper responds, her excitement palpable. Opening her purse, she grabs her lipgloss and coats her lips.
I lick my dry lips. I’ve never felt heat like this. It’s as if my skin is already starting to blister. Not one cloud is in the sky. I look around at the place I will call home. Peter would have loved it here.
I’ll be safe here. Safe from the past.
The grass is so green. Impossibly perfect. Manicured to within an inch of its life. “It looks fake. Like a movie set.” I murmur. “I guess money can buy you perfection.”
“Don’t become a Botox bitch. Duck lips are never sexy,” Harper replies, smacking her now glossy lips.
The curving sidewalks, lined with contrasting river rocks and plants, are neatly groomed as if straight out of a landscaping catalog. Birds chirp. I even spot a nest in a tree.
The organizing freak inside of me loves it. Not one rock is out of place.
Harper walks to the grass, bends down, and touches it. Her hand snaps away as if it’s boiling. “It’s fake,” her brows raise.
I copy her. Touching the grass that is indeed artificial. “It is fake.”
“Money can buy you perfection or the plastic surgery of grass,” she comments, and then we both can’t stop giggling like schoolgirls.
“This is some Wisteria Lane shit, Poppy,” Harper stands. “But I still like it. Does that make me a psycho?”
“I like it too, so I guess that means we are both loony tunes.” I feel an ache in my cheeks from smiling and laughing so much this past week with Harper.
“That should be my building there. The keys are at the front desk,” I point to the south-facing building. The complex only has two high-rises, the north and south. Each is only ten stories tall, and the top floor is split into two penthouses, north and south.
It’s a brand-new development, and I consider myself lucky to have snagged the last available apartment. It sits on a sprawling twenty-acre property, surrounded by a gated entrance guarded by a security man. The exclusivity and privacy make me feel like I’m entering my own little oasis.
“It’s amaze-balls, but it’s so quiet. I need energy. The hustle and bustle. I need piss-filled sidewalks, not this perfect fake grass. I like disorder. I can’t live in your color-coded labeled life, Poppy, but if I could, I would. I’d move here in a heartbeat.” She begins to swing our hands as if we were kids again, “You know I am one phone call and a first-class ticket away, right?”
I smile, “Yes, I know. And I love you for that.”
Harper's right. It is quiet here, peaceful, organized, and orderly. There is no chaos. I need plans and safety nets, and this place is just that.
And yes, I have my label maker in my carry-on bag, which I can’t wait to use.
