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Chapter 8
Poppy
The elevator begins to descend. It’s hard to accept that something good is happening and even harder not to stress that it will all be taken away from me.
They say bad things come in threes. I’ve checked three boxes, so good has to come my way.
“Do you smell that?” Harper asks with a playful grin, taking another sniff of the air. Her nostrils flare wide. “That’s scented air, Poppy. That is some rich bitch shit.” She snaps her fingers.
"It’s called being polite," I say with a wry smile, my eyebrows raising slightly to emphasize the point.
I bring my hand to my forehead and fan myself for dramatic effect as if trying to cool down from the scorching heat. "It’s hotter than hell’s waiting room outside. I’m sure most places scent the air to ward off the BO smell."
“Polite as in hand towels instead of paper towels in the restroom. Yeah, this place is just being polite," she adds, her tone light and teasing.
The elevator lowers to another level. Keys in hand, we’re about to step into my new apartment. I feel like I’m about to go skydiving. I just hope the parachute opens and I glide into a new horizon.
“Do you think the air will smell this nice in France?” Harper ponders.
Instead of returning to work right away, she is backpacking in France for two weeks. With her American charm, she's about to conquer the hearts of all the Frenchmen. She will create such a ruckus that it will make The Great Plague of Marseille look favorable.
Leave it to Harper to introduce the French to American sin and sass. They won't know what hit them, and they'll probably be begging her to leave by the time she's done.
I'd bet my inheritance, down to the last penny, that this is going to be her first and last time in France. I mean, let's be real; she's probably going to get herself blacklisted from entering the country after this trip. Then, knowing Harper, she will hack into their system and remove herself from the list.
Naturally, she tried to drag me along for the ride, threatening to kidnap me if I didn't come. Lucky for me, I used the excuse of moving and starting a new job to get out of it.
“No, it’s going to smell like sugar, carbs, and cigarettes,” I joke. "But seriously, spill the beans, Harper. What's this surprise you've been taunting me about? What did you order?” As the elevator descends, my worry starts to creep up. I can't help but wonder what mischief she's cooked up this time.
“Well, you know how you left me with the movers while you went to the notary to sign for the apartment?” She begins.
Reaching for a lock of her hair, she begins to twirl it around her fingers. Classic Harper. Her go-to move. Acting all innocent and naive. Wolf in sheep's clothing. She once told me she thought the Virgin Mary made the same move when she broke the news to Joseph that she was knocked up by the Big Man upstairs.
“Yes,” I reply, inhaling deeply and taking in the pleasant scent of the “rich bitch air.”
“I had to call an intervention,” Harper continues, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Oh, great! Another surge of cortisol just surged into my blood. My brows furrow like they're about to start a protest.
"What?" I ask, trying to hide my annoyance but failing spectacularly.
Let's address Harper's so-called interventions. Her idea of help would make a therapist run for the hills. Seriously, I nicknamed her Harp because she can harp on people like there's no tomorrow. It's her superpower, and boy, does she love to flaunt it.
But hey, what are friends for, right? Somewhere in her outlandish mind, it is out of love.
Oh, her last Harp-a-thon was a real cavity-inducing treat! She went on and on about my drastic anti-dating shift; I was on the fast track to becoming the deranged cat lady that no one liked and who probably smelled like cat piss.
To make matters worse, she was dating a doctor at the time and had the audacity to tell me she was convinced she could get him to enact a 72-hold on me.
What’s scary is she probably could.
Harper thinks her Harp-a-thon is the reason I moved and decided to break free from my cocoon.
"I had to purge you from your fashion sickness," she declares, hands-on as if she's some kind of fashion doctor.
“What?” I exclaim, my worry turning into genuine concern.
My fashion isn’t bad. I’ve just been embracing loungewear. It is a billion-dollar business, after all. People want comfort. Yoga pants are the best and worst things ever invented. They are unbelievably comfortable, and you never want to wear anything else. So comfortable you can’t put anything else on because you never want to accept your size changed.
