Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106001 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 530(@200wpm)___ 424(@250wpm)___ 353(@300wpm)
I brace myself. It was inevitable I’d run into Ian again. I press open, and seconds later he strides in, nearly stumbling in shock when he sees me. “Oh.”
“Hello. What floor?” I ask politely.
“Nine, please.”
But I should be more than civil. Gracious is a better way to behave. I press the button, then turn to him. “Congrats on Afternoon Delight,” I say. “I heard the shoot went great.”
He doesn’t answer at first, just furrows his brow. Maybe deciding if he’s going to deign to answer me at all. Then he says, “And I hope it launches well.”
“Me too,” I say, since the show won’t premiere for a few more months. I clear my throat and say another hard thing. “Your revision was good.”
A nod. A quiet thanks.
But I’m not done. “Best of luck, Ian. Truly,” I say as the elevator slows at the seventh floor.
“Thank you, Bridger.”
Then I step out and the doors shut behind me. I doubt we’ll ever exchange more than pleasantries, but for Harlow’s sake, the pleasantries are necessary.
After all, she’ll be in my life always.
I just know it.
On Saturday, Harlow and I walk across town to the Chelsea Market, where I reach for the door and hold it open for her. A familiar voice, brassy and big, calls out from down the block. “My baby!”
Harlow’s jaw drops, and she shoots me a that’s so adorable look.
I grumble, “Don’t tell anyone she calls me that.”
“I won’t tell a single soul at all,” she says in the tone of someone who’ll tell the world.
Then, I take a second for the familiar curl of dread to twist through me at the thought of seeing my mother, but it doesn’t come.
I’m not bracing myself to see her. I’m surprisingly grateful.
That’s a welcome change. My mother closes the distance between us, her arms out wide, a red silk scarf wrapped around her hair, white sunglasses on. “Bridger, it’s been too long,” she says in that throaty voice that has graced microphones and stages for years. She throws her arms around me.
When she lets go, she turns to Harlow, immediately beaming. “And…you! I’ve been dying to meet you, sweetheart.”
“Helena, this is my girlfriend, Harlow,” I say.
Mom grabs Harlow’s shoulders. “You’re an angel for tolerating my moody, sarcastic, complicated son.”
“Way to sell me, Mom,” I say.
“I would say I do a little more than tolerate him,” Harlow says.
As we go inside, Mom breezing ahead of us, Harlow turns to me and whispers, “Her name is Helena? Like Helen James, the First Lady of American theater?”
“Well, there is an a at the end of Helena. So it’s not exactly like it.”
“But it’s close. Bridger! Show business is in your blood.”
“Yes. It is.”
Over lunch, Harlow chats with my mom for most of the meal, and I relax as I listen to the two ladies talk about music and theater and art.
I don’t have an apple-pie home, or a white-picket-fence story. Few of us do. But right here, right now, I’m at peace with where I came from and with everything I have.
50
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Harlow
I finish the article I’ve been reading on the train—on trends in art buying—then close my tablet and stare out the window, content to watch the seaside towns rush by for now.
Soon, the train slows as we near our destination. And my contentment slinks away. I hope it’s not a mistake to bring all my found family together. I hope my friends and my guy have a good time.
Bridger closes his tablet. He’s been reading scripts the whole train ride.
“Anything good?” I ask.
“As a matter of fact, the first episode of Fontaine’s show is fantastic,” he says, then he lowers his voice and brings his finger to his lips. “But don’t tell a soul.”
“I’ll keep all your secrets,” I whisper.
It’s a Saturday morning in September and after a long work week, we’re going to spend one night in the Hamptons. Once the train stops, we grab our bags and make our way through the station. Outside in the late summer sun, Layla’s looking thoroughly New York with her black tank top, big black shades, and her hair looped in a messy bun. She’s behind the wheel of her little red ride, while Ethan’s shotgun.
As we head down the steps, butterflies race through me.
I hope it’s not weird.
I hope he doesn’t think we’re too young for him.
I hope they all like each other.
But then I talk back to my worries. It’s just one night. Plus, his friend Axel is in the Hamptons for the weekend, researching his next book. They’ll slip off to do guy stuff—play golf, grill on the deck, hoist sails on boats, I guess. Stuff like that.
Bridger and I hop in the backseat of the car.
After quick hellos, Bridger hits Ethan and Layla up with a critical question. “So, how’s the scene this weekend?”