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)
She is someone. But I won’t breathe a word about her to anyone. My feelings are too dangerous. Too forbidden. Too…wrong. There are entirely too many wrongs, starting with she’s an intern and ending with Ian would never forgive me. He’d never trust me again, and you can’t run a business without trust.
The company means too much to me. My work is my compass. It’s the only steady thing I’ve ever known.
Feelings are irrelevant.
They’re kerosene, and I don’t need to fan the flames.
“Doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t matter,” I say once more, for emphasis.
To remind me.
With a sympathetic sigh, Axel nods thoughtfully as we weave around a young family—a mom and mom pushing a stroller. “I get it,” he says. “Some relationships just go…nowhere.”
My buddy sounds resigned, possibly even sad. That’s not like him. Axel’s usually brash and carefree. “Speaking from experience?”
“Unfortunately,” he says. “There was this woman…” Then he waves a hand, as if he’s dismissing her from his memory. “She’s not worth mentioning. Know what I mean?”
But that’s not entirely how I feel about Harlow. My captivating Harlow is completely worth mentioning. There’s a part of me that wants to tell Axel all about her. That wants to tell my mom. That wants to say something to someone, everyone.
Most of all, to her.
Instead, we turn into the yoga studio, and I try to let go of all my dangerous thoughts as I hold the warrior pose, sinking deeper into it, like I can battle all the wild ideas in my head.
On Monday, as I run along the river, I practice what to say the whole time in case I run into Harlow on the path.
If I see her, I’ll say, “What should I wear today?”
Or, maybe, “Did you see that broken record player with the sign, Doesn’t work but might be fun to fix? It’s back on Thirty-Fourth. I took a photo of it.”
And…
I groan over my pathetic lines, and my pathetic plans to talk to her.
Get it together, man.
I toggle to a new playlist on my phone and blast Rent. As I peel off miles, I don’t think of her. I think of music, and stories, and the way I felt when my mom first took me to see this show when I was thirteen.
I felt like I was where I belonged. I was seeing a story unfold on a stage.
As my sneakers slap against the concrete, I send Mom a text.
Bridger: Remember the standing O the cast of Rent received for “La Vie Boheme?” That was a fun show.
Mom: Oh my god, that one was the absolute best. I’m singing it tonight. It’s part of our set.
Bridger: I’m jealous of all the Canadians who get to hear you sing it.
Mom: I’ll make you a bootleg.
Texting my mom about the cabaret tour she’s on in Canada passes the time for the rest of my run.
That feels like a victory.
After I shower, I stand in my closet, towel slung around my waist, studying my options. The row of oranges—the sunburst, the burnt, the bright orange. The reds, from the wine to the cranberry to the ruby. Then the blues. I run my fingers along the half a dozen blue shirts, taking my time, imagining Harlow here in my home. Touching my clothes.
Picking one out.
Wear the robin’s egg. It goes with your eyes, she’d say.
Just hearing her voice in my head sends a hot shiver down my spine. I breathe out hard, then wrap a hand around the fabric of the shirt on the hanger, like I can fucking hold onto a shirt for stability.
I reach for a navy one instead. But when I hold it against my chest and peer in the mirror, it looks wrong.
It’s a boring color.
I should wear a bold shade.
I put back the navy and put on the robin’s egg. It’s not for her. Really, it’s not. I need to stop by the set of Sweet Nothings.
That’s why I’m paying so much attention to what I’m wearing. It’s the right shirt for a set visit since it’s a power shirt.
When I reach the studios on Eleventh Avenue, I make my way to the writers’ room. As I head down the familiar hallway lined with framed shots from the show—Cruz kissing Anna in his library in one season, Sam and Josie arguing in the wine cellar in another season, Cruz kissing Anna’s twin the next season—one of the actors rounds the corner and lights up when he sees me. It’s Dominic Rivera, who plays the wealthy, library-loving playboy. “Bridger! When are we going to give Cruz his own series?”
I smile at the star. “Maybe someday,” I say. You never know. If the research shows Cruz can sustain his own show, he’ll get his own show. That’s when.
The actor’s gaze drifts heavenward. “From your mouth to God’s ears,” he says, then flashes me his winning grin. “Then to the network’s ears. Then to a green light.”