“I know,” I say with a nod, my voice firm.
“A week ago, I was worried about my wedding. Fretting it all, to be honest. And today, I’m going to meet my grandmother. In Chicago.” She giggles, and this time, her laugh is mixed with joy instead of fear.
“With a sexy guy who has a heart of gold,” she says, her words barely above a whisper, like I wasn’t supposed to actually hear them.
“That guy feels the same about you.” I tap the tip of her nose and try to keep the intensity out of my gaze, burying my true feelings. They’ve strayed from just friends to a whole lot more, but my attraction to Harlow is rooted deep inside me. So far down, I can’t find the place where it changed from her friend to hopeful lover.
Lover.
It seems like such an odd word, and one I’ve never used to describe myself. But my feelings for Harlow aren’t based on lust, and it’s too soon to use any other “L” word besides like. Though, that “L” word doesn’t fit my feelings completely either.
Is there a place between like and love? If there is, I’m standing in the middle of it.
I shake my head and come back to the moment. I’ll have time to figure out things between us. For now, my focus is on Harlow, and helping her however she needs me.
“Tell me the address and I’ll enter it into the GPS.” Harlow gives me the location and we head out.
Most of the homes we’ve passed in Park Ridge are stately two-story types with large, manicured lawns. The kind of places requiring money. After a few turns, we arrive on her grandmother’s street. It’s lined with modest, well-kept ranches. I slow down so Harlow can check out the houses.
The GPS tells us we are approaching the location on the left. I look over and see Harlow clutching the letter in her hands while worrying her bottom lip. She scans each house to see if the numbers on them match the one in her letter.
“There it is,” she says, pointing to the house while bouncing in her seat.
I pull over to the curb in front of the house. The drapes are closed in the windows facing the street and there isn’t a car parked in the driveway. If I had to guess, I’d say no one is home. I kill the engine and wait.
“This is it.” Harlow means more than our arrival. It’s time for her to meet her past and build a new future. She glances over at me, her eyes begging me for strength.
“It’s going to be okay.”
“Part of me wants to run up to the door. Another wants to stay hiding out in the car like a chicken shit.” She takes a couple deep breaths and grabs the door handle, but her hand stills.
A sudden movement catches my eye and I look to find the garage door opening.
“Look.” I lift my chin toward the house and Harlow’s gaze follows.
“Someone’s home,” she squeaks.
We sit in thick silence as a woman steps out of the garage. She’s older, likely in her sixties, but it’s her blond hair that gives her identity away. It matches the hair color of the beautiful woman sitting beside me.
Harlow turns back toward me with tears in her eyes. A lone one streams down her face and I wipe it away.
“It’s her,” she breathes.
The woman, who has to be Harlow’s grandmother, eyes our SUV, but likely can’t see inside due to the tinted windows. She walks to the front of the house, turns on a garden hose, and begins to water yellow, blooming plants.
“My heart is racing,” Harlow says, glancing back at me with a hopeful smile on her face. “Wish me luck.”
“You’ve got this, babe.”
She bends over the center console and plants a hurried kiss on my lips. “Thanks, Sin.”
Harlow exits the car and the woman turns when she hears the sound of the door shutting. The woman lifts her hand to her forehead as a shield from the sun.
Harlow heads up the short driveway and glances back at me over her shoulder. She can’t see what I’m doing, but for the second time in my life, I’m praying from my heart.
The first time was when I held my dying friend in the Australian desert.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Harlow
The woman, who I hope is my grandmother, turns toward me as I close the door to the SUV. Her garden hose spreads water over the grass by her feet, the pretty flowers she was watering forgotten. I bring my hand to my chest in hopes of calming my heart, but it doesn’t help. Ignoring my fears, I start walking toward her with more faith than bravery.
I try to smile at her to lessen any worry she might have about a stranger approaching, but the familiar lump in my throat has returned. She assesses me with her head tilted and a hand shielding her face from the sun, making shadows. Her golden, shoulder-length hair, so much like mine, shimmers in the bright sun. We are a similar height and build. I wonder if she recognizes herself in me, like I do in her.
“Hello,” I say as I leave the paved driveway and start to walk onto her grassy lawn. “My name’s Harlow.”