I could have told Zane I had three heads and he wouldn’t look more surprised. His eyes are wide and lips are lax, and he just shakes his head as if he’s trying to comprehend what I just said.
“Harlow . . .” He reaches a hand out to me and then lets it fall as words escape him, but that simple action screams so very loudly to me.
“That’s what I thought.” I choke over the words as I stare at him. There are so many apologies in his eyes that I’m not sure how to tell him it’s okay, that I’m just as blindsided as he is.
“I don’t know what to say.”
A knock comes two seconds before Zoey pushes the door open. “You guys ready?” She looks at Zane and then me and the back to Zane. “Is everything okay?”
“Sure.”
“Fine.”
We both answer in a rush of words.
“I just—I just need a minute to change,” I say as I bite back the emotion in my voice that’s threatening to rise up and spill over into tears. “Can you both please excuse me?” Turning my back to them, I walk toward the dress hanging on the cabinet to the far left. I close my eyes and it seems like forever before their footsteps head toward the door.
“Har—”
“Please don’t.”
There’s silence as he stares at me and then the sound of the door shutting.
I finally told him, Mom.
This time though, I have a feeling he’s not going to be bringing me more shoes.
MY CHEEKS HURT FROM SMILING.
And not the sincere kind where everything is going right, but more because I’m afraid if I stop, if I let there be one, simple crack in my fa?ade, I won’t be able to hold back everything I feel from showing on my face.
People and pictures and proclamations of how they can’t wait for midnight when the site will go live. They’re on a constant rotation during the evening. All of them of course, except for Zane.
He’s kept his distance from me. The few times his eyes have found mine, we stare at each other across the space all too briefly before someone comes up wanting our attention.
His laugh carries through the room though, and each time it does, my heart hurts a little bit more.
“Ladies and gentleman.” Zane’s voice booms through the microphone and the crowd turns their attention to the stage while I slowly make my way toward the back of the room. “I just wanted to take a quick moment to thank you for all coming out and celebrating the launch of SoulM8 with us tonight. Of all the businesses I’ve started or owned, this one holds a special place for me because it deals with something you can’t put a price on—matters of the heart. For many people, myself included, love has always been this elusive thing that I couldn’t exactly touch so I wasn’t quite sure I believed in it or thought it existed. SoulM8 helped me find the answers to that. It helped me realize there was someone out there for me.” He looks down for a dramatic beat and as much as I want to believe him, as much as I want to swoon at his words and think he’s speaking about me, we’ve done so much pretending over the past two months that all of a sudden I’m not sure what is real and what is fake. “Look, I’m not saying you’re going to find the love of your life right off the bat. It may take a few tries, but what I am saying is that it might restore your faith in the process. It might show you that other good people like you are out there wanting the same things . . . and eventually, you’ll find your way to each other.”
The room erupts into a round of applause about the same time I sneak out the back door, unable to listen to his voice and his confusing words a second longer.
I scramble out of the lobby and the minute my heels hit the sidewalk outside, I feel like I can breathe for the first time all night long. And then I move. Away from the venue, away from the eyes of people who might recognize me from inside, away from the people who will care that there are tears streaming down my cheeks.
Time falls by the wayside as I walk the cold, unfamiliar streets until I end up back at Zane’s penthouse. It’s right when I finish packing that I hear the front door open and close. The toss of keys on the table. The sound of footsteps that stop right behind me.
Be strong, Low.
“You could barely look at me out there tonight.” My voice is quiet as I zip my bag up, but keep my face toward the wall and away from him.
“What are you doing, Harlow?”
“Packing. Going home.” I turn to face him and see the panic fill his eyes. My chest feels like it catches on fire at the sight of him. Disheveled and dashing. Scared and defiant. Lost and unsure.
“You can’t just hit me with words like that, and expect me to have an answer on the fly,” he says, stumbling over words when he doesn’t stumble.
“If I told you in a text so you’d have time to think about it . . . would that have made any difference?” I ask, my own voice even and calm as he opens his mouth and closes it without responding.