Mister O

She slides off the counter, her boots hitting the floor with a loud thump. Surprise flickers in her eyes. “Really?”


I nod. I should be happy. I should be celebrating. “To the broadcast network. Better timeslot. More money. More viewers. More syndication opportunities. Yadda yadda yadda. Basically, I’d be set for life.”

She nods and swallows. Then exhales. Inhales. Glances down. Fiddles with the sleeves of her sweater.

Harper is not a fiddler.

She lifts her chin. Her expression is tough, but in a flash, her face is the picture of excitement. Like, if you googled “show me an excited face” she’d appear in the results.

“That’s amazing. That’s so incredible. I always knew you’d be an even bigger star.” She closes the few feet of distance between us and wraps her arms around me in a congratulatory hug.

It feels good to hold her like this, but all wrong, too. Because this is not how this moment should go. She’s hugging me like Spencer’s sister would hug me.

I separate from her. “I’d have to move to L.A.”

“Sounds that way,” she says, and I swear the chipperness in her voice is forced.

“Harper,” I say, but I don’t know what comes next. How is it that I can write and draw all these storylines every week, but devising what to say to this woman flummoxes me? Oh, right. Because my show is a comedy, and my life right now is desperately trying to imitate a romance, only I have no clue how those work. How the hell does anyone get from the shitty moment to the happy ending? “What about us?”

“What about us?” she repeats, her eyes locked on mine. Her body is a straight line, and tension, maybe anticipation, seems to vibrate off her.

“What happens to us if I go to L.A.?”

“Nick . . .” She takes a breath, like she needs it for fuel. “This is a huge opportunity for you.”

“Yeah, I know. But this,” I say, gesturing from her to me and back. Why doesn’t anyone ever mention how hard it is to bare your heart? It’s like peeling off a layer of skin. “This is just starting, right?”

She nods but says nothing. She closes her lips, and they form a ruler. She glances at her watch. “I, um, I have an appointment. I totally spaced on it. There’s this class I’ve been taking. New tricks and all. I should go. And laundry. I have laundry to do.”

No, I want to scream. You can’t go. Tell me not to go. Tell me you want me more than you can bear.

But why can’t I say those things, either? I try to speak, but nothing comes out. I try again. “Harper, I want a chance with you.”

She leans against me, and I dip my nose to her neck, sniffing her. She smells like my soap. “Me, too, but . . .” She stops herself and raises her face. “This is an amazing offer. You need to take it. You need to go to L.A.” She taps her wrist. “I really need to go. So late.” She grabs her bag, shoves it on her shoulder, and heads for the door. “I’ll text you later.”

She leaves, and I want to kick myself for listening to her words in Peace of Cake. Cheesy moment or not, I should have told her last night how I feel. I should have told her before I knew about this twist of fate. Then I’d know for real if she felt the same.

Fuck the perfect moment. Screw waiting. I don’t have a plan, and I don’t care. I follow her down the hall, calling out her name as she presses the elevator button. When I reach her, I stop messing around and just tell her the truth. “I’m in love with you, Harper. If you tell me not to go, I won’t.”

Her eyes widen, and she blinks several times, then clasps her hand over her lips as if she’s holding something in.

“Say it. Just say whatever you want to say,” I urge, and I don’t even know whether I’m asking for her to say I love you back, or to say Don’t go to L.A.

Maybe both.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding. The doors spread open. She takes a step. I grab her arm to stop her. “Say it.”

She takes her hand off her mouth. Raises her chin. Speaks clearly and simply. “I can’t tell you not to go to L.A.”

When I felt my heart sink in the cab the other day? That’s nothing compared to now. This stupid organ in my chest craters, plummets to the floor like a meteor crashing to Earth. I want to stop her, to make her stay, to explain herself, but I’m frozen like a statue as the doors close. The elevator chugs downward, and Harper breaks my heart.

I kick the wall, and it hurts like a son of a bitch. “Fucking hell,” I mutter.

I return to my apartment, march to the window, and stare at the street until she emerges from the lobby and onto Central Park West.

She wipes her hand across her cheek once. Then again. She picks up the pace, and soon she’s a red blur, and my chest aches for her.

Love sucks.

I have no clue what to say, what she needs to hear, or what the hell I’m going to do. I don’t even know who to turn to for advice.

But that matter is solved for me a little later when the doorman rings. Hope rises in me that she’s returned. Only when I ask who’s here, it’s the other Holiday.





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