IT’S SEVENTY-FIVE DEGREES out, the air smells like the ocean, I can hear seagulls calling just across the street near the beach, and there is not a visible cloud in the sky. In fact, it’s so beautiful outside I know I won’t want to go back in after lunch. It’s one of the reasons I tend to eat at my desk; the job is a painful slog, the paralegals and lawyers seem to love treating me like the village idiot, and our offices are across the street from the Pacific Ocean. I keep reminding myself being a legal intern is a rite of passage and will be over soon enough, but looking up and seeing London out here in the sunshine, unpacking a big bag of food, makes the prospect of returning to my cubicle feel impossible.
“Hey, Logan,” I call.
She looks up and smiles, but her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open just as a voice comes from behind me: “Hey, Sutter.”
I turn around, and the woman standing in front of me is so out of context here that it takes my brain at least two full seconds to place her.
“Harlow? What th—?”
“Surprise!” She throws her arms out. “Happy to see me?”
I glance over my shoulder to London, confused. “Um, is this an ambush of some form?”
“I asked London to lunch,” Harlow says. “And . . . then I suggested we have lunch with you.”
I wait, brows lifted in expectation, before I slide my gaze over to London, hoping for some form of silent communication.
Is this cool?
London gives me a tiny smile, a barely perceptible nod.
I can only assume that there’s been a conversation I haven’t been privy to, and that maybe this is Harlow’s way of reaching out, letting London know that this is okay. I walk over, still confused and also totally thrilled—I spent nearly every weekend from the age of eleven to nineteen with this woman—and give her a hug. Harlow squeezes me tight, and I get a face full of her auburn hair.
“Holy shit, you’re still using that herby shampoo,” I say, filled with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
When she steps back, Harlow purses her lips at me. “It’s Aveda, you plebeian.”
“You smell like a commune.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “My husband likes it.”
“Or he’s just too terrified of you to say anything.”
A delighted giggle escapes her lips. “You clearly haven’t met Finn.”
With a lingering smile, Harlow turns, walking over to the picnic table where London is now waiting and has spread out a crazy amount of food: sandwiches, a few deli salads, olives, chips, and sparkling waters.
I look up at her, quietly telling her, “This looks amazing.”
She blushes again—sweet Lord, what is up with that?—and then meets my eyes. “Good. This was sort of Harlow’s idea—”
“I wanted to bring you peanut butter and jelly, but London insisted we stop and pick up something nicer. She might be too good for you,” Harlow says, and I have to restrain myself from hugging her again.
I look back and forth between the two of them. “So what brought this on? Are you buttering me up for a Harlow tongue-lashing?”
“Keep up, Luke. If I wanted to rip you a new one I’d have done it already,” Harlow says, picking up a sandwich and examining it.
“Right,” I say, and pick up a sandwich of my own.
“We had a nice long talk yesterday and London mentioned it was possible that I was a little out of line. I thought about it and decided she was right. Case closed. Now, whether you’re actually worthy of Miss All-American over here,” she says, nodding toward London. “That remains to be seen.”
I look over at London, who seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with me. Confident that Harlow isn’t here to neuter me, I say, “Harlow, you saw me with Mia every day for years. You already know whether or not I’m worthy.”
She nods, popping an olive into her mouth. “I’m trying to do the grand gesture here, Luke. I don’t remember you being this slow on the uptake.”
I want to volley back with something similarly playful, but I’m so grateful to Harlow in this moment that I can’t seem to conjure up more than a grin aimed in her direction.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Harlow is a bit of a bulldozer,” London explains, smiling down at the table. She pulls the top off a container of salad, and sticks a fork in it. “Sorry. Already has the dressing on,” she jokes under her breath.
“I’ll persevere,” I answer, intentionally touching her hand when she slides it over to me. She went head-to-head with Harlow over this. For me. I may need a few minutes to process that.
As if on instinct, London looks up, widening her eyes in a Be cool gesture before returning to unwrapping her sandwich.