She scribbles in capital letters: Vada + Thomas J. BFF
I take the marker from her hand and shield my work with my free hand: Ben + Harper = Life
I take my hand away so Harper can see. She stares at it for a few seconds. “I want to kiss you right now,” Harper says, looking at me.
I raise one brow. “You should. Don’t be strong enough for the both of us,” I tease.
She sighs, hands me the bag with all of the Sour Patch flavors she doesn’t like, and digs in to find a different candy. She pulls out the Bubble Yum and puts a piece in her mouth.
“You planned this. You planned to take advantage of me. That’s the only reason you’d bring my chewable kryptonite,” I exclaim, pointing at her mouth.
“A first kiss and a last one. It’s the only way,” Harper says.
My smile falls, and my stomach flips. Not from the sugar, from the prospect of never having her lips as my own after tonight. I don’t ponder long because Harper’s leaning toward me. I halt her, taking her head in my hands. I place my thumbs on her lips. They’re warm and sticky and I inhale greedily. She smacks her gum, and then closes the distance between us, sealing the finality of this moment with a kiss.
I taste her forgiveness and feel her soul. I hold her face and she clutches me tightly. Tears and love war with the inevitable future. The sun is long gone now, and from the ground we look like two tiny specs entangled in an embrace, neither ready to let the other go.
Eventually, reluctantly we do part ways. I chew her gum that ended up in my mouth for hours, trying to figure out what exactly transpired tonight. I think about love and life. I think about heartbreak and pain. I try to figure out what to do next—where to go from here. What Harper wrote on the tower was a right now sentiment. What I wrote was meant for forever. It’s always been that way with us. The turtle and the hare. I’ll never give up hope. I can’t. Not after everything we’ve been through.
As I fall asleep I’m left with only one thought: Love sews souls together. Life picks at the stiches.
Chapter Twenty
Harper
“A/S/L,” I say out loud, reading the newest message in my dating website inbox. This one is a real gem, although the photos of dicks are probably more offensive. This proves that not only isn’t he a match, but he didn’t even take the time to read my damn basic info. The test to pair me with matches took exactly a week. It’s supposed to be foolproof. It will find me the man of my dreams or I get my three hundred dollars back.
Not that I doubt their diehard promise, but I already have a pair of shoes picked out that cost two hundred ninety-nine dollars. I’m hoping they’re on sale when the refund comes.
I’m feeling frisky, so I type back,Older than your mom/yes please/Earth, and hit send. Giggling, I make my way into the closet to choose something to wear to a dinner out with friends. It’s my welcome back party. A couple weeks ago I returned from a year traveling abroad. My parents pointed out my linguistics degree could serve me well wherever the wind may blow. Blow it did. All over the map.
My workplace in America set up so many meetings and lectures that I was constantly on the move and being on my own in unfamiliar territory gave me a sense of freedom and security I never would have dreamed of in my bubble of a safety net in Southern California. I made friends that will last a lifetime. I tried foods I never would have given a second glance. I said yes. I went out dancing. I dated a man in Spain for two whole weeks. He took me to dinner, served me Sangria, dipped me back like men do in movies, and kissed me in the rain. He was beautiful and temporary and I was alive—my heart beating for the first time since it was destroyed completely.
I felt everything. Travel changed me. I spent hours lost on subway cars reading books and took bumpy rides in bicycle taxis. There were days of tears when living abroad made me crazy, and highs from learning something new. Oh, did I learn. Not just about languages and communication. I learned about myself. Harper Rosehall. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I found myself while traveling, but I will say I defined myself.
Ben and I speak on a semi-regular basis. It’s usually via a quick text to check up on one another, nothing too telling. We never speak about our love lives and our parents know not to bring it up. It’s back the way it was before, except completely different.
My laptop pings a new message, and I groan. “I should turn it off. Cancel this thing before I get one more cock shot,” I mumble, touching the track pad to wake my screen up.
The little pink star lets me know it’s from a match—a person the website says is compatible with me on every level. It’s the second match since I finished the test. The first one followed up a funny joke with, you guessed it, a dick pic. This new message is from [email protected] and the title says,Are you a robot?
There aren’t photos on the website, and they say it’s purposeful so you get to know the person before you see their face, but they do take into consideration about turn-ons and turn-offs and preferences in body type and size. If he’s a match, I’m trusting he has abs like Adonis, dimples, and a cock that doesn’t resemble a carrot. I figure this might be the one that gets me my pair of shoes. I’m in my panties and bra, a black dress draped over my lap. “What do you have to say, Mancandy?” I click his message.
“Hi RJamour7068,
I love the Internet. Porn is fun. So is social media. But those are visual things. Images. This website tells me that photos aren’t good to start off with, that we should exchange photos via email when we’re ready. They say you’re the one for me. A match so perfect, my mom will finally have grandchildren. What remains to be seen is if you’re a robot or not. I’m not a robot. I’m a pretty awesome dude. Check out my profile. If you like what the words say about me, send me a photo. I like what your words say about you. For the record. But…are you ugly? I told the computer I was only interested in dime pieces with brains. I’m not sure if we’re reading from the same dictionary, though.”
I laugh out loud, and I probably shouldn’t be as entertained as I am, but it’s a good message. I’m drawn to the quirkiness in his tone. He doesn’t know any facts other than what the test results give him. He knows I’m local, but that’s it. He doesn’t know my background, or my profession, or anything telling. Guess that’s the website’s way of keeping creepy stalkers at bay. After taking about ten minutes to read his characteristics and personality type, I type back:
I like the Internet too, to an extent. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I wouldn’t consider myself a dime piece, as wouldn’t any woman who also has an above average IQ (which you requested), but my dad says I’m the prettiest girl in the whole world. I’m trying to trust the process and keep photos and appearances hidden until the bitter end. I’d rather get to know you as a person first. Are you okay with that? It does look like we matched on every single tier of this stupid program. If a computer can choose a person for me better than I can choose a person for me, I might jump off a cliff. Just a warning. Not really, though. So, first question (if you want) it’s prompting me with, “Tell me your ideal first date?”
P.S.) This may sound odd and a bit forward, but I’m not looking for a friendship. I need passion to punch me in the stomach and keep me lying on the ground. Can you dig?
P.S.S) I’m a size 4. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Girl next door meets Minka Kelly circa Friday Night Lights. What about you, Mancandy?
I send the message and watch as the window tells me it’s been read. “I’m going to be late,” I whisper, checking the time. I throw the dress on and fire off a quick text to Martina, letting her know I’m on my way. Not really, but I’m never, ever late, so I’m sure they’ll forgive me for being fashionably late to my own party. It’s so euro. I que up an Uber and find they’re only ten minutes away.
Cracking my knuckles, I stare at the screen, waiting for his response. Maybe he won’t respond right away, I tell myself. He does, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I blame my lack of a sex life on my giddy, overzealous character these days.
