Mister O(82)
“It is,” I say, monotone, as all my plans come crashing down. Not even anvil-style, just a heavy stone in my gut.
Because he’s right. This is huge, so what’s wrong with me? Work is what I love more than anything. My career is my passion, and this show has made all my dreams come true. But as I stand here in the middle of a coffee shop having just received the biggest news of my career, I’m not thinking of work.
I’m thinking of the one thing Los Angeles doesn’t have.
Harper starfished on my bed.
Los Angeles possesses a complete lack of the woman I just realized I can’t live without.
I take a swallow of the coffee, set down the mug, and ask a tough question. “This all sounds great. But there’s one thing I want to know.”
Tyler practically bounces on his toes. “Anything. Shoot.”
“What if I say no?”
Tyler’s mouth forms an O. Then his expression rearranges into oh no. “That’s the thing. He’s already signed on another show for your time slot.”
I take a few seconds to digest that news. “Well, that does change the game, doesn’t it?”
35
Harper is twisting her hair into a ponytail when I open the door. She’s perched on my kitchen counter, her legs crossed, kicking a foot back and forth. She wears jeans, a sweater, and boots. She must have everything in her wardrobe inside that giant bag.
A bright smile spreads on her face when she sees me.
“Hey, you.” She sounds buoyant.
“Hey.” My voice, by contrast, weighs two tons.
She frowns. “What’s wrong?”
I take a breath and rip off the Band-Aid. “They’re moving my show to L.A.”
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.”