Giving In (The Sandy Cove Series Book 1) (14 page)

“Ugh, Neanderthal. Why’d I even ask.” She shakes
her head at me, basically aggravated at my reaction to her choice
in movies.

“What I say wrong?” I grab the box from her,
look at the cover, read the synopsis on the back, and toss it on
the table.

“That is fucked up. It’s sad. She’s a singer
with this awesome career, and she gets hurt in a plane crash and
practically gets her legs cut off. She’s a cripple. Why would you
want to watch something like that?”

She stands up, puts her hands on her tiny,
little hips, and taps that foot of hers.

“Well then why would you want to watch something
like Rambo? Didn’t you get enough of that stuff when you were in
the Marines?”

She’s got a point.

Damn it.

She continues talking. “I was raised on the
classics, my mother was a…”

I interrupt her. “Huge fan of old movies, and
movie stars, hence the name Harlow, because you were named after
Jeanne Harlow. Your sister Greta, was named after Garbo, and your
brother after Joan Crawford, which I still don’t get.”

She looks startled. She stops tapping her foot,
and looks at me like I have a parasitic twin growing out of my
neck.

“How do you remember that?”

Oh, shit, how do I remember that?

“You, um, you told me that during one of our
conversations out on the dock one morning.”

She shakes her head.

“No, no I never said that to you, this summer. I
said it to you last summer during our little, you know…”

No need to hesitate.

She’s right.

I scratch my head, wishing I didn’t say it all
out loud, but I did. No turning back.

“So. Your name’s weird. Of course I’d remember a
story like that.”

She waits a second, takes a step forward, and
then retreats. She thought of something, contemplated saying
something to me, but backs away, still standing near the sofa, but
a few inches away.

My sudden urge to cover this up makes me take
desperate measures.

“Ok, fine. I’ll watch your stupid chick movie,
full of sappy love shit and tragedy. But if they break out in a
musical number, I’m fucking out of here.” She claps her hands in an
exciting way and shoves the DVD into the player.

I like playful Harlow Hannum.

When the music for the intro of the movie
starts, I already know I’m in deep shit. I hope there’s a knife
handy, so I can slit my throat. Harlow sits at one end of the sofa,
hands me a blanket, and grabs one for herself. She covers herself
in it and snuggles down to make herself comfortable in the crook of
the sofa. I look at the blanket, then to her.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Cover yourself up with it, get cozy, and enjoy
the movie. That’s what you do. That’s what I always do.”

She smiles at me, and for some ungodly reason,
it makes me feel… I don’t know how to explain it, a little warm and
fuzzy maybe. So I do what she said, hoping there are no hidden
cameras for anyone to take notice at what a pussy I am.

The heat from the blanket suddenly wakes me
from my sleep. I can feel more weight on me, around my chest, and a
softness under my one hand. I shake off my sleepiness and open my
eyes, confused and not remembering where I am at that moment, until
I look down. Then I remember. I see the top of her head. The thick
strawberry blonde hair of Harlow, and when I shift my body, her arm
tightens around me, and she purrs. Soft, little snores come out of
her with every breath. I can smell her hair under my nose, a scent
that awakens me even more than the feel of her soft hair. Do I wake
her up? Do I tell her to go to bed, or do I just fall back asleep,
which is what I really want to do because the heaviness in my
eyelids tells me so. Leaning my head on the back of the couch, I
contemplate what to do next. I try to pull my arm out from under
her neck, and when I do, the strands of her hair go through my
fingers, and it feels like silk passing through them. I’ve never
felt anything like it. I’ve felt and pulled a lot of hair in my
day, but this feels different. My fingertips spark at the
sensation. It flows up my hand to my arm, and I’m awake more than I
was five minutes ago. Harlow doesn’t move. She’s so still and so
deep in sleep. I’m not sure what my next move will be.

Do I even want to move?

I’m exhausted, but I don’t do this. I don’t
cuddle with chicks. How’d she even get this close to me anyway? She
was on the opposite side of the sofa when the damn movie started. I
can’t even remember when I fell asleep, or when she did for that
matter.

I push any thoughts I have of staying on this
couch out of my head. I look at the clock which reads 2:15. I
didn’t hear anyone come in, so maybe they went to an afterhours
place, or decided to stick around Jax for a bit after closing. Her
friends will get the wrong idea if they see us this way. Hell, my
friends will get the wrong idea if they see us, so I make my
move.

I gently nudge her arm, making sure not to
startle her.

“Turnip. Turnip, wake up. Time to go to bed.” I
stroke the top of her head, thinking this may not be a good
idea.

She doesn’t make a sound, not even a stir, or a
flinch, nothing. The only thing left to do is carry her to her room
and leave.

I struggle to get her body off of mine and slip
out without disturbing her. I slide an arm under her legs and
support her back with the other. Gently lifting her off the sofa,
her arms find their way back to my chest. I cradle her as I carry
her to her room. When we reach it, I lay her down, trying to pull
back the comforter from the bed, and one by one I take off the
shoes that are still on her feet. She moves her body involuntarily
to her pillow and tucks her hands underneath it, supporting her
head even more. I pull the comforter over her body, and my hands do
something my mind tells me not to do. They make their way to her
hair again, stroking it, feeling the softness I felt out in the
living room, waiting for that sensation. As soon as it hits me, she
moves, and I pull away.

A little too soon.

“Chad?” I hear her croak out.

Who’s Chad?

“Chad, I’m sorry. Please. Stay with me. I’m so
sorry.”

She’s dreaming, but who is the Chad she’s
dreaming about? I don’t remember a Chad from the movie we watched
tonight, and the guy from earlier wasn’t Chad. I’m too tired to
figure it out. She’s still asleep, and no longer talking to this
Chad person, so I get up from the bed and make my way to the door.
But before I leave, I take one last look at this tiny person lying
there, looking so young, so innocent as she sleeps.

I walk out of her room, lock her doors to the
house, and go back to mine. I lay in my bed, wondering who Chad is,
and why just a few strands of hair made me feel… something. Not
knowing what it is, or what it was, I know I saw a softer side of
Harlow tonight, one that I liked. One that could make us be better
friends, closer ones even. I think about the way she looked in that
bed, so vulnerable, warm, content. I’m too tired to jerk off
tonight. Morty will just have to wait till tomorrow.

The last thing I think about before I fall
asleep is the peacefulness I saw in her as she slept. Her hair
splayed across her pillow, the soft sounds she made as she breathed
in and out. She looked like an angel, and here I am, thinking of
her like the devil.

***

I can’t believe the 4th of July is in two
days. The summer is flying by. It’s somewhat the idea of what I
wanted it to be like. Hanging with the girls, relaxing on the
beach, going out at night. It’s everything I wanted out of this
summer and needed. I see that it’s almost time for my first
scheduled call of the week with Dr. Goldberg, my therapist. So I
tell the girls I’m headed for a run. I take my phone with me and
run to the spot on the beach I always go to when I have to speak
with him. I dial in, and his secretary puts me through to him.

“Hello there, Harlow. How’s your week
going?”

“Hi there, Dr. Goldberg. It’s good. I’m feeling
ok.”

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Not too bad, as long as I take the meds. I did
miss a night or two, but I realized I didn’t need them, and slept
for a solid six hours.”

“Good, good. Glad to hear it. Have you heard
back from any of the schools you applied to for a job?”

As much as I want to tell him yes, I can’t and
it frustrates me.

“No not yet, but I’m not worried, just
anxious.”

“Are you feeling the anxiousness only with the
job situation, or are other things making you anxious?”

I look out at the water, which is far enough
from me not to make me anxious, and I tell him about the feet in
the water incident with Cruz. I conquered a fear and Dr. Goldberg
seems pleased to hear about it.

“I think you are making great strides, Harlow.
Now about this friend you talk about so often, Cruz is his name?
The cop?”

“Yes, that’s him. What about him?”

“Well, you talk about how in the beginning of
the summer you were ready to leave because of his antics, and you
weren’t comfortable with him living next to you because of what
transpired between the two of you last summer.”

Yes, I told Dr. Goldberg about Cruz. About the
night we got together. About the one whose name we do not speak was
there making out with that girl. I had a session with Dr. Goldberg
a few days later and told him what I did. I needed to get it out
and tell him, which in hindsight, was actually progress considering
I wasn’t locked up in my room somewhere, rocking back and forth
like a mental patient.

“Correct, and believe it or not, we have settled
on some kind of friendly ground.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

The one thing I’m so surprised at out of this
whole summer is the relationship Cruz and I have established. I’ve
never really had any guy friends, well, except Craw, but he’s my
brother and one of my best friends. However, the more time I spend
with Cruz, the more he’s, I don’t know, what word should I use to
describe him… let’s call it human?

I tell Dr. Goldberg all of this, and I can tell
he’s writing it all down, making notes, and just listening to
me.

“And does he know about what happened and about
him?”

Oh, God, I wish I never have to tell him.

“No, he doesn’t. Only my brother and Willow
know.” And Cruz will never know.

“You know, Harlow. It sounds like from what you
tell me, this young man is having quite a good influence on you. I
hear a change in your voice when you speak about him. I know he
gave you a rough time in the beginning, but sometimes the ones who
we least expect to open us up to a new way of thinking, a new way
of learning. Then there are the ones we feel so comfortable opening
up to and having conversations with that make you feel calm and at
peace, that’s therapeutic.”

Maybe Dr. Goldberg is right.

Our conversations are great. We have a better
understanding of each other’s personalities. I’m not much of a
talker at times, especially when I’m in a down stage, but for some
odd reason, beyond my comprehension, when I feel that way Cruz
seems to be there, making me laugh, or grossing me out.

“I guess, Dr. Goldberg. I do feel myself opening
up a lot more around him. I’m not used to doing that with a guy. I
mean Craw is different, but still, I’m not so sure how it’s
therapeutic for me.”

“It’s therapeutic because it’s the unknown. He’s
the unknown. He doesn’t know what happened to you and can’t judge
you for anything. You say he listens to you. He knows about your
dream of becoming a teacher, how hard you worked for it. He knows
about your family, the history there, so by just talking to him
about random, daily events or things from the past, not directly
related to why you speak to me, that’s therapeutic.”

As I sit on this beach, listening to the waves
crash on the shore, the sun beating on my face, I shut my eyes,
take a deep cleansing breath, and think about it all. I think about
what I’ve been through. The things that ‘he’ has done to me. He
left me with no self-worth, leaving me to think I’m just not good
enough, and sometimes I think he’s right. But lately there are
those times when I’m around Cruz, he can make me feel like I am
good enough.

My session with Dr. Goldberg goes on for a
little bit longer. He tells me no need to up my meds, that he
thinks I’m making great strides and he will talk to me after the
holiday, but encourages me to enjoy the new found friendship I’ve
found in Cruz.