Across Space and Time

CHAPTER FOUR - THAT'S REALLY NICE, LOLA

I've spoken to Bill twice, maybe three times on the phone in my entire life. I met him for the first time yesterday and I can't think of anything I've done to cause him to conclude that I am "difficult." Obviously this is coming from my mother, who, if she had any ability to self-reflect, would realize she is equally as, if not more, difficult than me.

"Well, he didn't exactly say 'difficult'," Harry backtracks as he pulls into the long, circular driveway belonging to Bill's house. "But essentially that's what he meant."

I can't get out of this fucking car fast enough, and of course everything is harder when you're using your non-dominant hand. I struggle with the door handle and Harry reaches over me to help, but I elbow his hand away from me.

"I got it," I say, not trying to hide the annoyance in my voice.

"Just let me help-" Harry grits out as I'm continuing to wear his hand away.

"I don't need your help!" I shouted before I finally got the fucking door open.

Once I'm out of the car I pause to look at Harry over the roof of the car as he gets out.

"Do you know what Bill said about you? Nothing. I'd never even heard about you until last night."

Harry nods his head, his peridot eyes searing into me. "Nice, that's really nice, Lola," he yells to my back as I head inside the house.

...

It's nearly 4:00 PM by the time I finish wrapping my cast in a plastic bag that the hospital sent me home with to use when I shower.

After a very interesting shower that led me to the conclusion that I will be begging Grace to help me wash my hair for the next eight weeks, I finally begin the process of trying to prepare myself for my mom and Bill's engagement dinner.

Unfortunately for me, my thick brown hair dries stick-straight on its own. It never has, nor will it ever hold a curl for longer than five seconds, so I brush through it quickly and let it air dry while I involuntarily perform a TikTok makeup dare by attempting to do my makeup left-handed.

All the while I'm replaying my conversation with Harry over and over again.

I don't know why I actually feel sorry for insinuating that Bill doesn't care about Harry. Harry was the one who said I was difficult just because I made one little joke about football being called soccer.

Grace calls me while I'm attempting to line my eye with my two fingers and the thumb of my right hand, interrupting the mental loop in my head of Harry's his voice yelling "nice, that's really nice Lola."

"He sent you flowers," she says as soon as I answer, her voice filling the small guest bathroom.

"Who sent me flowers?" I ask as I finish my eyeliner and inspect myself in the mirror. It could be worse.

"Who do you think?" Grace fires back. I can hear honking in the background and imagine her walking to work.

"Was there a card?" Not that it matters.

"It said: 'I'm so sorry. I hope you can forgive me. Love, A.'," Grace answers, hiding any possible feelings she might have about the flowers under a guise a neutrality.

Grace has always been the person I turn to when I need to hear the truth. We share a group of girlfriends who, had I texted the story about Ashton in the hotel to our group text, would have rallied behind me with pitchforks in hand. If I need someone to cosign my bullshit, Grace is not the friend to do that. But when I need the honest truth, someone to hold me accountable, she's my go-to.