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I turn the key in the ignition, minutes later I swoop into a parking space and run inside, praying my see-through dress doesn't give some old man a heart attack. I quickly find jeans and a boyfriend t-shirt. I leave on my heels, and I toss the beautiful white dress into the nearest trashcan. Last is my now frizzy hair. I gather it up into a messy bun, and I'm pleased with my reflection.
“Thatta girl.” I tuck my black clutch under my arm.
I walk out of Target back to my car feeling like myself. Minutes later I park outside Smith & Jameson with time to spare. I apply some gloss, staring into my eyes realizing, I’m a frog magnet.
I'm talking about slimy, sleazy, and green. I'm drawing these ultimate losers from the pond, and I can only deduct that I'm the common factor. That I attract losers.
I search my eyes looking for it, hoping to see the thing they see in me. And all I see is, Harper, a woman that goes hard for her friends and family. I'm loyal and give one thousand percent because my parents taught me life gives you what you need when you need it. So, maybe life is speaking and telling me I don't need it. I don't need love. Not that kind of love, at least.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve always wanted the when two become one in life. To be someone’s rib, his ride-or-die. To be a wife and a mother.
Call me old fashion. Call me crazy. Call me a princess, trying to find a prince, hence the scattered toads around my otherwise perfect life.
I flip the visor closed and head towards the restaurant, tardiness is not my style. And like the change of seasons and time, maybe it’s time I find a new version of Harper Anne Price.
I was that girl. But now I need to give this restless heart of mine a break. Because one thing I know for sure, I’m done kissing frogs.
Two drinks in and I’m mellow. The guys are talking all at once, and Hunter leans over whispering, “Ready to talk?”
I shrug, signaling the
waiter for drink number three. “I’m officially off the market.”
“You found a Boo?” Charlee perks up across the table.
“No.”
“Oh.” Her face goes long. “Harper, who did what now?”
“I went out with Marcel.”
"I told you that guy is a first-class jerk," Parker says, her face bunched up in disgust. "All he dates are heiresses."
“Leech.” Taylor sucks her teeth.
“Well, I do have the name and the bank account. But I thought… I honestly don’t know what the hell I thought.” I take a sip of my wine. “I’ve known him since high school. We dated before he realized how fine he is and he actually was a nice guy. Once upon a time.”
“Was is the key word in that sentence," Hunter adds. "Sweetie, you're too nice. You give men waaaaayyyyy too much credit.”
“I need to school you about these dudes.” Charlee leans forward, class is in session. She props her elbow on the table holding up a finger. “First, you need to stop thinking every dude is husband material, because he ain’t. Second, you need to stop thinking every dude will appreciate wifey material, because he won’t. And lastly, stop ignoring your gut. You think you attract frogs, well stop ignoring their spots.”
Anxiety is bubbling in my stomach as the guys nod in unison. I don’t agree, but that could attribute to the caliber of men I attract.
"People change every day. Why is it wrong, or naive, to expect the best first instead of the worst about a person? Why can't a guy say what he wants and mean it?"
“Because this ain’t no damn Disney movie.” Charlee lays out the harsh truth.
"That is so depressing." I shake my head, draining my glass of wine dry. Then I push it away since I'm driving tonight. "I hear you, Charlee, I'm retiring my glass slippers. No more nice Harper." I say the words but it feels like a part of my dream is dying. "Can we please change the subject? On a much better note, I want to take a more active roll in Platinum Prestige."
Hunter started an elite concierge service, all the women around the table hold a percentage. But for the most part, Hunter and her husband Ben handle everything. The guys—Charlee, Parker, Chase, Taylor, Payton, Alex, Ryann, Jordan, and I—supply our family connections, funding, and social juice. Oh, and we look damned good in our Men in Black suits—dubbed GIB, Guys in Black. We initially bonded over our male first names, now we’re connected by our friendship, sisterhood, and business.
“What do you have in mind? I have a very ambitious list of tasks I’d like to complete before having the babies.” I rub Hunter's belly beneath the table ready to be an aunt. She leans over against me, and we have a small moment. I'm close with all the guys, but Hunter is the one I call when life throws me a sucker punch, like today. And Charlee when I need the unadulterated truth.
“How can I help?” I ask.
“Me too,” Charlee and several of the guys say at once.
Hunter pulls out her cellphone sitting upright. This is what I need to stop thinking about what I expected from my life by my thirtieth birthday. I work, not because I have to, but because I want to and it would be cool to help Hunter build this majority Black women-owned brand with my best friends.
