Page 2 of Harper's Holiday Romance
TheEssential Holiday Itemslist told me not to forget all the obvious things like my passport, money, phone charger, underwear, sun cream, and a bunch of other things I’d already crammed into my overweight suitcase:twenty-three kilograms was not enough.
The bottom of the list gave me the one thing I didn’t know I needed—a mosquito plug-in. I made a note in my phone to pick one up at the airport.
My name was Harper Fox, and I was twenty-eight years old. My occupation was an estate agent, and I was originally from Manchester, England. It was the first job I got when I left school. I loved it. I’d always had a passion for people’s houses. The different interior style choices left me reeling with excitement or hiding in shame. Every day was different, and the battle for a popular house was my favourite part. I’d always been told my strength was my gregarious way with people.My energy mirrored those around me, as soon as I saw a clients face light up knowing they’d found their forever home, my heart filled with a warmth I rarely felt in my personal life.
My grandma was married at the age of nineteen and had three kids by the time she was twenty-eight, as she so often reminded me. I told her millennials were different. We’d be lucky to stay together long enough to have three kids; that was the reality.
I was also unlucky in love. Surprise.
My unwillingness to go on dates contributed to the problem. I didn’t like dating apps. Trying to think of something witty to say that was below a level three on the cringe scale was harder than sitting the bar exam. I wasn’t speaking from experience. I’d never taken the bar exam, but my cousin failed it, and she was Oxford educated.
I attempted Tinder once. I swiped right when I saw an attractive woman. I waited patiently for us to match, and we did. The chatroom glared back at me whilst my brain tried to conduct itself in an orderly fashion. If there was a box in the brain titled,Chat Up Lines, mine was empty. The pressure caused my body to itch. I typed, retyped, and retyped again until I gave up. It took two days for my match to message me first. She said:
Leo4life
Don’t make me say it . . .
Harps
Say what?
Leo4life
What’s your star sign?
Harps
I’m a Pisces.
Leo4life
Oh, Leo.
Harps
I don’t really follow star signs.
Leo4life
That’s a red flag. Bye.
After that interaction I deleted the app. Why was everyone suddenly obsessed with astrology? I didn’t understand it, but clearly, I had to avoid Leos.
I reached for the small grey cabin case at the top of the stairs. I was determined to be prepared this time. I stuffed a large pillow into the top half, securely sealing it in place, before I crammed in three pairs of trainers. I was going for two weeks, so the three pairs of shoes I’d already tucked away in my checked luggage were not going to cut it. I didn’t work well under pressure. A short window of time to prepare for something was my worst nightmare, yet I still chose to leave the packing part until the day of travel—go figure.
The doorbell rang out across the house, once, twice, three times. There had to be some way to disconnect it. Lady, my white Ragdoll cat flew past me on the stairs. The doorbell signified some sort of World War II warning siren in her mind. Gaga, my white Pomeraniansaw it as her opportunity to guard the house like a deranged maniac.
“Gaga, stop barking!” I yelled.
It didn’t make a blind bit of difference. With visitors I used the excuse that Pomeranians were untrainable, but I think Gaga was inhabited by Satan himself. She was my pride and joy. She knew how to sit; she even knew how to spin. She knew all the normal call signs, but she also had selective hearing, loved to flick mud until her freshly groomed paws were filthy, and she barked with a piercing consistency that made me want to rip my ears off. Regardless, she was still the love of my life.
The door flew open, and in walked my best friend, Sarah, with a large backpack, a small black crossbody bag, a carrier bag, and a suitcase only held together by the overworked strap. She was followed closely by my other best friend, Billie, who’d neatly and unbelievably packed the contents of her life into a compact, perfectly kept suitcase half the size of mine.
“Did you have to ring the doorbell?” I scowled.
“I like to make it known I’ve arrived,” Billie said. “I like your eyelashes.”
“Oh God, I don’t. She did them too long.” I glanced at my reflection in the hallway mirror. A few months prior I’d asked my hairdresser to give me a classic Dakota Johnson fringe. I liked it, but I’d resorted to trimming it myself every couple of weeks. It was longer now, so it took away some of the focus from my eyelashes, but they were still prominent. “If I bat my eyelids too hard, I might take off.”
