Cheated Hearts

"Your balance is $1129.27, Miss Summers," I told the redheaded girl across from me.

Harper was smiling evilly. Her silvery skin was healing and I felt relief in my chest to see the bruises fading.
"Could you check again, Mr. Miller?" she asked innocently.

______________________________________________________________________________

When we walked out of the bank at six o'clock. Harper stared at me like I had something on my face.
"What?" I asked, feeling uncomfortable and rubbing at my face, fearing the worse.

"Nothing. I just. I need to ask you something," she said, blushing red, "And tell the fucking truth okay? Don't spare my feelings! I am a tough cookie, a strong independent woma-"

"Okay, Harp, what?" I asked, trying to keep a smile off my face.

"Are you my boyfriend?" she asked.

I stopped walking and stared at her. I hadn't had a girlfriend since my freshman year of college. Her name was Chelsea and it ended with her throwing one of my heavy Statistics books at my head and her yelling something along the lines of, "See if that fucking book will do what I do for you!" Which I replied with, "Chelsea, it already gives me a headache. You and the book are equally matched."

I was replaying this conversation in my head when I came back to reality where Harper was staring at me and biting her lip.
"Is that what you want?" I asked her.

She glared at me.

"I didn't ask you to consider my feelings. I asked you to tell me what you wanted."

Her angry face made me laugh. That was the wrong thing to do. She stomped on my foot and stalked away, her arms swinging at her sides. I limped to her.

"Harper! Harp!" I called.

"What, Keaton?" she asked angrily.

"I do want to be with you," I said, "I do, you crazy bitch." I was wincing as I tried not to put weight on my now wounded foot; she was wearing spiky heels.

"Oh. Okay. I'm sorry about your foot," she replied blankly.

"I think it's bleeding," I complained and glared at her.

"Oops," she murmured meekly and gave me a sorry smile. I achieved glowering and grinning at her at the same time as she took my hand and walked down the street again.

When we finally did get home, Harper and I opened up the dingy building's door with our code and separated to our mailboxes which were all located near the entryway. My mailbox had my apartment number and a simple MILLER on it written in permanent marker on a piece of tape. Harper's mailbox had the word FRESHH! written across it and was spray painted pink.

We both got out our mail and went through it as we gravitated towards each other again and simply headed up the stairs to the third floor. We did so, without really even noticing where we were stepping, lithely skipping over the third step of the second staircase which had infamously given way a month earlier (which the landlady said she'd fixed, but she was a rotten liar most of the time).

We had just reached my door when I noticed the familiar scrawl of my fathers. My heart sank as I read my name on the envelope. My father was the only person in the world who still wrote letters anymore. I don't think he would have liked to speak to me on the phone and as far as I knew, he believed texting was beneath him.

Hey Keaton,

Things with Marilee didn't work out. Divorce bells are ringing. I'm having the divorce party next week. You're invited. Tell your mom 'Hi' for me. I also hope your job is going well. How's Hemingway Investments doing with you as their new Economics consultant?

Gene Miller
Your Dad –just don't tell anyone that. Just kidding, Keat.

I rolled my eyes as I stuffed the letter and the rest of my mail in the fold of my arm and opened the apartment door. Harper looked at me curiously.

"What's wrong, Keaton?" she asked.

My dad was also the only person in the world who would throw a soiree in response to a divorce, but that was the type of douche he was. My mom had been his second wife. I had been three months old when they'd divorced and my mom raised me in Boston. I thought of my mom and was trying to remember the last time I'd called her when I was interrupted by Harper smiling at me.

"Uh, Keaton, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. My dad is getting his seventh divorce," I said with mock joy.

"Oh. Really?" she asked, "Is he okay?" Concern furrowed her brow.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure he's okay. He's probably happy. He's probably already looking for the eighth."

I handed the letter to Harper and her thin fingers curled around it when she finished.

"Keaton. Why does your dad think you work for Hemingway Investments?" she asked. She was using the tone a mother would use with her child who she caught in a fib.

I took off my tie and threw my Etson nametag on the table in the kitchen. Harper sat down on one of the seats around it.

"Because I told him I work there," I said simply and filled up the kettle with water for coffee.

Harper stared at me.

"Why?" she asked, genuinely dumbfounded.

"I don't know, Harper. I just did," I said tiredly.

"You're a liiiar, Keaton," Harper sang quietly as she put the letter down.

"I knooow," I sang back.

"Seriously, just tell him the truth. What's the worst he could do? Send you to your room?" she asked.

"My dad –he's a good guy when he wants to be. He just expects too much sometimes. He's a big shot at this construction firm in California and I don't know, I feel like I should be like him."

"And have nine wives?"

"Seven," I corrected her, "No. I don't mean the failed marriages. I mean the success."

Harper rolled her eyes.

"There you go again about success. If you're happy, you're successful. Money doesn't make people happy. Haven't you seen all those people who won the lottery and end up bankrupt and miserable and die alone without a penny to their names?"

I stared at her.

"You don't get it much, Harp."

"Maybe I don't," she agreed with a sigh.

"It's kind of sweet that you try," I teased her with a wink.

"Anyway, are you inviting me to the party or what? I've never been to a divorce celebration. Are we in mourning? Should I wear black?"