Screwed (V-Card Diaries 2)

Or maybe I never knew in the first place.

I’ve only had one serious girlfriend. All my other relationships have fizzled out or ended in insanity before they really began. Maybe Harlow can sense the gaps in my love skill set and is trying to figure out a way to let me down easy.

I should spare her the trouble and hit the road. I could pack up and be at my second-favorite ski resort by sunset.

But I can’t spare her the agony of “thanks, but no, thanks, Derrick, I have no interest in you in real life” without introducing the agony of “where did your fiancé go?” questions from her family.

So, instead of vacating the premises, I shower, shave, put on my best sweater and head down to meet the rest of the Raine family for a little dashing through the snow.

Upon arriving at the activities desk past the ski rental station, however, the scene I encounter makes me rethink the wisdom of getting in any deeper with this family. Twelve of the thirty or so Raines present at the lodge are milling around near the giant fireplace, talking, arguing, and laughing so loudly the poor, clipboard-wrangling woman by the double doors can’t get their attention to alert them to the fact that the sleighs are waiting outside.

I scan the area for Harlow, but don’t see any sign of her at first.

It isn’t until I circle around the side of the group that I spot her sitting cross-legged by the fire wearing a light brown sock cap with her head in hands, looking so defeated I don’t hesitate.

I go to her.

I just…go to her, plop down on the floor beside her, and pull her gently into my lap.

She looks up, surprised for a second, but the relief on her tear-streaked face makes me positive this was the right call. When she wraps her arms around me and tucks her face into my neck with a grateful shudder, I’m even more certain.

And so grateful I’m here.

“What’s up, Hepburn?” I ask, rubbing a hand up and down her back.

“Kiki cut my hair,” she says in a high, thin voice that’s almost too soft to hear.

I hug her tighter. “What? Who’s Kiki?”

“My youngest niece.” She sniffs as she pulls back, clearly fighting fresh tears. “She’s only six, but still… I can’t believe she did that. I was helping her glue her popsicle sticks together to make skis for her ornament and then all of sudden my hair was in a pile by the glitter.” She tugs off her hat and motions to the right side of her head, where a thick chunk of much-shorter hair sticks out beside her ear. It’s only about four inches long and looks completely out of place with the rest of her long, glossy locks. She blinks faster, her lips turning down as my expression apparently gives my horror away. “See? It’s awful. I’m going to have to cut it all off super short and I don’t have the kind of bone structure that can pull off short hair, Derrick. I’m going to look like a boy.”

I hug her closer and pat her hip. “No, you won’t. You couldn’t ever look like a boy. You’ll be beautiful, no matter how long or short your hair is.”

“But I don’t want short hair,” she says, a single tear slipping down her cheek.

“Oh my God, are you still freaking out about this morning?” a feminine voice pipes up from over Harlow’s shoulder. I glance up to see her sister, Lauren, with her toddler son parked on her hip, rolling her eyes. “Seriously, Harlow, it’s just hair. It’ll grow back.”

“Not for years it won’t,” Harlow mutters softly, picking at a loose thread on her snow pants.

“What?” Lauren practically shouts. “I can’t hear you. But I’d encourage you to stop pouting and show a little resilience. How are we supposed to teach the kids to keep going through adversity if you fall to pieces over a little lost hair? And Kiki said she was sorry. Twice. And she isn’t getting hot chocolate this afternoon as punishment. I don’t know what more I can do.”

“You could show a little more compassion,” I say before I think better of it. But Lauren has always rubbed me the wrong way and it was clear at dinner last night that she doesn’t make much of an effort to actually parent her children. “Better yet, you could teach your kids not to touch other people without permission. Especially with scissors.”

“She’s six,” Lauren says in a clipped tone as she hitches the toddler higher on her hip.

“Six is old enough to know better,” I maintain, keenly aware of the fact that the noise level in the room has dropped considerably and that half of the Raines are now eavesdropping on our exchange. But I’m not about to back down. It’s time someone gave it to Lauren straight, preferably before her wild spawn do more irreparable damage. “Did she cut the other kids’ hair in kindergarten? Was that okay with her teacher?”