Harry walked the familiar path to your home—past the building covered with ivy, the old man on the corner of the street selling fresh fruit juice, past the bellman who tipped his hat at Harry as he passed, and up the ornate staircase of the apartment building to the fourth floor until he was at the door 415.
Taking a minute to catch his breath, he knocked on the door, hoping you were actually there. He'd learned you were more receptive to house calls as opposed to phone calls.
It took about two minutes, in which time he heard rustling and the sounds of cleaning up before the door finally opened, revealing your tall frame on the other side.
"Long time, no see," you said, raising an eyebrow in his direction.
"Four months to be exact," he agreed. He tried to step inside, but you braced your hand across the doorframe, barring him from coming inside. Harry scoffed. "Really?"
"What did she do this time?"
"Who?"
"Whatever young up and coming model-heiress naive enough to date you. She lasted four months, though, which I will say is a record for you," you said, pinning him with a stare that said he wasn't coming inside until he answered your questions.
Rolling his eyes, Harry said, "She didn't 'do' anything."
"So you just lost interest? That's even worse, H."
"Are you going to let me in or not? I can go somewhere else," he said, becoming impatient. He also didn't like being confronted with the truth, but that was neither here nor there.
Now it was your turn to scoff. "Yeah right." You looked him up and down, trying to decide if it was a good idea to let Harry into your home. He often called himself mature, but the man standing in front of you was a little boy who had grown used to having his cake and eating it too. Still, he was great in bed and you didn't have anything else to do, so you lowered your arm and let him inside.
"White or red?" you asked, going over to your bar and pouring yourself a glass.
"Whatever you're having is fine with me," Harry said, reacquainting himself with your apartment. It was lavishly decorated, old paintings on the walls, a vintage mirror hung over a plush settee. He had always admired the way you seemed to know how to properly spend your money. Everything you owned was expensive, but none of it looked stuffy or ostentatious.
"That's new," he said, eyeing the haute couture dress on the mannequin in your living room.
Looking over your shoulder, you saw where his gaze had fallen. "Ah yes. A gift from Pierpaolo. Beautiful, isn't it?"
You recalled the first time you met Harry. He tried to brag to you about how he was best friends with the creative director of Gucci and got custom looks all the time. "How cute," was your response.
The last few years, you'd seen him grow, in a way. You helped him make the right friends, told him who would only be interested in getting to know him for their fifteen minutes of fame, and who would actually be a long-term friend.
"What about you?" he'd asked. You were at some high society party in New York.
"Oh, you don't want to be my friend," you said, taking a sip of your wine.
"And why's that?"
"Because then you'll fall in love with me."
Harry never understood why that was such a bad thing, but by the time he'd worked up the courage to ask, you were already gone. A few months later and you had your little arrangement.
