“Were you working?” Lola asks, pausing the movie.
I swallow, shaking my head. “I was babysitting Daisy.”
She stands, smiling, and joins me in the kitchen. “A wild night, then.”
“It was fun, actually.” I meet her eyes, and hesitate before admitting quietly, “Luke came along with me.”
Her eyebrows rise to the ceiling. “Well, you know he’s into you if he joins you for babysitting.”
I try to laugh, I really do, but it comes out a little strangled and quickly turns into a sob.
In my peripheral vision, I can see Oliver get up from the couch, and walk over to join us, but I just keep staring very hard at my hands cupped around the water glass so I don’t have to look either of them in the eye.
“London?” Lola asks, stepping closer and putting a warm hand on my arm. “Sweetie, what happened?”
I shake my head, unaccustomed to crying at all, let alone crying in front of someone.
“Do you want me to stay or go?” Oliver asks quietly.
“You can stay,” I manage. “I’m being ridiculous. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
They both wait for me to explain my meltdown, and after I swallow down a few more inexplicable sobs, I tell them, “I just really like him.”
Lola’s voice is both gentle and confused. “You should like him. He’s an awesome guy.”
Finally, I look up at her face. “I mean, I like him. Romantically.”
“And I’m saying, you should. He’s amazing.”
“But Harlow.”
It’s all I can really think to say. And as soon as I do, the two words hang heavily in the air between us. It should be, But Mia—except it isn’t, because Mia doesn’t care. Or, it should be, But I’m afraid—except it isn’t exactly that, either, because although part of me is afraid, a much bigger part of me wants to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Like the wise person she is, Lola also lets the words hang there. Instead of growing bigger and more meaningful, though, they start to feel small, and silly.
“I don’t reckon it’s up to Harlow,” Oliver says quietly.
Tilting her head, Lola studies me sympathetically. “Honey, have you been worried about her this whole time?”
I give her a bewildered smile. “I mean . . . yes? It seemed like a pretty big deal. You guys didn’t invite me to breakfast the other day, the picnic was fun, but strained. Even Luke noticed Harlow was acting weird.”
Lola sighs, giving Oliver a knowing look I can’t really interpret.
A toilet flushes down the hall and the bathroom door opens.
My stomach drops with realization.
“Harlow Francesca Vega. Join us in the kitchen, please.” Lola’s angry-calm voice actually sounds terrifying.
“I didn’t know she was here,” I mumble to Oliver, who gives me a sympathetic wince.
Harlow walks down the hall, brows pulled down in concern. “What?”
“How much did you hear?” Lola asks.
Shaking her head in confusion, Harlow says, “I was peeing a decade’s worth in there. I heard nothing.”
Lola turns to her, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. “London here is a mess.”
“She is?” Harlow moves immediately over to me. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
Oh, God, this is awkward.
I give Lola a look that I hope successfully communicates both help and way to put me on the spot, Castle.
Lola tilts her head to me. “London likes Luke.”
“Didn’t we know this already?” Harlow asks, stepping back a bit, and her expression is almost entirely unreadable to me. Her top lip is curled up slightly, brows drawn in tight, and it could be confusion, but it could also be irritation.
I feel like I’ve just stepped off the edge of the pool and I keep drifting deeper. It’s weird to have a group of friends influence a dating decision, but also never really speak directly to me about it. Is this what it’s like to be part of a group? Whether it is or not, it makes me feel even more on the periphery. I have no-drama Ruby, and I used to have no-nonsense Nana. Both of them always let me know where I stood. Harlow is harder: she’s up front, but she circles through a world of emotions in a day. I’m terrified of saying the wrong thing here.
“I don’t want to jeopardize friendships,” I tell them. “But I honestly have no idea what to make of your reaction to me seeing Luke. You guys mean a lot to me, and I don’t want it to be weird for Mia—”
“It’s not,” Lola cuts in quickly.
“—or you two, or anyone,” I say. “I didn’t realize Luke was Mia’s Luke, and then after I did, it felt like he was someone different. For me.”
In my periphery I see Oliver turn carefully and make his way out of the kitchen and down the hall to Lola’s bedroom.
The three of us wait for him to close the door, and we then look up to each other in our tiny triangle of awkward. Finally, Harlow leans back against the counter, shrugging a little helplessly. “I’m not really sure what to say. Do I have feelings about it? Yeah, sort of.”
This actually gets my back up a bit. “Look, ever since we first hooked up, I’ve been worried about Luke’s history with girls, worried about whether I’m willing to deal with romance again, worried about whether even hanging out with him would jeopardize my friendships with you guys. But if Mia is fine, I don’t know that it’s fair for you to be upset with me over it.”
“I agree,” she says, surprisingly nodding. “And since you hadn’t brought it up with us, I assumed you didn’t care what we thought. I respected that, and was getting over it. But if you’re asking me, then I’ll tell you: yeah, I had a knee-jerk reaction when Mia called and told me. It’s one thing for Mia to see Luke banging anything that moves, and it’s another for her to imagine him falling in love again. She’s completely in love with Ansel, but of course she had feelings about Luke finding someone, even if we all know that reaction is petty, or unfair.”
Lola blinks down to the floor at this, and my heart stretches too thin inside my chest. I get it: I would never get back together with Justin, but the idea that he loves the person he’s with now—that he’s marrying her—is irrationally painful.
“Mia called me and knew that she wasn’t being totally fair, but it threw her,” Harlow continues. “Luke and Mia started ‘going steady’ in sixth grade, whatever that means. Her accident fucked us all up—a lot—and when they broke up we”—she motions between her and Lola—“had to figure out how to support Mia best. It meant we lost Luke, and that sucks. Because he was ours, see? So yeah, I had an initial reaction, and I’m not sure that it’s the right one, but it was genuine.”
I know there’s a lot of history there—there’s a lot of history here, between all these women, and sometimes it seems easier to keep it surface-level than to really work to get to know them. But with this honesty from Harlow, I know I want friends like this. I want friends who’ll worry about my emotions, even when those emotions feel petty or small.
“I understand where you’re coming from,” I tell her. “I do, and I respect it. But this isn’t about Mia, or you, or their past. It’s about me and Luke now. That’s complicated enough.” I tilt my head, saying softly, “They broke up nearly five years ago. Mia is married. This isn’t really about her anymore . . . at all.”
“I know. I know.” Harlow nods, slowly, and opens her mouth to speak before Lola cuts her off.
“Mia’s not even here,” she says, and I’m not sure if she’s talking to me, or to Harlow, or just pointing out in general that this conversation is happening without the most important component. But then she looks directly at Harlow and adds, “And if she were, she would tell us all we need to talk about something else.”
Harlow steps forward and pulls me into an unexpected hug. “I’m sorry. I want you to be happy. I want Luke to be happy.” Bracing her hands on my shoulders, she pulls away, saying quietly, “I mean, this way we all get to keep him, right?”
&nb
sp; “Right,” I tell her. “But I don’t really know yet what that means for me.” I smile at her, shrugging. “So it would be awesome if I could figure that out without having to worry about you getting mad at me if I decide I want more, okay?”
“Okay.” She nods, pulling me into another hug, squeezing me tighter. “But if he hurts you, I’m beheading him.”
“Okay, Crazytown.”
But despite my teasing, my laugh ruffles her hair, and I squeeze her tighter, too.
Chapter FOURTEEN
Luke
NEVER DO I feel more like an underling than when lawyers pile their stacks of briefs in my arms at the end of a meeting, and pat my back as they file out for lunch.
“Send upstairs to Records, would you?” Kevin asks, dropping a folder in my hands.
“Five copies,” Roger says with a friendly wink as he gives me a heavy file. “Just put them on my desk when you’re done.”
“Same,” Lisa says over her shoulder. “Thanks, Danny.”
I go to correct her—there are only two of us interns, and Danny is the short, black one—but she’s already halfway down the hall.
Turning, I see London standing near my cubicle, with an amused smile on her face. My stomach tightens and I immediately remember her smile after she kissed me last night.
I texted her this morning after we babysat together, but in typical London fashion, she didn’t answer. The strange thing was, it didn’t really bother me. I know that London is struggling with her feelings, and how they’re tied into her friendships with Lola and Mia and Harlow. I know that what she’s going through actually has very little to do with me at all, and that I need to be patient. To be honest, patience has never really been my strong suit and it’s killing me a little, but I’ve already come to terms with the fact that London is important, and I’ve got far longer than a few weeks of patience in me.
“Need some help, Danny?” she asks.
I laugh, readjusting the load in my arms. My happiness in seeing her partially overrides the humiliation of what she’s witnessed. “What are you doing here?”
She is glowing. She’s wearing an orange sundress and sandals; her hair is down and soft, hanging long past her shoulders. I don’t think I’ve ever seen it looking like it isn’t windblown.
Fuck, I think I love her.
Something grows tight inside my chest, and I reach with a free hand to loosen my tie.
She holds up a recyclable grocery sack. “I brought us some lunch. I thought you might be hungry.”
With this, she has just completely made my day. “You’re probably the most amazing person alive right now, do you know that?” She shrugs, jokingly waving her hand forward for me to continue. “And the prettiest. And the best surfing teacher. And, if I may get personal, your rack—”
“Shhh!” she cuts in, stepping toward me, her hand coming up to cover my mouth. We’re essentially alone in the hallway, but she does a quick glance around anyway.
I lift the pile in my arms, smiling in apology. “Do you want to go grab a picnic table outside and I’ll meet you in five?”
With a little blushing smile, she nods and walks back toward the front of the offices.
Never in my life have I made photocopies so fast.
Never at this job have I sprinted up the stairs to the Records office to drop off a set of files.
And never did I ever expect London to show up and want to have lunch with me.
* * *
IT’S SEVENTY-FIVE DEGREES out, the air smells like the ocean, I can hear seagulls calling just across the street near the beach, and there is not a visible cloud in the sky. In fact, it’s so beautiful outside I know I won’t want to go back in after lunch. It’s one of the reasons I tend to eat at my desk; the job is a painful slog, the paralegals and lawyers seem to love treating me like the village idiot, and our offices are across the street from the Pacific Ocean. I keep reminding myself being a legal intern is a rite of passage and will be over soon enough, but looking up and seeing London out here in the sunshine, unpacking a big bag of food, makes the prospect of returning to my cubicle feel impossible.
“Hey, Logan,” I call.
She looks up and smiles, but her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open just as a voice comes from behind me: “Hey, Sutter.”
I turn around, and the woman standing in front of me is so out of context here that it takes my brain at least two full seconds to place her.
“Harlow? What th—?”
“Surprise!” She throws her arms out. “Happy to see me?”
I glance over my shoulder to London, confused. “Um, is this an ambush of some form?”
“I asked London to lunch,” Harlow says. “And . . . then I suggested we have lunch with you.”
I wait, brows lifted in expectation, before I slide my gaze over to London, hoping for some form of silent communication.
Is this cool?
London gives me a tiny smile, a barely perceptible nod.
I can only assume that there’s been a conversation I haven’t been privy to, and that maybe this is Harlow’s way of reaching out, letting London know that this is okay. I walk over, still confused and also totally thrilled—I spent nearly every weekend from the age of eleven to nineteen with this woman—and give her a hug. Harlow squeezes me tight, and I get a face full of her auburn hair.
“Holy shit, you’re still using that herby shampoo,” I say, filled with an unexpected wave of nostalgia.
When she steps back, Harlow purses her lips at me. “It’s Aveda, you plebeian.”
“You smell like a commune.”
She shrugs, unfazed. “My husband likes it.”
“Or he’s just too terrified of you to say anything.”
A delighted giggle escapes her lips. “You clearly haven’t met Finn.”
With a lingering smile, Harlow turns, walking over to the picnic table where London is now waiting and has spread out a crazy amount of food: sandwiches, a few deli salads, olives, chips, and sparkling waters.
I look up at her, quietly telling her, “This looks amazing.”
She blushes again—sweet Lord, what is up with that?—and then meets my eyes. “Good. This was sort of Harlow’s idea—”
“I wanted to bring you peanut butter and jelly, but London insisted we stop and pick up something nicer. She might be too good for you,” Harlow says, and I have to restrain myself from hugging her again.
I look back and forth between the two of them. “So what brought this on? Are you buttering me up for a Harlow tongue-lashing?”
“Keep up, Luke. If I wanted to rip you a new one I’d have done it already,” Harlow says, picking up a sandwich and examining it.
“Right,” I say, and pick up a sandwich of my own.
“We had a nice long talk yesterday and London mentioned it was possible that I was a little out of line. I thought about it and decided she was right. Case closed. Now, whether you’re actually worthy of Miss All-American over here,” she says, nodding toward London. “That remains to be seen.”
I look over at London, who seems to be doing everything she can to avoid eye contact with me. Confident that Harlow isn’t here to neuter me, I say, “Harlow, you saw me with Mia every day for years. You already know whether or not I’m worthy.”
She nods, popping an olive into her mouth. “I’m trying to do the grand gesture here, Luke. I don’t remember you being this slow on the uptake.”
I want to volley back with something similarly playful, but I’m so grateful to Harlow in this moment that I can’t seem to conjure up more than a grin aimed in her direction.
“In case you’ve forgotten, Harlow is a bit of a bulldozer,” London explains, smiling down at the table. She pulls the top off a container of salad, and sticks a fork in it. “Sorry. Already has the dressing on,” she jokes under her breath.
“I’ll persevere,” I answer, intentionally touching her hand when she slides it over to me. She went head-to-head with Harlow over this. For me.
I may need a few minutes to process that.
As if on instinct, London looks up, widening her eyes in a Be cool gesture before returning to unwrapping her sandwich.
Harlow watches the exchange with interest. “I miss you, Luker. We all do.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I trail off. I mean, honestly, there’s so much. We were all so close. Mia, Harlow, and Lola were like family to me, and although we all tried to keep up appearances after Mia’s accident, our relationships just crumbled. For a couple of years, it was hard not to feel resentful that the friendships with her girlfriends never suffered from whatever it was she was going through. But years later, I know no one is to blame. “I missed you, too.”
“Seems like you managed okay,” she says, and I can’t exactly read her tone. Is she referring to my lack of monogamy? Is she being genuine and telling me I look good? Does she mean London? With Harlow, I always assume there is a layer of shit being given; the question is always how deep I need to look to see it.
“So what’s up with everyone getting married all of a sudden?” I ask her. “You guys have a few days out of college and freak out that you’re going to be spinsters, or what?”
She shrugs. “Guess we just found the one.”
When I glance to her again, London begins intensively studying her Pellegrino label. She’s being oddly quiet.
“I hear you’re headed to law school,” Harlow says, drawing my attention back to her.
“That’s right.”
“Personally I think it would be amazing if you ended up at UCSD, and—”
“And Ansel was my professor?” I finish for her, smiling. “Yeah, you’re not alone there. Margot prays for it daily.”
“It would be the most awkward.”
“I actually don’t think it would be that bad.” She raises her eyebrows at this. “Ansel seems like a pretty great guy.”
Harlow goes quiet, so I know I’ve surprised her by reiterating this, even when Mia isn’t here and I’d otherwise be free to let loose the honest opinion.
“Unfortunately I don’t think it’s going to happen,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on, Luke,” Harlow says. “You know you’ll get into UCSD.”
Wicked Sexy Liar (Wild Seasons #4) Page 22
