Instead I get a stunned: “Oh my God. You’re seeing Luke?”
“I’m not really seeing him,” I clarify. “It just felt weird when I found out about your history, with us being friends and all.”
“I mean,” she starts, and then laughs once, breathily. “Sorry, this just surprised me. It’s fine—we’ve been over a long time, London—it’s just a surprise,” she says again. “I think my brain needs a second to catch up.”
“Mia, just so you know, it’s really not a thing between us at all.” I’m not sure if this helps my case because now I’ve basically admitted we’re only fucking. “It was this thing that sort of happened; he didn’t even have my name right at first.”
Oof. Stop talking, London.
Her laugh is stronger this time, more convincing. “No, no. I mean, you don’t have to explain how Luke is. He’s been with girls I know before, it’s just . . .” She falls silent, and I can tell we’re both struggling to find the best thing to say.
“Weird to hear about it, I’m sure,” I finish for her.
“Yeah, a little.”
I think of Luke’s phone constantly going off, of watching him leave with the brunette. I imagine what it must be like for Mia to see that over and over. And now I feel worse.
“Look, I know you don’t know all the details but I’m actually okay now,” she continues. I’ve heard stories of what a mess Mia was, both physically and mentally, in the years following her accident. But that Mia bears no resemblance to the one I met when she returned from France late last summer. The one who was so in love with her husband I have a hard time believing she’d ever been with anyone else at all. Mia sighs through the line. “We just—me and Luke, I mean—we went about things so differently afterward, you know?”
“Yeah,” I say. Mia went on to marry the love of her life, and Luke is bringing home random girls every other weekend.
Luke might be all smiles and seem like he’s moved on, but a part of me wonders whether he truly has.
“I want him to be happy,” she says. “He’s a great guy and deserves to find someone a bit more . . . settled. And honestly, London, if he ended up with someone like you and was happy . . .”
I feel my eyes widen and I stand from the couch. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I say. “Luke and I . . . we’re not a thing. We hung out a few times but that’s as far as it went. As far as it’s going to go.”
She laughs. “I’m just saying, I don’t want you to stop seeing him because of me. You haven’t broken some kind of Girl Code. Ansel is my husband, and my whole world. I do appreciate you calling, though.”
I nod, even though I know she can’t see me. I’m not sure I really feel any better. “Well, like I said, I wanted to be up front with you. Luke seems to keep popping up at Fred’s and I wanted to avoid any awkward.”
“I have noticed him hanging around a bit more,” she says, teasing now. “Wonder why that is . . .”
“I see what you’re doing,” I say, smiling uncomfortably and sensing my exit from this awkward phone call. “And on that note I’ll let you go. I should get to work.”
* * *
THANKFULLY, I DON’T see Luke for a few days, and by the next weekend—just like I hoped—I’ve managed to land a second job at a club downtown. It’s a bigger place, with celebrity DJs and the occasional pop star. It’s a lot sexier and younger than Fred’s, which means I’m expected to wear something on the skimpier side; there are more students and more young guys, and probably the need for another dimple jar.
It’s also a lot bigger, so there are four of us behind the bar at all times, and at least half that many barbacks running around. The girls get hit on—the guys, too—but it’s easy enough to put up with because the hours are exactly what I need, the tips are great, and if I can manage both jobs for a couple of months, I’ll have the money I need for a car and better software before I know it.
Drunk people who are about to get laid are great tippers.
If Lola thought I was gone all the time before, it has nothing on the first week I’m juggling both jobs. I work almost every day while I learn the ropes, and by the time my only night off comes, I’m nearly comatose on the couch, surfing through channels for what has to be the third time. A forgotten Lean Cuisine congeals on the coffee table next to my laptop; if I had a cat on either side of me this Single Gal picture would be pretty much complete.
My phone rings at my side, and I wince when I see my mom’s face flash on the screen. I consider ignoring it—I have never finished a call with my parents and felt anything other than disappointed in myself—but know that that’s only prolonging the inevitable. If she doesn’t talk to me tonight, she’ll call tomorrow, and the day after that. It’s probably better to get it over with while I’m in close proximity to the kitchen and that brand-new tub of mint chocolate chip ice cream.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“London, honey. How are you?”