“I’m good. How are things at home?”
“I’m fine. Busy helping Aunt Cath plan the wedding. Your father’s out of town, so it’s nice to have something to do.”
“Right. Out of town,” I say, feeling my face heat. If my dad’s out of town, then he’s probably with his secretary—a woman he’s been cheating on my mom with for years—and it’s a subject I’ve learned isn’t worth touching.
“You’re not working tonight?” she asks.
“Nope, it’s my night off.”
“I called to see if you were absolutely positive you can’t come out for Andrea’s wedding. But if you’re busy I can call back tomorrow.”
“I’m just hanging out at home. And no, Mom, I just got a second job. There’s no way I can make it.”
She hums, disapprovingly, and I expect her to push but instead she asks, “Why are you at home on a Friday night? You’re still not seeing anyone?”
I take a deep breath and count to ten in my head. “Nope, not seeing anyone.”
“I worry about you out there all by yourself. London, you know you’ll never meet anyone sitting at home every night. I wanted you to come out so I could introduce you to Paige Halloway’s son. He’s a few years older than you but—”
“Mom.”
She sighs again. A long, drawn-out why-do-you-always-make-this-so-difficult sigh. “I’m sure you’ve heard that Justin is getting married.”
The words fall like a sheet of ice across my skin. “He is?”
“He is, honey, and I just don’t understand why it isn’t you.” When she says this, I feel something in me crack wide-open and spill every drop of hope for this conversation, and a hundred others like it. I want to give her a chance, always. And always, I realize too late why I shouldn’t.
I put my fist in my mouth so I don’t end up yelling. I keep it there because I know what is coming next, her quietly disappointed: “Why you broke up with that boy, I’ll never understand.”
No, you won’t, I think as soon as the words are out of her mouth. I’ll never tell you because it’s so much easier to let you think he’s the good guy than to let you know how long he cheated on me, and risk hearing you tell me it was my fault.
“I know, Mom,” I say as gently as I can. “It’s just all really complicated. But look. I’ve got to go.”
I hang up, and make a beeline for the ice cream.
* * *
AS FAR AS nights off go—with the obvious exception of the phone call with Mom and the news of Justin’s impending wedding—there’s not much I would change. I needed to sack out and do nothing. It’s why Lola didn’t argue when I declined the invitation to join her and Oliver for dinner.
But now, with the apartment empty, I’m bored. Bored and strangely restless. And if I’m honest, I’ve been like this all week whenever I have a second to breathe. I thought talking to Mia would ease my mind, but if anything, it’s made things feel more complicated. At the end she seemed almost encouraging about me and Luke, but she was assuming something different about our relationship, I think. And I just don’t know if I can handle him—or handle myself, with him.
With a look at the clock, I groan and sink farther into the couch, realizing it’s only seven. I consider going to bed for a little quality time with Old Blue, but even that doesn’t seem as appealing as it used to. I want to simultaneously strangle and congratulate Luke, because it’s a sad day when my favorite vibrator is no longer man enough to do the job.
On a whim, I pick up my phone and scroll through my contacts. Ruby’s still in London and with the time difference it’s only three in the morning there. Harlow is with Finn, and if I text Lola she’ll insist I put on actual clothes and meet up with them. I could meet up with Not-Joe, but we usually only hang out solo at the beach, and if we’re doing real talk here, he’s not the guy I want to talk to anyway.
Luke’s number isn’t in here, but I remember seeing it on a scrap of paper tucked into my purse. It takes another five minutes of inner monologue and rationalizing before I’m dropping back onto the couch, looking at a new text box.
I’m not actually sure what to do here. Even if I don’t have sex with Luke again—which I’m definitely not—I like him. He’s funny. He knows how to laugh at himself. He takes his grandmother shopping.
There’s nothing wrong with friends texting friends on a boring night alone, right?
Why did the snowman have on a happy face? I press send before tossing my phone to the side like it might actually burn me. I have definitely lost my mind.
It takes less than a minute for his reply, Is this my favorite dimpled bartender?
I roll my eyes as I type out, You’re supposed to say, “Why, Logan?” You’re not very good at this game.
I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of me saving your cell into my contacts. Why, Logan?
I’m already laughing at my terrible joke. Because he heard the snow blower was coming.
A short pause. Wow. That was really terrible. I might have to delete your number now.