I don’t feel like going home, to the dark empty house, the bright empty fridge. I climb in my car, turn up the music, and drive without thinking back on any of this to my sister’s apartment, letting myself in with my key.
It’s almost ten, so I know Margot is either asleep or in the lab, and her roommate is most likely staying over at her girlfriend’s house. The apartment is blessedly silent, the fridge is blessedly full.
I’m almost done making an epic turkey sandwich when I hear footsteps pad down the hall.
“Pa,” Margot stage-whispers behind me. “There’s a bear getting into our food box.”
I dig in the pantry for some chips. “You have better snacks than I do.”
My sister comes around the counter, and leans back against it. “Because I don’t wait until tumbleweeds are rolling across the barren shelves of my refrigerator before I hit the grocery store.”
I let out a grunt and turn with an armful of food toward the living room.
She follows me out of the kitchen. I can feel her right on my heels and know that if I wanted to give up conscious thought in favor of food and television, this is the last place I should have gone. I can’t help but spill my guts to my sister; it’s like a reflex.
“What are you doing here, though?” she asks. “Did you have a bad day at work?”
I settle on the couch and flip on the TV. “It was fine.”
“Did something happen with the team? I heard about Cody and Jess.”
“Yeah, but he seems to think they’ll be okay.”
She sits and pulls her leg up on the couch so she can face me. I feel the pinpricks of her stare on the side of my face. “Then what has you stress-eating junk food?”
“Hunger.”
“Luke.”
I sigh, taking a bite of sandwich and chewing it slowly while I think. Swallowing, I tell her, “I think I fucked up with a girl I like.”
Margot jerks upright, shaking her head quickly. “Sorry, what?” She laughs awkwardly. “Funniest thing, it sounded like you said something about liking a girl.”
I rip open the bag of chips and reach for the remote. “Never mind.”
“Are you serious right now?” she asks, sitting next to me. “A girl has you eating chips by the fistful?”
“I’m just hungry, Margot. Lay off.”
I turn to Jimmy Fallon and Margot does, in fact, lay off. She digs her hands into the bag of chips, joining me in my late-night emotional munchies. But I can almost hear the interest build in her until she’s sitting upright again, hands clenched in fists at her side, just waiting for the commercial break.
When it comes, she releases a tight breath. “Tell me about her.”
There’s no avoiding this, there really isn’t. And maybe I came over because I actually wanted to talk. Who the fuck knows, but I’m here now, so I may as well let it all out. “Her name is London.”
“I don’t know a London. Is she from here?”
“She went to UCSD, studied art. I didn’t meet her there, though.” I scratch the back of my neck. “She works at Fred’s.”
“Sexy cocktail waitress?”
I throw her a wary glance. “Sexy bartender.” I ignore her amused snort. “Anyway, our entire first night together I called her Logan and she didn’t bother to correct me. I don’t know if she ever would have. Dylan said her name when we saw her next and I was horrified, but she didn’t care.” For some reason, this detail feels important. It says so much about her, and about the “us” that has existed for the measly two weeks.
Margot snorts. “I like this girl.”
“Yeah, well, she likes you, too.” When I look at her, I see her eyebrows raised in a silent question, so I add, “I told her about your abusive role as my supervisor in Doll Salon.”
My sister smiles proudly.
“We hooked up a few times, and—”
“In one night, I assume?”
“No, asshole. Over a few different days.”
“Wow.” She rolls her eyes. “Long-term then.”
I take a sip of my water and set it back down on the table. “You wonder why I don’t like talking to you.”
“Oh, please. I’m the only one you like talking to because I don’t stroke your enormous ego.” Punching my shoulder, she urges, “Go on.”
“She’s wary of guys. Her long-term boyfriend cheated, and I get the feeling there’s been a long line of assholes in her life. The thing is, there’s attraction there, but I’m not sure she actually likes me. Said I was a cliché, a manwhore, douchebag, whatever.”
“I mean, I really like this girl,” Margot says, digging in the bag and taking another handful of chips.
“But she’s smart and funny and pretty and . . .” I’m so out of practice talking about girls and feelings in the same conversation that I flounder a little, settling on “there was something there. Between us, I mean.” But then I tell Margot about what Daniel said tonight, and about the guys teasing me about sleeping with every hot female bartender in town.
It’s a few seconds before Margot says anything, but when she does, she puts her hand on mine first, to soften the blow. “They’re not wrong.”
“Margot,” I say, turning to face her. “That’s not helping.”
She can tell in my voice that not only am I not in the mood but I really am feeling like complete shit.