“London,” I say. “You’re not.”
“Oh, I am.” She smiles at me, and it’s so sweetly fragile that it cracks something in me. Pulling her hair up into a bun on top of her head, she holds it there in both hands. Fuck, it feels so good to talk to her about this. For as much as I’m enraged on her behalf, I’m elated to have her here, and just . . . talking to me in a way I feel she doesn’t with very many people, if anyone.
“I mean,” she says, “I can pick out the obvious assholes. That’s what bartenders learn to do. But the smarter ones just might be better at hiding it. That’s what sucks the most, what I’m actually the angriest about: even if I like someone, I will never trust my judgment. Do you know how that feels? To have been so wrong that it feels like your people meter is just broken?”
The weight of this entire conversation seems to hit me at once, and I slump back against the couch. “That’s significantly depressing,” I agree.
She throws her hands in the air. “I know!”
“It explains a lot about why you’re such a hot mess,” I tell her with a grin, wanting to make her smile again.
“Same,” she says, nodding her chin to me.
“Our relationship histories are totally depressing,” I say. “Tell me something funny.”
She sighs, thinking. Finally, she says, “Vagina roughly translates to sword holder in Latin.”
I turn to look at her. “It was named for the penis?”
“This surprises you?” she asks, looking at me in shock. “Hello? Patriarchy.”
“But even back in the day?” I say. “They spoke Latin. That means everyone knew that vagina meant sword holder. It wasn’t like now where most people don’t know that meaning. A woman would have to refer to her parts as her sword holder. ‘How’s the sword holder?’ ‘Alas, it’s pretty empty right now.’?”
“Her ‘parts’?” she repeats with an amused grin.
“What?” I ask, smiling back at her. “You called it your ladybird.”
“True.” She lets her head fall back against the couch again, groaning. “Now I’m all gross and sad thinking about Justin. I need sugar.”
“Left side of sink, top cabinet.” She rolls her head to look at me, and I add, “It’s where I keep the treats.”
“Bless you.” London pushes to stand and I stare at her ass as she walks away and into the kitchen. I hear her banging around in the cabinets, and then she yells, “Oh my God! Are you okay?”
I sit up, worried. “Yeah, why?”
“You have an open Pop-Tart package with a Pop-Tart in it.”
I deflate in relief, get off the couch, and wander into the kitchen. “Yeah. I had one this morning.”
Her mouth is agape when she turns to me, holding up the package and saying, “Who the hell has one Pop-Tart?”
“I sense . . .” I lick my finger, holding it up in the air. “Yes, I sense mocking in your tone.”
“I bet you’re one of those yokels who buys the Pop-Tart—sized Tupperware.”
I narrow my eyes, slowly repeating, “?‘Yokels’?”
“Meaning not only do you not eat both Pop-Tarts like a real man,” she continues, ignoring me, “but you also need an airtight container because you won’t eat the other one within an hour.”
I lean back against the counter, smiling at her.
“I bet you don’t even like scotch,” she teases. “Do you have a real penis?”
This makes me laugh and I have to curl my hands into fists to keep from pulling her close to me with a finger hooked through her belt loop.
Tilting her head, she asks, “Do you order salads for lunch?”
“You’ve seen me eat nachos,” I remind her.
“Once. And they were vegetarian.”
I open my mouth to argue but she cuts me off. “I can see it in your face! You usually order salads. With your dressing on the side!”
This part isn’t actually true but I’m having too much fun watching her unravel to contradict her.
She shakes the Pop-Tart wrapper. “I would eat this Pop-Tart to help you out, you know, to even up the asymmetry currently poisoning your box, but seeing as how there is only one, it’s a snack dilemma.”
Nodding in understanding, I say, “You wouldn’t be satisfied with only one.”
“Exactly.” She shoves it back in the box. “It’s like eating only half a banana.”
I shiver. “Who eats an entire banana?”
London stills, looking at me like I might have damaged my head. “Who doesn’t?”
“Me,” I tell her emphatically. “By the last few bites it’s this awful”—I shudder—“intense banana flavor. It doesn’t matter how big the banana is, I can’t handle it.”
“You’re weird.”
I shrug, palms up. “Apparently. But see, I like to take my time with that one Pop-Tart.” She groans when she registers where I am going with this. “You, on the other hand—”
“Stop.”