Fred laughs and motions that he’s going to put her to bed, and I tell him I’ll talk to him tomorrow at work.
This is the part that usually gets awkward, where Luke walks me out to my car and we stand across from each other, pretending that we didn’t just kiss and that we weren’t holding hands like high schoolers. But it seems like the potential for awkward has dissolved between us, and right now it just feels quiet, and calm.
The street is dark, and I fumble for the door handle, opening my car to set my bag inside. When I turn, Luke takes my hand, looking down at the way it fits in his. “I had a lot of fun. Thanks for letting me crash your party.”
“Are you kidding? That was the easiest night I’ve ever had with her. Usually I’m the one with braids and a tiara. Thanks for hanging out.”
There’s a beat of silence and a dog barks in the distance, and in my head I’m chanting, Don’t ask me to come home with you don’t ask me to come home with you, don’t ask me, don’t ask me . . . Because honestly I have no idea how I’d say no.
But he doesn’t, instead leaning in to place a small kiss against my cheek and letting go of my hand. “Text me when you get home?” he asks.
I nod, a little dazed at the turn in the conversation, and I can’t tell if it’s relief or disappointment gathering in my stomach.
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Sure.”
On impulse, I cup his face, and stretch to place the lightest kiss on his warm lips. Stunned, he just stands there, watching as I step back and fight an enormous smile.
His eyebrows slowly rise. “Logan, you just kissed me.”
“Only a tiny kiss.” I smile up at him and notice the way his eyes flicker to my cheek to look at my dimple.
He holds the door while I climb inside and shuts it behind me. I open the window and he leans down, resting his arms on the frame.
“I like you,” he says. I know this, but the admission is so bare that if I weren’t already sitting, my knees might feel a little weak.
“I like you, too. Weirdo,” I add, and see his smile linger as he steps back and watches me drive away.
It’s not until I’m several blocks away that I remember: he’s my friend’s ex. I don’t get to have Luke Sutter.
* * *
LOLA AND OLIVER are on the couch watching a movie when I get home. I drop my bag on the floor near the door and wave to them before walking into the kitchen to get a glass of water.
My head swims a little with uncertainty. I’m starting to really want to trust Luke. I’m starting to need his company. But the remaining roadblock—Harlow, Mia, the history of this group with Luke—seems to be the one thing that lingers, and I have no idea how to deal with it. On the one hand, I feel like Harlow is being unreasonable by even having an opinion about any of this. On the other hand, I get it. He was with Mia for so long. There are unspoken rules; he should be off-limits.
“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.