Harlow watches the exchange with interest. “I miss you, Luker. We all do.”
“Yeah, well . . .” I trail off. I mean, honestly, there’s so much. We were all so close. Mia, Harlow, and Lola were like family to me, and although we all tried to keep up appearances after Mia’s accident, our relationships just crumbled. For a couple of years, it was hard not to feel resentful that the friendships with her girlfriends never suffered from whatever it was she was going through. But years later, I know no one is to blame. “I missed you, too.”
“Seems like you managed okay,” she says, and I can’t exactly read her tone. Is she referring to my lack of monogamy? Is she being genuine and telling me I look good? Does she mean London? With Harlow, I always assume there is a layer of shit being given; the question is always how deep I need to look to see it.
“So what’s up with everyone getting married all of a sudden?” I ask her. “You guys have a few days out of college and freak out that you’re going to be spinsters, or what?”
She shrugs. “Guess we just found the one.”
When I glance to her again, London begins intensively studying her Pellegrino label. She’s being oddly quiet.
“I hear you’re headed to law school,” Harlow says, drawing my attention back to her.
“That’s right.”
“Personally I think it would be amazing if you ended up at UCSD, and—”
“And Ansel was my professor?” I finish for her, smiling. “Yeah, you’re not alone there. Margot prays for it daily.”
“It would be the most awkward.”
“I actually don’t think it would be that bad.” She raises her eyebrows at this. “Ansel seems like a pretty great guy.”
Harlow goes quiet, so I know I’ve surprised her by reiterating this, even when Mia isn’t here and I’d otherwise be free to let loose the honest opinion.
“Unfortunately I don’t think it’s going to happen,” I tell her.
“Oh, come on, Luke,” Harlow says. “You know you’ll get into UCSD.”
“I already have,” I say, glancing briefly at London. I haven’t mentioned any of this yet. I haven’t wanted to bring it up because it just seems so . . . serious. “What I meant is that I probably won’t accept the offer from UCSD. I got into Boalt. I’m still waiting to hear from Yale, but most likely I’m headed to Berkeley.”
London’s head shoots up. “What?”
Guilt cools my bloodstream. “Yeah, I heard back from a few places last week.”
“Holy shit, that’s ama—” Harlow’s phone rings in her purse and she digs for it, squealing when she looks at the screen and excusing herself to answer the call.
“Hey, weirdo,” I whisper-hiss to London. When she looks up, I continue: “Are you going to tell me what’s going on? Why are you so quiet today?”
“I had sort of a mini-meltdown when I got home last night. Harlow was there, we had a little talk, and here we are.”
I frown and I reach for her hand. “I’m glad—thrilled, actually—but that’s not what I meant. Are you okay today?”
“I’m just thinking.”
“Thinking about wha—”
“Would it be okay if I came over tonight?” she asks, finally holding my gaze.
“Tonigh—?”
“I’d invite you to my place,” she quickly cuts in, “but Lola left this morning so I’m having the paint redone and the entire loft reeks.”
I can’t figure out if she wants to come over to escape her place, or because she wants to be with me, but in either case, I’m all for it. “Of course. Sure.”
She smiles her thanks and ducks to keep eating. I can’t really look away. Out in the sun it’s obvious that London put some effort into how she looks today: she’s wearing a little makeup. Her hair is brushed and smooth. She even painted her nails.
“London?” I ask.
She looks up and I realize I have no idea how to ask her what I want to ask her. Why are you so dressed up? sounds kind of douchey and may imply I think she usually looks less than perfect, which is totally false.
“What?” she asks when I’ve been silently staring at her for too long.
“You look really pretty today.”
She scoffs, smiling into her sandwich. “Shut up.”
“No, you really do. You’re not going to meet some guy after this, are you?” I ask, trying to give her a winning smile.
Laughing, she says, “No.”
“A girl, then? I’m cool with switch hitters, but when you look like this, I want you all for myself.”
Her smile is enormous, but it’s gone in a flash. I watch her tuck her hair behind her ear and pretend to scowl down at her lunch when she whispers, “You’re an idiot.”
Harlow returns, dropping her phone into her purse. “Never marry a fisherman,” she tells me.
I laugh. “Noted.”
“They’re too sexy for their own good and you’ll end up spending your entire paycheck on a last-minute ticket.”
I look back and forth between London and Harlow before saying, “I’m confused. You have to fly to see your husband?”