“When he’s filming,” she says, and then takes an enormous bite of sandwich. It feels like it takes her three years to finish chewing and swallow before she explains, “He’s one of the Fisher Men.”
I slap the table. “Shut up. I can’t wait for that show. Even the promotion is making me feel manly. Wait.” I pause. “You’re married to one of them?” London is shooting me a warning look but I’m too dense to pick up on it right away. “They’re all single.”
“No, they aren’t,” Harlow says with an edge, and when I look up at London, she quickly tucks away a smile.
Harlow and I catch up on the past few years and then begin stumbling down memory lane. London listens, smiling and laughing at the stories—she didn’t grow up with us so she couldn’t possibly understand the insanity that was Harlow, Lola, and Mia together since elementary school.
“Luke,” Harlow sings, shaking her head, “what would we have done without you back then?”
“Luke was your go-to?” London asks. She’s a little skeptical, but mostly fascinated, and fuck, I could kiss Harlow right now. How did she know this was exactly what London needed?
“Oh,” Harlow says, holding up a hand. “You have no idea. This poor guy. Before we would call our parents we would call Luke. He drove before any of us, and took us everywhere. He rescued the three of us more times than I can remember.”
I laugh, because it’s true. The girls got locked out of buildings naked I think more than any other humans on the planet, punctured two tires on Mia’s piece-of-shit Geo Tracker when they decided to try offroading in the San Bernardinos—hours away from home—and needed me to come get them in Big Bear one night when they’d tried to go camping and had forgotten the tent, had no money for a motel, and Harlow got food poisoning.
They were put in charge of the prom committee senior year—and it’s a miracle the entire school didn’t end up getting arrested for public indecency, but when the cops came, I made sure they knew it wasn’t Harlow who had spiked the punch.
I knew the best way to sneak Mia in and out of her house—not just for fooling around, but to drive her down to the beach and watch her dance at sunrise.
I drove Lola to her evening art class every Tuesday and Thursday night after I got my license.
I would have done anything for those girls, and I did.
I still would.
Harlow and I go from fuming together over something horribly condescending Mia’s dad said to her about dancing, to wheezing in laughter, remembering Lola’s three-legged Humper Dog that would literally have sex with any vertical limb in close proximity. The girls once playfully held me down to see what would happen if we let him go—trust me, at fifteen I was fine being pinned to the couch by three girls—and the dog eventually just peed on my leg.
All through it, though, London stays pretty quiet, and I’m inclined to not push her about it. I mean, I’m not an idiot; the way she’s looking intently at me every few seconds makes me think she’s probably mulling over what’s happening between us, and her being here—with lunch, all dressed up—has to be a good sign.
But inside, I feel tense, wanting to be alone with her to talk it out—to talk about us and make sure she’s really okay, to discuss the prospect of me moving in a few months—but knowing there is no way I can push the conversation yet again. For the first time in our . . . relationship . . . I have to wait for her to come to me.
* * *
LONDON IS ON my porch when I get home, clutching her bag. Before I even reach the top step, she’s speaking.
“I just got here. I haven’t been waiting—”
“I wish you would lie to me sometimes,” I grumble, teasing. “I like the idea of you hanging out, anxiously pining for me.”
Her hand lightly slaps my shoulder as I bend to unlock the front door.
“Want something to drink?” I ask her over my shoulder, dropping my keys, wallet, and phone on the counter.
“A beer?”
I can feel her behind me, looking around before following me into the kitchen. She’s quiet as I open the fridge, reach for a bottle, and pop it open for her.
Turning with her drink in my hand, I immediately run into her. She’s there—right there—chest now pressed to my arm.
I smile, but it feels badly shaped, wobbly. “Hey.”
Her tongue slips out, wetting her lips. “Hey.”
She stares at me, studying, and in an instant I realize she’s working up the nerve to start something. But I’m still wary enough to never want to make that bet. Maybe she changed her mind and doesn’t want a beer. Maybe she wants to add a snack to her order. Maybe—
Her hand comes up from her side, moving up my chest and around to cup the back of my neck.
“London?”
She pulls, stretching at the same time, covering my mouth with hers.
Fuck.
Fuck.
The relief, the soft feel of her, the slide, the sweetness. Her full lips move over mine, sucking at the bottom, coaxing me open, and my pulse explodes. Her tongue licks my lip, my top teeth. I feel when she moans before I hear it.